writing in the margins: vandalism or interactivity?

I come from a family that has a certain reverence for the written word. My father begins his day worshipping the newspaper. It’s now delivered at 5 am and I swear the early drop off is the cause of his insomnia. He can’t bear to think of all that paper and ink sitting out on the drive in the cold.

Books are even more holy. In our house you’ll find no dog-eared pages and never, ever has a book taken to be read in the toilet!

But contrary to the unwritten lores of my family, in recent years my father has begun defacing books. I can only imagine the inner struggle that must go on between the Virgoan twin desires of neatness and utter righteousness. One day I noticed one of the many tombs on his beloved national park had been sullied with his unmistakable handwriting. He’d taken a pen and annotated every single mistake the author made, neatly in the margin.

Coming across a defaced book in the house was a revelation. I didn’t know you were allowed to write in the margins. It was as if the world had tilted slightly. My father had become so incensed with the authors inaccuracies, that correcting them was the only option. He did not, as far as I know, actually send the notes back to the publisher. Instead the book just continues to sit innocently amongst others on the subject.

Though last month that changed. During my trip home my father handed me two foolscap pages of corrections for a different book. This one was written about the town he grew up in. Instead of sullying the edition he’d decided to send them directly to body that had commissioned the work. Each mistake was noted by quotation, page number and the correction supplied, often with references from his archive – including old copies of his high school’s own journal. From the 1940s. Page numbers included.

So this morning, lying in bed (an indescribably wonton act on a Monday morning while the rest of the world toils), I glanced at a new “healthy” cookbook I’d picked up from the local library. I was surprised to read that the author was Australian and alumni of my own profession, as I’d never heard of her.

I was only a couple of pages in and a photo showed seedling of “coz” lettuce. Not a good start. The following page spruiked the wonders of agave syrup. I checked the publishing date, 2010. No excuses because by then this highly promoted wonder food had since been relegated to the “almost as bad as high fructose corn syrup” department by most of the authors peers. And spriulina? Surely that’s not still doing the rounds in the 21st century?

Like father, like daughter - I was already itching to pick up men pen and write a few references in the margin. But it’s the fourth recipe that did me in. It’s one for rhubarb and guess what doesn’t feature in the ingredients list? Aha, rhubarb. With 4/5 of the book yet to explore, should I just take a chill pill and take it back unsullied to the library.

So here’s the deal. Do I throw the baby out with the bath water? There are some good recipes and health information amongst the inaccuracies. Should they go through to the keeper? It’s one thing to annotate in the margin if your own cookbooks. Because as far as recipes are concerned, the notes of your own experiences, the temperature and timing of your own oven, varying the amounts for your own palate – to me adds to the value of a cookbook.



Illegible teenage scrawl in my Moosewood cookbook. Indeed the sour cream cheesecake is pretty damn good subbed with tofu. Must make it again soon.

But should you deface a library book? In pen? In pencil? Is this bringing the interactivity of new media to an old format? Or is it just vandalism.

I’m leaning towards sticky notes. What do you reckon?

A tale of two English Christmases

Compare and contrast. Two New Zealanders adrift in Britain. Hurrah it’s Christmas! What’s on the menu?

My grandfather: New Zealand Rifle Brigade, Sling Camp, Salisbury Plain 1916

Breakfast fish, (unreadable) and bacon, fried onions and mashed potatoes. Dinner Turkey, Goose, cauliflower, potatoes and peas and stuffing, plum pudding and brandy sauce, nuts, fruit, oranges, apples, bananas. Tea roast pork, fruit salad and Devonshire cream, chocolate and bulls eyes, mince pies. Supper ham, cheese, biscuits.
More from my grandfather’s war diary - bully beef and biscuits at the front.

The granddaughter, London 1985

Christmas was nice. Never had a Lesbian xmas before but I suppose there is a first time for everything! Jac was stunning in a 3 piece suit, with pink bowtie to match the streak in her hair. Started off lounging around eating chocolates and drinking sherry, then got onto the port. Dinner was an avocado salad for starters, followed by a splendid nut roast, sauce, chestnut stuffing, roast spuds and other veggies – downed with bubbly. After there was pud with brandy butter, cake, pink triangle sweets and marzipan stuffed dates. Did I miss anything?
You can read more nostalgic twaddle about living in London the ‘80s if you really want to.

my life in 10 dishes

Jill Dupleix mused about her life in 10 dishes in the Sydney Morning Herald this week.

There are lots of ways of tracing your own personal history. You can go back through family photo archives and trace the hair styles. You can do it with music, by listing the songs that symbolize special times in your life. Or you can do it with food.

How could I resist?

1. Cheese on toast. The standby meal/snack from as far back as I can remember that lasted til my mid-twenties, when I realized my relationship with delicious dairy was a dysfunctional one. On Sundays when we’d been to my Nana’s for a roast lunch, dinner would be Maggi chicken noodle soup and cheese on toast in front of The Wonderful World of Disney. Life didn’t get better than that.

2. Chop suey. Mum would fire up the electric fry pan and toss together onion, garlic, veal, cabbage and soy sauce. A dish that the entire family liked so was in regular rotation with the other staple – chops and veg. Very classy home cooking C1970.

3. Afghans. Opening the biscuit tin after school and finding a fresh batch of afghans, with the obligatory piece of walnut on top of the splodge of chocolate icing, was pure bliss. I’d love to find just such a tin in my grown up life house.

4. Beef stroganoff. At twelve years old I cooked stroganoff, a dish I’d never eaten before, for my mother and aunt one night. Mabel said, “You’ll make someone a good wife”…Perhaps if I’d continued cooking with meat and dairy I would have?

5. Baked chicken breasts. Leaving home at 18 I moved into a soon to be condemned flat with a lovely housemate and his German shepherd. I remember partaking in illegal substances on the stovetop in the cupboard-sized kitchen but for dinner I’d use my shiny new toaster-oven and bake chicken breast slathered with garlic.

6. Quiche. The year was 1983 and my on-the-verge-of-coming-out housemate taught me how to cook quiche. The house was slightly better than my first flat and although the gas stove was suitably antiquated I still knocked up cakes, curries and the odd quiche.

7. Baked potatoes. In London I was vegetarian (I rarely ate seafood due to the Irish sea being radioactive) living with two pregnant/lactating women, an accountant, a witch, two blokes, three small children and a couple of chickens. The house was big, warm and better than anywhere I previously lived. Best of all was the American-style double oven in a huge kitchen with a wooden table that comfortably sat 10. The worst crime was not cooking enough food, so that meant scrubbing at least two dozen potatoes, to serve baked with a big pot of ratatouille .

8. Vegan Mexican feast. Living in Melbourne exposed me to exotic foods from many cultures. There was a short lived Mexican grocery store in Lygon Street in the early ‘90’s and I threw a few dinner parties featuring fresh blue corn tortillas, refried beans, salsa spiked with jalapenos and jugs of margaritas.

9. Whole fish. Apart from scrubbing fewer potatoes, life beyond shared houses meant I cooked and ate more seafood. Growing up fish meant fillets, so exploring the world of cooking the entire beast was virgin territory. From simple, just a few lemon slices or a handful of herbs in the belly, to baked with spices, olives, tomatoes and slices of potatoes, I love this economical way of eating fish.

10.Curries, tagines and the spicy life. Though I cooked my first vegetarian curry from scratch in the quiche house a couple of decades ago, it’s been a long journey to roasting and grinding my own dried spices and growing fragrant green herbs. The last decade has been flavoured with sambals, Sri Lankan curries, fresh harissa paste, tamarind, kecap manis and Vietnamese mint. The herb cupboard overflows and the tagine is a utensil not a decoration. Please don’t make me choose a favourite!

So what dishes characterise your life so far?

P.S. - I'm guessing like many biographical entries, what we did in the past doesn't always represent our present. I can only eat 7-10 (plus a modified #3) these days but it was sweet to remember them none the less.

Christmas Melbourne style

I’d began thinking about it over a month in advance, some would say obsessing and just as well too. A few days before the family arrived I succumbed to a lurgy) and my brain went to custard. I had shopping lists written, three in fact, one for a big fruit and vegetable market shop on Tuesday, and another for the supermarket and a last minute perishables run to the market on Christmas Eve. Without these pieces of paper and some careful thought into what I’d be cooking we could have gone quite hungry on the 25th.

At the unseasonal hour of 4.30 am on the 24th I awoke due to a wracking cough and after an hour of tossing and turning decided I’d head off at such a quiet hour to buy the seafood. It was 30c already and as I entered the meat hall at Vic Market was a little shocked to find it full to capacity. Not for the faint hearted and armed with a shopping trolley I forged my way to the nearest familiar fish shop and stood patiently in the queue as I watched the clock work its way past 6am. People were remarkably good-naturedly for the time in the morning and the 15 minute wait. One man asked hopefully if there were any tinnies** in my esky***.

In the end due to my malady I cut a few corners, dropped making the chocolate mousse, left off the smoked eel pate and a few extra nibbles. No one noticed. I spread the food over the day, rather than a multi-course single sitting. A grazing feast, with plenty of cheer in the perfect Melbourne sun!

The menu

Breakfast – mango/tropical fruits

Morning tea – coffee and Noisette Christmas mince pies (I’ve never been a big mince pie fan but these were to die for!)

Brunch/late morning – scrambled eggs, rosti, smoked salmon

Early afternoon – prawn cocktails and antipasto platter

Late afternoon BBQ – char grilled asparagus, Japanese eggplants, zucchini, Portobello mushrooms and corn. Prawns, snapper with coriander and fish sauce, gourmet turkey sausages and marinated lemon/garlic chicken breasts (from Chicken Pantry at Vic market).

Sweet treats/later – organic strawberries, cherries, pineapple, chocolate coated baklava (from Helas Cakes in Richmond) and Christmas cake.

Beverages: Radler beer, Cava (Spanish bubbles), 1997 Minya cab sav/shiraz/merlot (excellent!), homemade ginger beer, homemade lemon cordial and mineral water.

Not many pictures – the day was about family, not food, believe it or not.



Language decoder (for those who aren’t from around these parts)
* a bug/illness. e.g. a cold, flu, URTI
** cans/tins of beer
*** chilly bin/ice box

egging on with pride

Can you chart the seasons through our blog posts? The excitement of spring brings a flurry of posts. Or at least a private love affair with asparagus and other long missed vegetables. Mangoes ring my bell at this time of year. But it doesn’t necessarily inspire me to write about them because I like to eat this kind of food simply – a piece of fruit eaten in its naked state, a fresh vegetable steamed or blanched.

Hardly exciting stuff to read.

Well it could be, if I got all food-porn about the experience. But time is short. I will say this only once and with a totally neutral expression. The SE’s family are visiting. Not-in-laws if you like. So it is a week of eating out more, or struggling to find a way to cook meals, which cover two ends of the omnivore spectrum.

Though it is time. Quiet moments to sit with the computer on my lap kind of time that is short. While the week before it was celebrations and other social occasions that robbed my blogging space.

So it is a quickie this morning and rather off topic.

I want to mention my dad.

Last weekend I called while he was cooking lunch and he’d got off the line quickly promising to get back to me soon. Half an hour later when the phone rang I asked what he had made. Poached eggs came the answer, followed by a ripple of pride, “I’ve never made them before”.

Now that in its self is not extraordinary.

But the man is 82 years old.

He’s a very reluctant cook. In his twenties he fed himself adequately as a bachelor in Wellington and London, in the chops and veg days of the 1950s. He had a few years in “the East” as well but I know he didn’t lift a finger domestically in that world, just started a life long love affair with curry.

Between the ages of 30 and 80 I doubt if he ever cooked a meal, other than adding water to packets of dehydrated food while tramping and one very memorable dish involving crispy fried potatoes on our once only family camping holiday. Yes, my father cooked one meal in my entire childhood. I remember it vividly, while mum made breakfast, lunch and dinner every day with little thanks.

In the last two years things have changed. Mum’s days in the kitchen (other than to create an Alzheimic kind of chaos) have ended. The man likes to eat. Frozen fish fingers and peas did for a while. But now he’s getting adventurous.

Poached eggs for lunch! Not scrambled or fried which is a much easier option for a novice cook but poached. Across the miles I’ve been beaming with pride. Even I rarely think to cook eggs that way. We can discuss the pros and cons of stirring the water to make an eddy before cracking the egg, whether to add a dash of vinegar first and the importance of draining the cooked product well before serving on toast.

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself here but it is opening a while new realm of potential dialogue between us here. The last two trips home despite repeated demonstrations he couldn’t master how to use the toasted sandwich maker. But now – poached eggs, the sky is the limit!

I know the things that I like to cook, despite their relative simplicity, are in a different world to his. I need to get my head back to basics, with ingredients that I don’t eat. He’s not going to become a cordon bleu chef but any ideas of what I can teach him, if he’s willing at Christmas?

…and I promise I will be more patient third time round with instructions on how to make toasted sandwiches.

bully beef and biscuits

It appears I am not the first in the family to have a fascination with food. My paternal Grandfather bet me to it, as a soldier in WWI. His diary of his time in the army records memorable meals as well as is distain for the bully beef and biscuits, the standard rations at the Front.

His journal shows he spent more time ill or convalescing, than as a Runner in France. From joining up in early 1916, to the end of the war – outside training, he spent barely 6 months at the Front. His career in the New Zealand Rifle Brigade saw the majority of his time in hospital or classified unfit for active duties. But perhaps the food had something to do with it? A few weeks into his journey to England on the troop ship, he was the 75th on board to get the measles. This is the first time food really enters the picture. He wrote:

Meals good while in H(ospital). Breakfast – porridge, fish and bread and jam, tea. Beef tea in morning or lemon drink. Dinner – soup, fish, tripe and onions, custard or sago, bread and honey. Barley water in afternoon. Tea jelly and bread and jam Cocoa and biscuits for supper

Fortunately he managed to avoid getting meningitis that was also doing the rounds on the ship, or the scarlet fever that caused his hut at Sling Camp to be quarantined. After a few weeks of training in trench warfare, the boys in the 4th Reserves were ready to ship out. Perhaps it was the recent measles but his heart and/or eyes failed the medical and he was bitterly disappointed to see his mates ship off across the Channel without him. Despite two attempts to send him home, which he hotly protested, they finally gave in and sent him into active duty many months after the others that he had arrived with. But not before Christmas day at camp:

Breakfast fish, (unreadable) and bacon, fried onions and mashed potatoes. Dinner Turkey, Goose, cauliflower, potatoes and peas and stuffing, plum pudding and brandy sauce, nuts, fruit, oranges, apples, bananas. Tea roast pork, fruit salad and Devonshire cream, chocolate and bulls eyes, mince pies. Supper ham, cheese, biscuits.

Not quite a blogger but you got the feeling that young Bill liked his food. By Boxing Day he’d come down with a cold and forwent his final few days of leave to stay in bed with a fever of 100 F. Perhaps it was all the food – as they say “If you feed a cold, you will starve a fever”.

While in and out of the front lines he endured the coldest day in France since 1895, “black frost completely frozen bread etc. All time a bully beef and biscuit now”. Parcels from home relieved the monotony of the tinned meat. The odd cake and shortbread that travelled 2 months from home to the Front, went down a treat.

In his diary the only mention of not eating came less than a month after Christmas, with the line “dysentery…very bad could not eat.” The diary goes quiet for weeks after that, til he was cheered up with a dose of mumps that got him sent to the ‘St Omer Mumps Hospital’. “During time in hospital had good time and food good”. The 2 weeks or so away from the shelling, rats and bully beef did wonders for his spirit. A month later, back at Messines he was hit in the foot by shrapnel which had him evacuated back to England where he convalesced in hospital til after the Armistice, 17 months later.

Bill managed to live to see his 70th birthday. He was a keen gardener and grew many of his own vegetables. Shortly into his 8th decade a bus fatally knocked him down, on his way home from a day at the races. I can bet his last meal wasn’t bully beef and biscuits.