#79 - Eat Dessert First

Pascall's do great confectionery.  Chocolate eclairs, clinkers, pineapple lumps and fruit bon bons to name a few.  My Dutch grandparents used to come armed with fruit bon bons on their visits to the farm which I grew up on in the Lockyer Valley.  Marshmallows however are a bit of a favourite, a classic, if you will.  T'was marshmallows for dessert on this occasion.  The dessert that I ate first, before the main meal.

Last full moon, 15th July, one of my gal pals invited me to a full moon party and as per chance it was held in the suburb where I reside.   This full moon shin dig was being hosted and attended by a group of folks, some of which were known to each other, bonded by their mutual enrolment at a yoga teacher training course, taught by the reputable Radiant Light Yoga.  I was a ring-in.  An outsider, however it didn't matter.


Gal pal, Claudia picked me up on the Saturday night and we drove half a dozen blocks from my place to the party.  The first to arrive, we were greeted by the hostess who, by a desultory coincidence, I immediately recognised.  "Nicola!  Hi!  We've met before!" I exclaimed and proceeded to tell the story, reminding her of the time her son Brock befriended me on the train (see post #1 Talk To A Stranger At A Set Of Traffic Lights). How's that for a SECOND incidental meeting??    Brock, was not in attendance that night due to a prior engagement with grandparental units.

It was to be an outdoor affair complete with a campfire, which was being dutifully stoked and attended to by Michael and Rohan.  Michael is one of the yoga students and Rohan is his young and brilliant son.  Brilliant because it was Rohan who suggested we needed marshmallows.  Thoroughly concurring Claudia and I journeyed off back home to pick up camp chairs from my place and a packet of Pascall's from the local Friendly Grocer.  The last packet mind you, fate was the order of the night!


Back at the campfire, we tore open the pack of marshmallows and I had to jump (a few times) to grab a couple of long, thin sticks off the nearest tree, tall that it was.  Rohan and I quickly took up residence as Short Order Marshmallow Chefs.  I prefer to roast marshmallows over coals while Rohan preferred the flame grill method... until of course the flame caught the better of his first few marshmallows.  

By now a few more people had turned up and Rohan and I had marshmallow orders to fill.  We had fun spotting out different coloured flames.  Blue, white, all shades of yellow, orange and red and even the occasional green flame.  I had really gotten to know the coals, as a chef might get to know his or her oven and kitchen.  Cook one, eat one, cook one, eat one.  We alternated between offering toasted marshmallows to guests and eating one ourselves, whilst a luscious vegetarian dinner of naan bread and an aromatic curry was simmering away in the kitchen upstairs, making its presence known by languidly wafting down the stairs and intermingling with eau de campfire.  Little wonder that everyone tucked in heartily once it was ready.  


The party continued until the last piece of wood had been placed on the embers and one by one guests announced their resignation.  We too thanked our host, Nicola for the evening, saying we'd probably meet again, and bid our farewells.


Reflecting on the evening later I thought about how I really didn't want to go.  Before Claudia picked me up I considered calling, nay - texting her, armed with any one of my pathetic excuses.  I also thought about little needed social networking websites.  Given the chance meeting with Nicola on two occasions now, unplanned, people turn up constantly in our lives, achieved by a simple method known as Just Leaving The House.  All you have to do to meet the right people at the right time is leave the house and who knows what fun you might end up having?  Toasting marshmallows and having a sing-a-long around a campfire by moonlight is what I risked missing out on and I am grateful for the lovely evening that unfolded, like origami.  And like someone who unfolds origami out of curiousity, I'd like to repeat the process 1000 times over........  Peace.

#16 - Go To A Car Show

After a couple days of light rain, drizzle and a paltry 15 degrees celcius the weather was as effulgent as some of the chrome bumpers on display at MotorFest.  The age of the cars ranged from old to really old.  Meandering through the exhibition, the crowd was clearly and unanimously smitten with the cars that bore the most mystery and nostalgia, otherwise known as 'Veterans'. (Definitions for 'Veteran' varies, but is loosely defined as cars manufactured before the end of 1919).  There were a couple Model T Fords which, dating back to 1910, have outlived many of their previous owners, illustrating a combination of clever engineering and dedicated restoration.  If only these cars could speak, they'd have some stories no doubt.

Next stop was the British section.  My dad, who accompanied me for the day started explaining that British brands Wolseley, Morris and blah blah were bought out by British Motor Something - or - Other Whatever Dad Company and slowly went out of product - hey! look at those necklaces!  Thankfully the women at this shin dig were given a little break from the wall-to-wall testosterone with a little bit of bling... 


Next stop, French cars.  No berets and baguettes, just Peugeots and Citroens, old and new. 
Representing Germany, Volkswagens and Volvos, or 'Iced Vovos" as I like to call them, except more tasteful.  (The biscuits I mean, not the cars).


But, my sixth sense told me something was wrong.  Where was the Bogan section?  The whole place is a bogan section, but my point is, where were all the Typical Aussie Blokes and the Holden display, inparticular, where were the Toranas??  It was eerily quiet without them.  If they were to be excluded it would be a reprehensible crime.  I searched high and low - at the very least I turned a corner - and there in all their glory were the beloved, exquisite, stock-standard / standard-issue Bogan Mobile, the humble Torana.  I felt it necessary to gesticulate my deference by curtsying.  And posing for a photo. 

A 1977 model... and so is the car...

What drives a car enthusiast to care for and manicure an inanimate object?  In the news recently we've poked fun of the woman who's in love with the Eiffel Tower, but is the unconditional devotion to a car any different?  There was at least a few million dollars worth of automotive restoration on display today, and that's just the cost of parts, panels and paint.  That does not include the labour costs of such projects which for the most part, one can only guess is done out of love, determination and at times, frustration.  

You can not put a price on love.  Usually.  However we can put a price on the cost of search and rescue efforts.  MotorFest proudly donated all gate takings from their 2011 show to the RACQ Helicopter Rescue Network which provides lifesaving air medical and rescue services for Queenslanders.  For $2 it was an exceptional return on investment and a great day for father-daughter bonding.

My personal fave...

and its immaculate, pristine interior.  Remarkably impressive..

Red, black and old... and then there's the car...

Same model as a car dad owned in 1970... cost him $80

#77 - Make Banana Bread For Tara

For those of you have may have seen "Bridesmaids" recently, not a 'chick flick' by the way, there were dudes in the cinema when I went and saw it and they were loving it - evident by their outbursts of laughter - you'd be familiar with the concept of perfectly (in)sane people railroading their (dys)functional friends into doing things in times of crises to help a friend in need.  Want friendship?  Need banana bread. 


Monday night I turned up the radio, busted out the electric beater and stoked up the stove.  I was elbow deep in flour, sugar, eggs and of course bananas in preparation for "Tara Day".  

I've been stealing ideas left, right and centre from this chick since we started working together and in fact this 100 Things To Do In One Year was originally Tara's brainchild.  The concept is simple and in fact, each one of us should have a "Tara Day".  Just follow these steps:

1. Schedule the day off work in advance
2. Spend the day doing stuff to pamper yourself.  Sleep in, get a massage, go out to lunch, go to a good hairdresser and get your hair cut, buy yourself something you've been eyeing off for the last 6 months, go out for breakfast in a lovely cafe on the water and sit in the sun.
3. Do not, repeat, DO NOT feel guilty about spending the day exactly as you want to.

In an effort to help Tara celebrate Tara Day, I felt it was in order to bake something special.  Considering she has been a great mentor, awesome friend and all round cool chick, deservey of home made banana bread.  

Banana bread is a staple 3pm snack salubriously restoring sanity for colleague and gal pal, Tara.  Noted that they don't make bananas like they used to, I had to save up for the lady fingers only because, due to childlessness and yes ok maybe principle, I could not sell my first born. If I was a guy I could have sold my first porn, though I can imagine for some parting with one's "first porn" could almost be as sentimental as selling one's first born.  Err... whatever.... Happy Tara Day everybody!!!!

#87 - Wake Up Every Morning At 5am For A Month

Typically winter in Brisbane records overnight / morning temperatures of around 11 degrees.  For us here in Brisbane, that's about 20 degrees less than what our bodies are typically accustomed to.  I'm speaking very broadly of course, but generally we are adapted to a warmer climate.  June 2011 has seen some slightly cooler than average temperatures, yet for the entire month of June I woke at 5am and went for a 30 minute run, sometimes braving single figure temperatures.  The coldest morning was 5 degrees.

I didn't deliberately choose June.  I believe June chose me because waking every morning at 5am was something which eventuated naturally and automatically, without a pre-conceived strategy.

Surprisingly it was rather easy to wake at this hour as I found myself really enjoying it, once dressed, outside and running.  It did not come without the usual nagging thoughts of going back to bed, especially since the purchase of an electric blanket. 

There are four other people in the neighbourhood who are also early morning exercisers, and I soon found myself recognising them and seeing them in roughly the same places on the same streets at the same time, morning after morning.  There was Asian Lady With The Pink Gloves And Big Straw Hat who was very focused on her power walking.  Also, The Couple With The Two Dogs who were regularly spotted walking rather casually near the local bowls club and Big Running Bloke who would pass me after about 5 minutes into my run, with a breathless "g'day" and a smile.  

Then there's the local bakery, a family run business which was always open, beckoning me inside with its delicious baked pastry aroma filling my nostrils from no less than a street away.  Countless times my tastebuds wanted to run right into that bakery however my feet carried me past the bakery and around the corner into a leafy suburban street where families, couples, the elderley and children were still counting sheep, snoring peacefully, oblivious to my 100 Things To Do and the waking sounds of the neighbourhood as night turned into dawn and birds started their morning chorus lines and feeding frenzies.  They were missing out on the most serene and delicate part of the day. 


Early mornings are truly exhilirating and a sunrise is a miraculous, moving event which can be experienced every day.  Beautiful sunrises occur unpredictably by chance.  You have to risk a few to get a good one.  Kind of like finding a life partner.  Which reminds me... Statistically speaking most people find partners close to home, often within a 5km radius... I wonder if Big Running Bloke is single???  Might put my running shoes on in the morning...

#39 - Take One Photo Every Day For A Month

One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen was a Queenslander style house in the process of being deconstructed, presumably for the purpose of being moved off site.  I spotted it as I was parking in West End a couple of years ago.  Cautionary signs on the temporary fencing warned of the danger within the construction site.  Some of the walls had been stripped of, well, walls and all that was remaining was roof and frame.  

Why was such an unlikely subject considered beautiful?

As I gazed at the house, I imagined it as a home for various families through its 100-odd year history.  I could see some of the old grey, white and pink speckled linoleum, mustard coloured stained shagpile carpet and green ceramic bathroom basin beyond the stripped walls.  I pictured the families, their dynamics, the comings and goings, the children's laughter, the arguments, the dad coming home from his exhausting work being greeted by an apron-donning wife, the renovations though not pretty but necessary for new additions to the family, the black and white photo taken of the family on the steps, the hard times, the children leaving home and the inevitable selling up, moving on or death and transformation of the home into a boarding house for single men, transients and drunks.  That is the beauty.  The history.  

History, in its imperfection is beauty as it captures human spirit, error, ideas, pain, grace.  Photographs capture and make you think about history.  A 'good' photo uses elements such as clever use of light and shade, composition and the rule of thirds to name a few, and in doing so will provoke thoughts for the viewer.  Good photos make you 'feel'.

The point of taking one photo every day for a month was simply to open one's eyes and look around.  There were two days when I didn't take a photo, some days where I found it difficult to find new subjects and a few days where I took more than one.  The photos can be viewed on flickr.com.  Simply visit this page by clicking here. 

Thank you for viewing my photos.