The language of tango


It takes two to tango. Everyone knows that. So what do you do when you’re one, solo, and you want to go to tango classes? My friends, you go anyway. If it so happens that the day you find yourself dreaming about tango is the day that a new course of lessons starts, if it so happens that the lessons are five minutes drive from your house and if it so happens that work finishes early enough for you to go then this is a sign that the gods are smiling down on you and you are meant to learn to tango.

You brush your teeth, put on good clothes, make sure you smell nice (boys and girls, this advice is for all of us) and off you go. You ignore the fear of walking in alone. You decide that if you turn left when the rest of the class turns right you will not mind. You decide that if you are really, really bad at it you will not mind. You decide that if you look like a complete eejit you will not care because life is so damn short that you don’t have time to be embarrassed by such inconsequential trivia. You have wanted to learn to tango for years, and this is your opportunity.

The teacher greets you with friendly eyes, a handshake and a warm, welcoming smile. The room is lovely, high ceilinged with a pale wooden floor. One wall is glass, through which you see ducks waddling across the park, trees in blossom, fishermen sitting in companionable silence by the silvery lake, waiting for their lines to go taut.

Your fellow beginners step nervously into the room. You write your name on a sticky label and peer at each other’s as you introduce yourselves. Six women, five men and a teacher. “Oh good,” you think, “we’re even.” But then it turns out that two of the men are a couple and don’t want to dance with anyone else. You think back to a course of private lessons you took years ago where the teacher said, “You’re ready to join the social dance classes now. But you’ll have to dance with a broom handle if you don’t have a partner.”

You don’t want to dance with a broom handle. Nor do you want to have to learn the other person’s steps and switch between roles. You resign yourself to dancing backwards, alone but smiling, for nine weeks. “Perhaps this is the lesson life is teaching you right now,” you think. “You’re on your own. Life is backwards and you can’t see what you’re about to trip over but you just have to put up with it.”

But the teacher of this class is kinder and much smarter. We don’t start with partner work. We start by walking. Walking is hard. You thought you knew how to walk but it turns out you don’t. Moving across a room by yourself, with other people watching you, reminds you of ballet lessons when you were five years old. At five, moving across the room by yourself was so scary that you quit. You’re not five now. You don’t have to worry about what other people think. You’re not going to quit.

Then you learn where to put your weight, how to read your partner, how to sway together, how to be ready to move. You learn that there’s such a thing as the line of dance. And it’s a circle. You learn etiquette. The teacher talks with quiet intensity about the dance, about seeing beauty and power and grace in the people you dance with. His passion for tango lights him up, beams out over us and lights us up too.

By the time we’re ready to dance, our gentle, passionate teacher has called in extra dance partners and arranged it so that partners rotate after every piece of music. The segments of music are short. You don’t have to dance alone very often or for very long. That’s a better life lesson.

The hardest thing about dancing with a stranger is not the closeness—your hand in an unknown hand, an unfamiliar arm pressing the length of yours. No, the hardest thing is where to look. You can’t gaze into someone’s eyes when you don’t know them. No-one wants to do that. It’s either too revealing or too fake (an overly bright smile and comically raised eyebrows to signify that we’re both unsure and feeling a bit silly). But when you work out that the best place to look is, for him, over your shoulder, and for you at the shirt button in the centre of your partner’s chest then everything starts to feel right.

Behind that little shirt button on its clean white shirt lies a warmly beating heart. “Let’s dance from the heart,” says the wearer of the shirt, and there follows the best dance of the night. Staring at that shirt button, noticing the intention of the body, feeling which way the weight shifts, you find yourself in a magical place where two hearts feel the music and you move as if in a dream. No words, no thoughts, just movement, an innate understanding of where to go next. The room disappears. There’s only music and somehow you’re part of it.

Dancing with other shirt buttons is not as effortless. The owner of the dark blue shirt button is counting. He’s in his head, trying to remember which leg he just started on and which one he should move next. You have to resist the temptation to blurt out, “I think it’s the other leg.” The owner of the pale blue shirt button is worried about stepping on your toes, so he takes off his shoes. But socks are a bit slippery to dance in, and when he’s off balance you are too. There’s a lot of stopping and rebalancing and starting again. You find yourself anticipating, rather than feeling, the next move.

But all the shirt buttons have their own peculiar charm. It’s just as the teacher said: you see the beauty and power and grace in everyone. You feel it in yourself too, not all the time, but when you do, you want more of it. You don’t want to let go of that feeling of being lost in the music, of the complicated sensuality, the melancholy joy of the tango.

It’s as if you’ve just learned your first words in the most beautiful language you’ve ever heard. You can’t wait to learn more, to put together whole sentences, to immerse yourself in it completely. When you leave, the spring night is warm. You drive home with the windows down, the breeze in your hair. The music still plays in your head, in your heart. And you’re smiling, smiling, smiling, smiling.

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Why pretty things matter


In a hidden valley just north of Canberra there’s a 10-acre garden that will take your breath away. It’s called Tulip Top. As you might have gathered, it has a lot of tulips, but that’s not all., the blossom! As you walk down the hill, the scent of crabapples almost knocks you over.


Then the garden rolls itself out before you and suddenly life is a bit better than it was five minutes ago. Worries disappear. Relationship cracks are smoothed over. You feel lighter. It’s as if everything hard or anxiety-provoking was left outside the gate. All you have to do is walk around and feel happy.

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There’s dazzling golden forsythia lining the path to the lookout.

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There are black tulips. And frilly purple tulips. And blackberries-and-cream coloured tulips.

There are undulating hedges by a pretty watercourse.

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There’s a waterfall and a pond where pobblebonks call to each other: “Bonk! Bonk!” I really love the name pobblebonk. It’s like something out of a fairytale.

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There are tulips so scarlet that they’re hard to photograph.

And my favourite: sunny yellow.

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The family who own the gardens started the project in 1997. This year they planted half a million bulbs. I love that they had the idea, the vision, and that they continue to work so hard, year on year, to create this beautiful place.


While a lot of people visit, sometimes busloads, it doesn’t feel crowded. Everyone seems to be wandering around with a smile on their face, in a happy daze. You pay a small entrance fee, but you can stay there all day if you want to, drinking free tea or coffee under the trees as classical music plays softly from speakers hidden in the blossom.

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You can find out more about the garden here. It’s open from mid September to mid October every year. You can take a picnic. You can even take your dog. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but it’s miles better than Floriade, Canberra’s annual tulip extravaganza.

There’s a short but uplifting TED talk by Ingrid Fetell Lee on the importance of colour and shape in creating joy. Colour and abundance, she says, signify life and energy. This garden, Tulip Top, with its mass plantings, swathes of colour, undulating shapes and gently swaying blossom everywhere is surely proof of that. Her talk is titled Where joy hides and how to find it. I think we already know the answer.

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A very good cake


There’s been a dearth of cake in small, quiet, pretty land: a lack, a paucity, an absence. Sometimes, especially when you’re known for your baking, you just get sick of it. All the fun goes out of it when you’re expected to bake. I think that’s what happened. Also, I went on a very low-carb eating plan for about a month. I don’t recommend it. Low carb, it turns out, equals low energy. I yawned and dragged myself around like an old sack the whole time.

But my love of baking came back, albeit in modified form. I’ve resolved to bake only when the muse calls, when I see a recipe that just has to be made. This is one of those recipes. The original recipe came from an old issue of The Simple Things magazine, and you can find it here. I changed it by using raw sugar, almond meal and gluten free flour and losing the vanilla, and I think mine’s better (pretends to blush modestly).

My friend P said it was the best cake she’s had all year. Given that it’s October, I choose to take that as a huge compliment. My friend D had two pieces in a row (so did I) and asked for the recipe. Here, then, is a very good cake.

For the cake:
200g butter
175g raw sugar (coconut sugar would also be good)
3 eggs
½ a lemon
150g almond meal
100g gluten free self-raising flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 tablespoon pomegranate molassses

For the syrup:
1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses
75g raw sugar
½ a lemon

For the icing:
250g cream cheese
2 tablespoons thick (double) cream
75g icing sugar

Heat the oven to 160°C. Grease a 23cm springform cake tin and line the bottom with greaseproof paper.

Chop up the butter and zap it in the microwave for 30 seconds to soften it (or, if you’re organised, take it out of the fridge a few hours before you start baking and leave it somewhere warm). Beat the butter and sugar together until well combined, then beat in the eggs one by one. Mix the flour, almond meal and baking powder together in a separate bowl. Tip half the flour mixture into the sugar/butter/egg mixture and beat it in well. Then beat in the tablespoonful of pomegranate molasses before you add in the last lot of flour. Add the zest of a lemon and half a lemon’s worth of juice. Beat everything until it’s lump free. (Shouldn’t take long if you’re using electric beaters.) Spoon the mixture into the cake tin, smooth it over and bake for about 40 minutes. When it’s done, it will be quite brown on the top and a knife blade or cake tester inserted in the middle should come out clean.

While the cake’s in the oven, heat the syrup ingredients slowly, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Once the cake is cooked, drizzle about two-thirds of the syrup over the cake. Leave the cake to cool in the tin.

Beat together the icing ingredients. Lick the beaters when you’ve finished, or give them to children if you are a kind, generous person. Once the cake’s cool, take it out of the tin and spread the icing over the top. Reheat the remaining syrup (because it will probably have gone a bit gloopy) then drizzle it over the icing.

This cake is really good with sliced mango and a pot of strong tea. It’s also very good the next day with coffee, even after a three-hour journey in the car. I’m no food photographer, so the photos don’t do it justice. Take my word for it: it’s a very good cake.




Taking stock


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Hello there. (I’m waving.) How are things with you? There’s been a lot going on, very little of it blog-worthy, but here are a few bits and bobs that fit into the small, quiet, pretty category.

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Learning: How to dye material using eucalypt and wattle. My friend the Soup Ninja invited me to join her at a natural dye workshop run by the super-talented Sally Blake, who’s done amazing work for a PhD on the subject. It was a few golden hours of chatting and listening and making something beautiful.

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Photo by C. Hart

Discovering: This glorious mutant, a pink wattle at the Australian National Botanic Gardens. A bonus of the workshop was a fun tour of the gardens with Ranger Bruce while our fabrics were being dyed. I wish I could hire Bruce every time I visit the gardens. If you asked me to choose between a tour of an ancient European city and a tour of the botanic gardens, I’d honestly have a hard time deciding.


Did you know that a wattle was the first plant to bloom after the bomb fell on Hiroshima? And now every September a group of people in Hiroshima send yellow ribbons to the botanic gardens in commemoration. I got a bit choked up over that.

Wishing: That I could spend days researching, collecting, designing, dyeing and sewing. Maybe in the Christmas holidays. (Looks wistfully at calendar and starts counting days.)

Listening to: Brazilian Lounge. It’s very smooth and charming and delightful, a bit like my friend J’s Brazilian boyfriend.

Eating: A lot of brussels sprouts and celery. I know; it’s weird. I hated both those vegetables as a kid and now I seem to be making up for it. Celery sticks with almond butter spread down the middle are very satisfying in a crunchy yet claggy way.

Watching: The Split on ABC TV. I found it so moving. Nicola Walker really is an outstanding actress.

Also watching: Crazy Rich Asians at the movies. Isn’t everybody? Two hours of visually stunning escapism/fluff was exactly what was needed. I came out of the cinema thinking, “I have to paint everything gold and red. And I need orchids EVERYWHERE!”

Reading: Crazy Rich Asians and China Rich Girlfriend, for the same effect. And I’ve researched every cookie/dessert/snack mentioned in the book. Come Christmas I’ll certainly be baking pineapple tarts and kuih bangkit and coconut love letters.

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Grieving: Every day, quietly and constantly. It’s like being stuck in roadworks. There’s no alternative route. There’s no way out of it. You just have to keep inching forward until one day, hopefully, you get to a clear bit of road. And there endeth the pop psychology lesson for today.

Looking forward to: The Gallery of Small Things, which I haven’t been to yet but am itching to see. It’s six metres by six metres, in what used to be someone’s laundry, and it exhibits exquisite, small objects and paintings by local artists. What a lovely idea!

Fuming over: What someone’s done to the beautiful pink fairytale church that I wrote about here: Year of the/Day of. They’ve stripped the inside. They’ve painted the outside white and put on a roof that doesn’t suit it. They’ve cut down too many trees. They’ve constructed an overblown stone and iron front gate and, WORST of all, they’ve put in an enormous water tank that dwarfs the building and really should have been buried in the ground. But that would have cost money and they’re out to make a quick buck by reselling it fast. Now I have to avert my eyes when I drive past.

Feeling amazed that: Even though the temperature’s still below zero most mornings and there’s been NO rain, the jonquils and snowdrops flowered. And now there are new spring green leaves on trees and shrubs that were just sad sticks last week. Resilience in action; that’s what it is.

Wondering: Whether I’ll make it to the Japanese Gardens at Cowra before all the blossom blows away. Perhaps the weekend after next. Fingers crossed.

Hoping for: A quieter life very soon. I would happily sleep for a hundred years. But for now it’s plod, plod, plod on through the neverendingness of things.

What’s happening in your life?

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This week, a long time ago


Do you keep a diary? This slightly battered velvety green one was my first. I got it for Christmas 1977 and faithfully wrote five lines a day from 1 January 1978 to 31 December 1982. Some of the entries are pretty funny, like this one:

Had a shower.

(This was England in the seventies. Showers were new!) Or this one:

Had a long think.

It’s funny because I was 12. I wish I’d written down what I was thinking about. But most entries are factual:

2-all draw in netball against Edwinstree. Did homework. Listened to a tape. Watched Starsky and Hutch. Ate a Creme Egg.

The diary entries act as reminders now. Those short sentences trigger richer, fuller memories of what happened back then. Sometimes they’re surprising: apparently we were short of money in 1979, which is when we applied to emigrate to Australia. The story I’ve remembered is that Margaret Thatcher came to power and my parents didn’t like the way the country was going, we lived in a cottage with low ceilings that depressed Mum, and Dad wanted to further his career; that’s why we moved. Now I see that there was more to it.

After a lot of form filling and trips to London for interviews and medicals, we got the big tick from the Australian government. Dad went first, flying off around the world to set himself up in a job and find us somewhere to live. Mum stayed behind with the kids to sell the house. It took six months. I found out years later that her best friend’s husband had gone to New Zealand at the same time, decided to start a new life for himself, dumped his wife and kids back in England and found another wife. It must have been a long, unnerving six months for Mum.

Here’s Dad, checking in at the start of his big adventure in February 1980. My grandma took the photo. She trimmed all her photos with pinking shears. No-one knows why:


We waved him goodbye then went to McDonald’s in Piccadilly Circus for a burger and a thick shake, which was a HUGE treat because there was no McDonald’s anywhere near where we lived. Mum had just taken a bite of her quarter pounder when she said, “Dad’s got the keys.”

We’d left the car on the outskirts of London and caught the train in that morning. Getting home was a bit trickier. The keyless car stayed where it was. We caught two trains and a taxi home instead. Because the house keys were also on a plane on the way to Australia, getting into the house demanded ingenuity. Mum climbed onto the pebble-dash coal bunker in the back garden and took a fruit knife out of her handbag. (Coal bunker? Fruit knife? Does anyone have such things now?) She prised open the kitchen window, we boosted my sister in to unlock the door, and Mum phoned friends to come and look after us and drive her back to London to pick up the car. My diary entry says: “WOT A DAY!”

Six months later, off we went. Grandma cried. My aunty cried. Mum cried. “It’s not as if it’s the other side of the world,” my cousin said. We flew to Australia via Washington DC to see some friends, and then via Disneyland. America was an eye-opener for me, a shy, bookish teen from a little English village where everyone minded everyone else’s business. In DC the temperature was 100 degrees Fahrenheit. People wore shorts. Kids played street hockey and went to Dairy Queen for ice-cream. There were huge black insects in the trees that went “brrrreeek”. We touched moon rock in the Smithsonian.

Then we went to Disneyland, which my diary says was “absolutely FANTASTIC!” We rode on the thrilling Space Mountain roller coaster and took the funny jungle cruise. We saw Mickey! And Minnie! And Donald! We went on the looong ride through It’s a Small World. Let me tell you, that tune never leaves you. I often find myself humming it even now. We ate frozen chocolate-covered bananas and drank pineapple juice.

That night, in our motel in Anaheim, we dragged my sister out of bed to watch the Disneyland fireworks. In her sleepy excitement she pulled out one of the louvres from the window and dropped it on my toe. I was so busy being awed by the fireworks that I didn’t notice until the blood made my foot stick to the carpet. I still have the Disneyland fireworks scar.

The next day we checked in at LAX to fly to Sydney. Leif Garrett was checking in at the next desk, but I was too shy to ask for his autograph. The flight was “v long and boring” but “I made friends with 2 nuns”! When we landed in Sydney, people cheered. Men from Customs boarded and sprayed something throughout the plane while the nuns covered their mouths and noses.

On our first night in Australia we went to McDonald’s again, a neat circle back to that day six months earlier. We truly knew then that we were in a new country because McDonald’s was in our suburb! We could go there any time! A couple of days later we went to see the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. Teens can be hard to please. Here’s my assessment of the world-famous architectural icons of Australia’s biggest city:

Not bad.

That was this week, a long time ago. I don’t keep a diary now. I stopped in my late twenties. There was too much going on. It’s painful now to read back over the diaries from the teens and early twenties. All that angst! All that emotion about people and situations! I had strong opinions that make me wince, here in the future, where I know that there are two sides to every story and that so many hidden factors influence how people act, what they say.

I stopped diarising because I wanted to go out and live. As Thoreau said:

My life has been the poem I would have writ
But I could not both live and utter it.

To a certain extent, I still feel that way. Writing is a solitary exercise. You can get stuck in your own head if you spend too much time scribbling. At other times, when you want to write, life gets in the way. Over the past fortnight I considered giving up blogging. “Do I have anything left to say?” I thought. “There are so many other things I need to make time for. Why am I doing it?”

In a way, though, blogging is a form of diary-keeping, isn’t it? I’m not here to sell anything; I might post the occasional recipe or book review, but mostly I’m just writing about life. So while it suits me to keep documenting my days, I’ll keep popping in here every so often to do just that. I hope you’ll keep popping in too. Thanks, as always, for reading.

Good books and a dash of paprika

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I’m reading my way through the remains of winter. While intellectually I know that in eight weeks time I’ll probably be swimming in an outdoor pool, right now it feels as though winter will never end. Most evenings I change into an enormously baggy Aran jumper, a pair of equally baggy home-made flannelette pyjama pants and some faux sheepskin slippers that drop fluff everywhere (really, I can’t think why I’m not on the cover of Vogue) then I huddle in front of the fire with a book. It’s the only way to survive. Here’s what I’ve been reading.

Imagine you’re in Russia. It’s 1922 and you’ve just been designated a Former Person. But you’re in luck. Instead of being shot or sent to Siberia, you’re placed under house arrest in a rather fine hotel. This is the situation facing Count Alexander Rostov, who is now without doubt one of my favourite characters in literature. I so enjoyed his intelligence, charm, good humour and resilience. Within pages of starting to read A Gentleman in Moscow, by the wonderfully named Amor Towles,  I found myself exclaiming, “Oh, this is so lovely!” The book is everything it says on the tin and more.

People say of good books “I couldn’t put it down.” Well, this one I literally couldn’t put down. I found myself carrying it all around the house. I even changed my routine and started driving to work, instead of catching the bus, to allow extra reading time in a cafe before the busy-ness of the day took over. This is a book to savour, like a good meal, enjoying every mouthful, every sensation. I started to feel sad two-thirds of the way in, because I knew it would have to end. It’s an utterly delightful story.

Towles’s other book, Rules of Civility, is another recommended read. Initially I thought, “Hmm, am I going to like these characters?” They seemed at first glance aspirational, vapid and annoying, until I realised I’d got them completely wrong. Then I was hooked. But throughout the book, which is set in New York in the 1930s, I held my breath as if watching a crystal martini glass balance on the stone parapet of an uptown roof terrace, waiting for it to topple and shatter.

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This might seem like an odd trio, but each book in its own way is a mirror of who we are. Anne Lamott’s book Bird by Bird is a re-read for me. It made a big impression when I first read it and just recently I decided I needed to own a copy. It’s a book on how to write in an engaging, truthful way—and I’d go so far as to say it’s the best guide to writing there is—but it’s also a very funny commentary on life:

We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason they write so very little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.

Lamott also talks about becoming quiet, observing, and getting out of your own way in order to let creativity flow, which ties in with the themes of Pema Chödrön’s Start Where You Are. Chödrön is a Buddhist nun and there are a lot of Buddhist terms in her book, which I skipped over because they’re unfamiliar words and if I started thinking about them then I missed the gist of the text. But basically what she says is very helpful: lighten up. Be gentle with yourself as well as with others. We all suffer. We all carry burdens. Don’t run away from them. Be open to any situation and learn from it. Get out from under your own ego.

Ego played a major role in the feudal society of France in the 12th century, when Eleanor of Aquitaine was more controversial than Madonna in the 1980s. According to Alison Weir’s book, Eleanor was headstrong and wilful, with a reputation for scandalous behaviour and unconventional conduct. I’ve been interested in Eleanor since I saw her tomb at Fontevraud Abbey when I was a child. I remember wishing I could slip through the veil of time and see society as it was back when she was alive.

Now, decades later, I’m plodding through this book and realising that even if I had been able to travel through time to meet her I wouldn’t have liked her very much. Human beings, for all our intelligence, wit and creativity, have always been…well, dunderheads, it seems. But once you get to the section of the book where she becomes queen of England it’s an interesting look at life in the late 1100s. For example, in London in 1180 there was a shop by the river selling ready-made meals to take away! And wine was produced in England but was of such poor quality that it “had to be drunk with closed eyes and clenched teeth”! I love finding out facts like that.

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I don’t know whether Eleanor of Aquitaine liked gardens, but if you do then you’ll love this book. It gives you good ideas about what to plant and where, all gloriously photographed, but it also features people who work with plants in different ways. There are articles on artists, scientists, horticulturalists and landscape architects. It’s lovely to look at and very inspiring. I have a tendency to plonk plants in the garden willy-nilly, but this book is helping me to think about the overall look.

Marit Hovland’s Bakeland brings the outdoors in, with cookies decorated to look like birch bark or autumn leaves and cakes that look like spruce trees or snow-covered mountains. If you want to make a cake to wow people, this book has some great ideas. I like baking but I’m not much of a cake decorator. This book makes me want to have a go, though. I think I’ll start with something easy, like pistachio marzipan pears. Anything with the word “marzipan” in it gets a tick from me!

Have I made you hungry? As well as devouring books, over the past couple of weeks I’ve also been making a delicious sauce/dressing and putting it on EVERYTHING. (Well, everything except cereal, but never say never.) It’s very good on fish, roast veggies and steamed veggies and it’s sublime drizzled over avocado and/or eggs. I got the recipe from The Simple Things magazine, which is also a great read. Here ’tis:

1 generous pinch each of saffron, cumin, powdered ginger and salt
1 teaspoon of paprika
2 tablespoons of lemon juice
3 tablespoons of olive oil

Whisk together and drizzle/pour over whatever you fancy. I’ve made it with tahitian lime instead of lemon. Divine! Orange juice would also be a good substitute. You can increase the amount of citrus if you like more tang. I don’t recommend upping the amount of paprika, though. I did it once and realised that you really can have too much of a good thing.

Bon appetit and happy reading! And do let me know what you’re reading. Winter isn’t over yet. I need some recommendations…


(Or things I overheard on my holiday)


I don’t know where I am.
—That’s all right. Neither do I.

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Jim says we’re more in tune with the Scandinavians, but I don’t mind the French.
               — I don’t understand contemporary French, not in those movies. It’s lower class.

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Vy choose her? She looks like a vimp.

I’ve got problems with spinach in any case.

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Politicians, they do anything to win.
                —Look at the calibre of people we have in politics.

I never realised how stressful it would be, pushing papers around.
— It’s because you never really achieve anything.
I’m never gunna look back and remember what I did.
— Yeah.  You’ll never say, “Gee, I made a difference.”


The rumour is that X is the father.

My goodness, all the girls have grey hair now.

What’s that?
You’ll have to explain to me what that is.
               — I don’t know. All I know is that it’s healthy.

You’re not a machine. You need to recharge your batteries.

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Did I tell you I’m a bit of a medium as well as a masseuse?
Well, I can tell you there’s someone in the room wearing a green scarf.

Don’t tell anyone.
—Mate, I’m like a coffin.
What do you mean?
—The lid’s closed. Nothing gets out.

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How much do you love me? (pause)
That’s the wrong answer.
Why can’t you just play the game?

Are you ready to order?
—Um…can I make up my own breakfast?
Of course. What would you like?
—Um…(long pause)…um…I’ll have…um…(long pause)…the bacon and eggs.
Like on the menu?
— Um…yes.


Now, who can tell me what the most famous building in Sydney is? Yes, Scott?
                —Miss, it’s Westfield.



Overwintering: to bring plants and animals indoors to wait out the winter; to hibernate or migrate to warmer climates until the winter passes.

Hello. Yes, it’s me, that voice coming from somewhere deep underneath blankets, jumpers, coats and scarves. I’ll just take my gloves off so that I can type better.

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I’ve had to bring George indoors. He’s a Sydney rock orchid and this is not his preferred climate. At the moment I’m not sure it’s mine either.

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Stacey and Consuela seem to be doing okay by the kitchen window, although I think Consuela was considerably brighter when I first got her. Probably we’re all looking a bit pale. I’m not in the habit of naming my houseplants, but that’s what happens when you spend a lot of time indoors trying to keep warm.

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The cockatoos that roost in the gum trees on the golf course usually migrate during winter, but this year they’ve stayed around. I wonder if that’s because it’s even drier inland or wherever they usually go. No-one’s saying the D word out loud, but it looks to me as if we’re in drought. The ground’s as dry as a Sao biscuit.

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The kangaroos are everywhere, even in the daytime, and even in people’s gardens. They’re looking for something to eat. I took this photo yesterday at a friend’s place, about three seconds before the dogs went bananas and launched themselves at the window. Luckily the glass was thick.

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I’ve had a bad cold, the kind where you absolutely have to go to bed for a few days and just stare out of the window. Actually, it was a blessing in disguise because lordy I needed the rest. This year has been like a runaway train and I’ve been hanging on for dear life. So I quite enjoyed giving in to being sick, not soldiering on. Emotions live in the body—of course they do—and Chinese medicine says that grief affects the lungs, so I wasn’t at all surprised to develop a delightful hacking cough as well.

Lying under blankets, watching the light change on the hills, there’s been a lot of time for contemplation. For a while now I’ve been thinking about big changes but trying to work out how to implement them gradually, rather than all at once. Instead of throwing the baby out with the bath water, I want to keep the baby and change the bath water, so to speak. Mentally, I’ve been pushing at doors, seeing if they will open. In my head I’ve been trying on ideas: “Is this the right fit? What about this?”

I won’t tell you just yet what I’ve come up with, but I’m pretty excited about it. And a bit scared. It will take a while, and no doubt there’ll be some tweaking, but it feels right and that’s the most important thing.

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As well as thinking up some big ideas, I came up with some smaller, creative ones too. Then I made a jar of ideas. A while ago a friend lent me a DVD of a very sweet film called The Missing Postman. In it, one of the characters writes down all the odd jobs that need to be done around the house and puts them in a jar. When she has spare time and/or someone to help her, she picks a job out of the jar and gets it done.

Having a jar full of need-to-be-done jobs doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest, but a jar full of creative ideas certainly does. I wrote down ideas that use things I already have or that don’t involve spending much money. Here are some of them:

  • Go to the Botanic Gardens and take photos. Write a poem in the rainforest gully.
  • Crochet some flowers. Then crochet some more.
  • Make a cake from a different country.
  • Try dying fabric with avocado stones.
  • Read a French magazine online.
  • Visit the Japanese gardens at Cowra.
  • Draw some Art Deco patterns.
  • Make a tote bag.
  • Imagine the desert. Now write about it.
  • Learn some more acupressure points.
  • Make a golden painting.
  • Make a gluten-free sourdough starter.
  • Learn hiragana, katakana and the other one. (I told you I had a cold! Hard to remember things when your head’s full of mucus.)

Fun, right?! I’m close to finishing a big project right now and don’t have time for any of the above, but those creative ideas are waiting patiently in their jar for a day when I have time or am feeling a bit flat creatively. There are no rules with the jar of creative ideas. If you pull out an idea and don’t feel like acting on it, you can put it back and pull out more until you find the right one. Have a go!

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This week I had to take a trip along the highway and down-up-down the mountain roads to go and see to some family biz. I decided to drive home the long way, to get a glimpse of the sea and perhaps even to take my coat off—a brief migration to warmer climes. Before I left home, I’d been enjoying some tulips a friend bought me. I think I photographed their impossible goldenness from every angle. So when I stopped for a coffee in a little town on the way home (where I DID get to sit outside without a coat on) I was delighted to find a shop selling shoes with tulips AND goldenness on them. You won’t be surprised to hear that the shoes came home with me.

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On the drive home I passed signs that set off all sorts of reverie: Lemon Tree Creek (sounds idyllic and yellow and sunshiny); Monkey Mountain Road (is there a cache of monkeys living on a mountain in southern New South Wales?); Mount Agony Road (you’d think only a masochist would take that road, but actually it goes to the beach); Outdoors and Beyond (what exactly is beyond the outdoors, and what does that shop sell that could kit you out for it?); and Drive Thru Bacon and Eggs (delicious but potentially very messy and hard to scrape off the windscreen). And an echnida crossed the road. Don’t ask me why.

So here we are, back at home, where it’s still wintry. But indoors the fire’s on and there’s soup and home-made bread for dinner. We had a bit of rain, which the garden (and the roos and cockatoos) will be grateful for. And I’m grateful for slower days, time to heal, and time to dream up plans for tomorrow.

Until next time, keep warm and stay well.

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Possibly the best soup in the world


I know. That’s quite a claim. And I haven’t tasted all the soups in the world, so there could be a better one out there…but I doubt it.  Perhaps I should add the qualification that it’s the best soup in the world if you like caraway seeds. If you don’t, please look away now and come back next week.

This is a soup that my friend the Soup Ninja made for me when I was too sad to cook. It’s called Tunisian soup. I had a quick rummage around on the internet to see if the recipe belonged to anyone but I couldn’t find anything exactly like it, so I can’t credit the original cook. Also, I’ve changed it by adding potatoes and more lemon juice and a different type of onion. If you’re reading this and you created the original soup: thank you and I salute you.

The instructions aren’t precise because I made it the minute I got home from work and I was too hungry to write anything down. I also didn’t take my coat off. So the exact cooking time is however long it takes you to hang up your coat, get changed, send an email, take various pieces of paper out of your bag then do some yoga in front of the fire. This soup would serve six, I’d say. It’s gluten free and vegan. And it’s so addictive I’ll probably run all the way home from the bus stop tomorrow night in anticipation of eating another bowlful.

2 cans chickpeas
2 large potatoes, scrubbed (no need to peel them if the skin’s quite thin, but peel them if you prefer)
4 sticks of celery
half a red onion
juice of a lemon
two tablespoons of caraway seeds (yes, I did mean tablespoons)
1 generous tablespoon of tahini
vegetable stock (I used two dessert spoonfuls of GF powdered stock + enough water to cover everything)
couple of glugs of oil
2 pinches of salt

Chop the potatoes into smallish chunks. The size is up to you. The smaller they are, the faster they’ll cook. Slice the celery and onion finely. Heat the oil in a deep pan and swirl the vegetables around in it for a couple of minutes. Drain the chickpeas and rinse them well. Add the chickpeas and the caraway seeds to the veggies. Pour in enough stock so that everything is well covered. Put the lid on and bring to the boil.

Once the soup is boiling, turn it right down and simmer it until the veggies are tender. Then add the salt, lemon juice and tahini and stir in well. Ladle it into bowls and serve.
I topped mine with dill because a life without dill is a life half lived, but labneh and dukkah would also be nice—or nothing at all, because this soup doesn’t need anything else. Try to eat it slowly and politely, or give up all pretence of refinement, put your elbows on the table and slurp it like the ravenous, slavering beast that you are.




The Lone Tomato Plant



At the time of year when every gardener in Canberra plants tomatoes, I was given a tray of many tomato seedlings. The generous seedling donor said that these plants were so prolific her garden was overrun with tomatoes every year. I took the seedlings home with high expectations.

In the backyard I made a new veggie patch, with compost and mulch and a posh wooden frame to go around it. I planted all but one seedling there and watered them and fussed over them. Within two weeks the whole lot got eaten, stalks and all, before they had a chance to grow. I never caught the culprits, but possums were my prime suspects.

One seedling went into a pot in the front courtyard, with some struggling basil for company. I watered it when I remembered. It looked sick and straggly for ages. There were no flowers, so of course there was no fruit. Everyone else who’d been given seedlings kept saying that they had so many tomatoes they didn’t know what to do with them. “Give them to tomato-less people like me,” I thought, grumpily.

Then suddenly, months after it should have started fruiting, the tomato plant began to grow. And grow. And grow. I was so encouraged that I started watering it more. A little yellow flower appeared. “It’s too late for tomatoes now,” said the know-it-all people who’d been dealing with a tomato glut for months. But still it kept growing. Another yellow flower appeared, and then another.

One day, a flower turned into a tiny green tomato. For a week or so it was the only fruit. Then two more tiny green tomatoes appeared. The weather was unseasonably hot and the sun shone fully on the flourishing tomato plant. “Can you believe how warm it is?” people said. At the time of year when we usually think about turning the heating on, the sun kept shining.

I looked at the weather forecast for the week ahead: a whole week of 29 degrees was predicted. Inside I danced a little jig at the unusual heatwave, the extra time for the tomatoes to ripen. “Those green tomatoes will never ripen at this time of year,” someone said. I kept watering and watching and hoping, but I decided I wouldn’t mind if they didn’t ripen. Either way, I was planning to eat them.

In an ideal world, the end of this story would be that those late tomatoes ripened and that, even though there were only a handful, they were perfect and sun-warmed and juicy. And I might have talked about quality over quantity and everything in its own time.

But what actually happened was that one tomato made it to an orange-ish stage and the other four stayed resolutely green. I left them on the plant a bit longer, in case a miraculous colour change took place just before the frost hit, but of course it didn’t.
So I picked them. The whole crop fitted into the palm of my hand and they would have been considered rejects by any vegetable-growing standard.

Still, those five little tomatoes made me happy. They grew! Against the odds! So I guess the lesson was: let go of your expectations, don’t compare yourself to other people, be happy with what you have…and roasted green tomatoes taste delicious.