Spring Lunch, August 30th

The Script Producer (10 year veteran of Australia's favourite police show and now living in the mountains) drove up with her brother one fine spring day.  I had hoped they might stay for a couple of days until I found out the Script Producer's new diet; no carbs.  In my blithe consumption of grains, my understanding of what a carb involved probably stretched to a dim recognition that beans might be implicated.  And then there's the rest... no grains, no beans, no rice, no bread, no cake, no potatoes (!!!how can someone live without potatoes! And why would you want to?)  What on earth would I feed them?

My non-carb catering could just stretch to one meal, but not a weekend.

While I'd be slashing my wrists if anyone told me cheese had to disappear forever from my plate, the Script Producer was taking the new austerity with surprising complacency.  Mainly, she said, because meat and wine were still allowed.  So that's what we had for lunch.  Meat (a fine butterflied lamb leg on the BBQ) and wine (an even finer red brought by the guests).

Now the Script Producer is one of those beloved guests who first visited early in the renovation project, when the comforts were extremely limited.  Despite this she was an endless source of encouragement and motivation - and breezed in with helpful suggestions and - even more helpful - curtains, which still hang in the main guest bedroom.  She also brought me (on the way back from parts further north west) a small eucalypt, which is now growing in the far corner of the triangle paddock.

Once more she brought with her exactly the thing I needed but hadn't got around to organising.  I had been thinking a circle of roses might be just the thing for out the front (mainly because everyone assures me roses - like geraniums - are pretty much impervious to my limited gardening skills, at least in this soil).  And there was the Script Producer, with a beautiful lush rose bush in a pot.

They left late afternoon, and while I was planting the rose in pride of place out the front I noticed the cow in the next door paddock - which I'd been stalking for days waiting for her long overdue (by my standards, not hers) calf - had indeed given birth to said calf.

Ah Spring, rose bushes and calves.  The season of growth.  And what a lovely lunch and great company to start the season with.

The Script Producer's rose bush

TV Marathon August 19-22

Psych Girl arrived with Busta the Wonder Dog for another excellent weekend of... basically sitting on the lounge in front of the fire and watching the entire series of The Staircase.  I love winter.  No grass to mow.  No trees to water.  No gardens to weed.  Humans can live through winter as nature intended - in caves with fur and big meat dinners - and DVDs.

Psych Girl is also known as The Demographic.  One of my few friends in the age group tv executives are passionately interested in: female consumers under 30.  So her opinion on anything tv is pored over like sand in the creek (there's gold in them thar hills).  Her timing coincided with the premier ep of Underbelly Razor.  She took great delight when she realised she was 'the friend' I told the Mudgee Guardian I'd be watching the episode with (I could hardly confess to our local tabloid that on the night Razor went to air I'd probably be sitting Nigel No Friends alone in front of the telly.  Unfortunately, that got me into trouble with everyone who read the article and wasn't with me that night.  Why aren't they the special friend...?)

Despite our self-imposed (Lack of) Work Ethic we did managed to cram a lot into the weekend.  Much wood was gathered for fires, a last farewell to the neighbours who've sold the property bordering mine, some cattle moving and fox baiting filled in the time between eating large meals of red meat and watching tv.

The Parents got points for bonding with Busta (lifting him onto the ute when they worried he was getting tired from the run up through the bush) and lost them again by nearly running over him!  (No dog stands between my father and Scrabble apparently).
 
But everyone finished the weekend alive - though no doubt kilos fatter!  And The Dog and I sadly waved goodbye to The Demographic and Busta the Wonder Dog....

Actually, that's not quite true.  As they drove off in one direction (hastily dispatched slightly earlier than usual) I abandoned The Dog to care of The Parents and drove at speed to the airport.  At short notice a dinner had been convened by The Cowboy Producer (he's from Western Australia, which I tend to think of as being something like Texas) with Incredibly Spunky Actor (one of The Demographic's favourites, in fact).  Another person might have turned down the offer... no, no, I'd love to be there, but a friend is staying, I couldn't possibly abandon her...  But that would be another person that's not me.  Off you you, Demographic, what's a few hours less, yes, I know you drove all this way to spend time with me, but I'm sure you'll want to get back to Sydney early so you're all ready for work on Monday...

So I drove, then I flew, then I taxied, then I walked on titter-totter heels - by now dressed in finest of clothes for dazzling Incredibly Spunky Actor with incredible beauty, graciousness and poise (what, this old thing, just something I threw on at the last minute...) to arrive at the glamorous restaurant and be told... Incredibly Spunky Actor had had last minute tooth surgery (what??) and wouldn't be joining us (I say again what??)  Needless to say, The Demographic laughed herself silly.

And I felt just a little bit, just a tiny bit, just a wee little tad... silly myself.

Book Club Weekend - July 1-3

Ah, the Book Club.  Really more a dining club, since we spend far more time reviewing the meals we eat together than the book we were supposed to read apart, in this case Nabakov's 'Pale Fire'.  In fact 'Pale Fire' was not my choice, but the Clubber responsible for choosing it and leading discussion was 'not travelling well' for the scheduled discussion back in May.  By July he was not just 'not travelling well', but 'not travelling at all' and didn't make the trip from Sydney with the rest of the Clubbers, who include:

- The Sister (see her last visit here),
- the other sister (who we'll call the Bird Nerd, although in The Sister's and my vain attempts to follow her lead we really should call her the Bird Expert and us the Bird Idiots)
- The Journo (who I went to uni with);
- The Editor (who he married);
- And everyone's children.

Five adults, five kids... and The Dog, who coped remarkably well with the random hordes and managed not to have any Proximity Issues (see history of these here) with any of them.

How to sleep so many?  Well, the Bird Nerd stayed with The Parents up the road while I generously and selflessly gave up my bedroom for a kids' dorm, gave the other guest bedrooms to The Sister and the fourth estate, and slept on the floor in the lounge*.

What a glorious weekend!  Walks and food and chat and play and bonfire and inside fire and marshmallows.  The Journo proved himself a fire wizard, taking responsibility not just for the chopping, carting and stacking of wood, but also for fire preparation and maintenance over the whole weekend - and leaving me with a full stack on his departure.



Stacks of wood!

The Editor was a dream guest, keeping the kitchen humming like a well-oiled machine, and proving a whiz partner at Spicks and Specks.  She also proved gracious under trying conditions - like having to cart two heavy bags all the way to the BBQ site a mile away because I confused myself with my plan to bring her excess bags so everyone could help, then completely forgot.  And then she was abandoned in the middle of the paddock at the end of the BBQ when I forgot to send house keys back with her in the early car.

The Sister had recovered from the previous visit's malaise and stepped up to the plate as always, showing great skill in Mediation for 8-year-olds when World War 3 promised to break out over tree-house issues.  And The Bird Nerd saved us all by arriving at the BBQ location ahead of the rest of us so that by the time we arrived starving and exhausted, the fire was snag-ready.

The kids were great.  While kinship theory specifies that my interest in children should be largely restricted to those who share the same genetic background, the visiting kids gave the nephlings a run for their money.  They may not have washed up in the same gene pool, but they tended to use the shower more.  And the damages toll for the weekend was less than might be expected with five kids under Harry Potter age sharing a bedroom.  While there was the Small Incident with the Curtain and a series of blue smudges on the carpet that will require consulting Shannon Lush to remove, it's worth remembering that when The Parents stayed in my Sydney house while I was away for two weeks some years ago, I came back to find they'd broken the microwave, the tv, my favourite cup, the toaster and the front door!  Two weeks.  Honestly you'd think I'd left a family of elephants looking after the place.

Post having watched Pirates of the Carribean, the kids commandeered a giant fallen tree, named it The Black Pearl, and had endless adventures on it.  They all proved excellent farm hands and very good at gate-opening, wood gathering and feeding hay to the cows.  Also none of them managed to kill themselves or get trampled by the bull.  Always a plus when a holiday ends with everyone alive.

But the point of the weekend was the Book Club Dinner.  I'd invited the Clubbers to bring a recipe for what they considered to be their signature dish... and make it for the rest of us to eat!  The Bird Nerd later pointed out that given this was supposed to be a tried-and-true dish there were an awful lot of dishes she'd never seen before, and a lot of advice asked about recipes each was supposed to be expert at.

Nonetheless, we were presented with delicious, fresh and yeasty home-made bread (The Bird Nerd), a mouth-watering Beef, Red Wine and Mushroom Casserole (The Sister), Spanakopita with genuine Greek pastry (me), to-die-for pizza (The Journo) and fantastic pavlova (The Editor).  Most fascinating were the stories that accompanied each dish (I loved The Editor's story of how she cooked pavlova every week for her family for her entire adolescence, but not once for the first 5 years of her marriage, so The Journo was stunned when she suddenly revealed this dormant expertise in the Pav Dept.)

And best of all, everyone generously left their recipes behind, and I can tell you I've been cooking pizza, pav, bread and beef casserole ever since!

The Cattle Baroness has a little rest
(photo by Isobel)

Full marks to all Book Club guests.  The Dog and I can only hope they make this an annual event.


* Alright, I confess, my sleeping arrangments involved a very comfy mattress right next to the big wood fire in the warmest room in the house, so 'selfless' may not be the most precise description.

Henry Lawson Weekend, June 11-12

Well it was a full house for the Henry Lawson weekend.  Psych Girl was back for the first time this year (and the first time since I started this blog), Melba Toast and The Boy back for the first time since the Gulgong Show (clearly fans of the event weekend!) and The Sister back for the first time since her birthday - this time with The Nephling.

All in all the three parties seemed to get on alright - though there was a sticky moment when Ms Toast ordered Psych Girl to fetch her a bigger mug for her cup of tea.  The command 'Trot, trot' possibly didn't help the friendship.  Ms Toast may need to remember that not everyone responds as well as her husband to these instructional endearments.

The Sister unfortunately awoke on Day 2 with the flu and spent most of the weekend in bed or dragging herself around the house looking like death warmed up.  This didn't prevent her pulling her weight in the kitchen, however and - trooper-like - she made stirling contributions in the kitchen-tidying and washing-up areas - which was a little beyond the call of duty given she was too sick to actually eat anything.  Anyway, The Sister is so lovely that even when her personality has been crushed by a truck-sized virus she's still a pleasure to add to the mix.

In fact a full house did draw attention to guests' talents in the cooking/cleaning up/mixing with others fields.  Psych Girl particularly rose to the challenge, perfecting her tea-making skills, pouring endless cups for large groups, stacking and unstacking the dishwasher and generally being the first to ask if anything needed to be done.  In addition, she smashed up all the eggshells that had piled up since her last visit (for feeding back to the chooks in their grain - increasing their calcium intake), and did an excellent job with The Nephling ferrying wood from the woodheap to the front door just before the rain set in.  She also brought Busta The Wonder Dog for a return visit, providing hours of entertainment for The Dog, who spent most of the time stealing Busta's bones.  None of this prevented her from spending quality time (okay, hogging) the second youngest nephling, who arrived for scones with his father (The Butcher Brother) and mother (The Sister-in-Law).

Even The Nephling rose to the challenge of a busy household and a sick mother.  He bonded extremely well with The Dog - who was a little down after his departure - and made a super effort with the wheelbarrow and the wood.  He was also excellent company for the formal Saturday night dinner, contributing very well to the adults' conversation (until Melba overloaded his dessert ice-cream and the sugar hit left him a little hyper) and joining in playing Spicks and Specks enthusiastically.

The Boy continues to be a stirling addition to a busy household.  Not only is his IT support unmatched by other visitors (this time bringing me a hard drive for my newish netbook), but he chopped all the wood, helped put a manway gate into the cattleyards ('manway' - it even sounds macho), managed to light the fire and keep it going apparently effortlessly (something I'd been unable to do prior to his visit), hauled the heavy filing cabinet down the hall to its new position, managed to make an excellent polenta (despite rather than because of 'help' from Melba I suspect) and proved himself an excellent addition to the Spicks and Specks board game event, with a special contribution in the '80's power ballads' section. 

As for Melba Toast, she.... she.... she...

She brought The Boy!  Although backtracking through the guest book this seems to be Ms Toast's single (and proudly claimed) contribution for quite some visits now.

Hmm, perhaps next time instead of bringing The Boy, Ms Toast could just send The Boy.

How many eggs since Psych Girl's last visit??

Hits from the weekend menu:

Non-radicchio cabbage, rocket, fetta, pine nut and sultana salad - in a reduced balsamic dressing
(courtesy of Psych Girl and The Sister)
Creamy cheesy polenta (Melba and The Boy)
Osso Bucco (CB)

They were all eaten so fast we didn't get a photo of any of them.  But we were so stuffed afterwards it gave us time to take a photo of dessert before that went too!

Cattle Baroness Plum Pie!

Broken Arm Birthday, May 7-8, 2011

This year for something special for my birthday I got... a broken arm.

Sadly, I have to report The Dog was involved.  And before you ask, the dog is FINE!  I'm the one with the fractured radial joint.

I blame Aaron Ralston.  Yes, the guy of '127 Hours' fame who got stuck under a rock in the Grand Canyon in 2003 and gnawed his own arm off (well, you know what I mean).  On April 25th I watched the movie.  On April 26th I bought the book and started reading.  What date did Aaron Ralston get stuck under that rock?  April 26th, 2003.  What date did I trip over The Dog?  April 26th, 2011.

So at 10am I'm sitting in the Qantas Lounge reading the book thinking - cut my own arm off, how hard could that be? At 10pm I'm lying in bed holding the book in one hand because the other one is lying uselessly and in incredible pain by my side and I'm thinking - cut my own arm off???  I can't even lift it.

So maybe not blame Aaron Ralston.  Maybe blame hubris.  And poor timing.  And The Dog!

At the time I didn't think it was broken.  I thought broken meant snapped in two.  I could feel the length of my bones and there weren't any major bits where there was no bone, so I thought, maybe it's just twisted.  Or sprained.

It was Miss L - a qualified nurse - on the phone the following afternoon who pointed out that since I derived my income from typing, and since my left arm was kind of important for all the QWERTY letters, an X-ray might be in order to make sure my future income could be maintained.

And it did strike me, as I drove to the Mudgee hospital one-handed (yeah, yeah, you're not going to tell me anything the doctor didn't tell me...), that if this wasn't broken, how much more painful could broken be?

So a couple of x-rays and one hemi-sling later I was driving myself one-handed back home (haven't we had this conversation...) with an officially broken arm.

Very exciting until the novelty wore off, then just boring.  And it was about to be my birthday.  And Miss L was due for a visit.  (Plus I think she wanted to make sure I wasn't making the whole thing up to get out of weeding the geraniums).

Now Miss L, you may remember, won Best Guest 2010 - Singles Section.  And, you also may remember, sets a very high standard for weekend visits in terms of Expectation of Work To Be Done.  Which would be all very well if it was just done by the guest - not by the host.

But having a broken arm proved a huge bonus.  Not only because Miss L was able to help me do all the things it's very difficult to do one-handed - like bottling olives and tagging calves.  But also because she was able to do all the things I could pretend I could no longer do with one hand - like gardening!

So over the course of 48 hours Miss L managed to mow the entire lawn, bottle the olives and weed the front garden.  This was accompanied by the usual disappointed head-shaking at the piteous state I'd allowed lawn, weeds and garden to degenerate to in her absence.  Whereupon I could point to my sling and bravely pretend I would have done all these things except for the tragic and untimely incident with The Dog.

Unfortunately, this has just increased the stakes.  By her next visit I'll need a broken leg to assuage her disapproval.

Step 1:  Sorting.

Step 2.  Bottling.

Step 3.  Finished product!

Mower Girl!


Finally Miss L gave up lecturing me on mulch and weeding, took pity on me and drove me off to Mudgee for a birthday dinner.  We dined in a beautiful rustic old coach-house converted into a restaurant (The Wineglass Bar and Grill in case Melba Toast is interested) and celebrated yet another excellent farm weekend.

Miss L is definitely ahead on the leader board for the 2011 prize.



          Even The Dog is exhausted after Miss L's visit!




Camping Cousins, April 11, 2011

Before the last visitors (Family Fly-by-Nighters) had even cleared the horizon my favourite cousin's wagon train had hauled into view.  With wife, two children, mother-in-law and piano, yes, I say it again, PIANO! MFC had made the long, winding trip over the mountains from Oklahoma, I mean Hornsby.

Where do I start with how fantastic these visitors are.  For starters, they don't actually stay.  MFC has a train carriage on a large block of land at the back of my place.  Secondly, they do great fires, great dinners, great company, great intellectual chat and great drinking of vino around said fire.  And if all mothers-in-law were this lovely and interesting more people would probably be married.

MFC's partner is - like MFC - an ambulance officer.  The AO regaled us with tales of death and rescue, mainly involving children and swimming pools.  I was stunned to be told that 1 child drowns every week in an Australian swimming pool. Understandably the AO is so perturbed about this that she has very definite ideas about the dangers of (a) having a swimming pool, (b) keeping it fenced (fences are just as bad in some cases because they increase complacency and (c) poor supervision.  Mind you, as I listened to these very well-put arguments, the two kids are wandering around the large bonfire in the dark tripping over sticks and being blinded by smoke and grabbing for the tale of The Dog, who - as has been explained before here - gets a little snappy with proximity issues.  The AO didn't seem as concerned about Death by Fire, Dog or Sticks so much as Death By Pool.  Which is fair enough if you've spent the last 6 months vainly trying to save drowned kids.

But to top off their list of fabulous attributes... they bequethed me the piano!

Now, this is a lendy not a keepy.  In the Cattle Baroness's family certain terms have a provenance that gives them legal status.  Lendy-Not-A-Keepy means at any time the original owner can reinstate his or her ownership of said item and remove it.  Although the effort getting it off the trailer and into its current position suggests MFC isn't going to be in a hurry to haul it out again.

So as the wagon train headed back east two nights later, The Dog and I were left sadly contemplating the blackened coals of the dead fire...

... and happily practising Pachelbel's Canon in D.

the new piano!

The next visit of MFC, the AO and their entourage is eagerly anticipated.  If 'cousins' are rated in the 'family' section these guys could give the Fly-By-Nighters a run for their money.

Family Fly-By-Nighters April 10, 2011

The Sister (aka The Stylist) and the Brother-in-law (aka The Builder Philosopher) zoomed through late on Thursday night on their way to a wedding in Bourke.  On their Sunday return it was The Stylist's birthday and we intended to celebrate it in child-free style (The Nephew having been shipped off to an alternate grandparent for the weekend). 

This was the plan: Picking olives at The Parents' house in the sunny Autumn afternoon.  Dappled leaves, warm sun, the tree overhanging with olives...

This was the reality: Freezing cold rain, muddy slopes, a slippery ladder, wet branches springing out of reach and, in my case, a lengthy slide in the mud.

At least the hot showers afterwards were fantastic!  As was the dinner.  Home-grown lamb with jacket potatoes and pumpkin and chickpea salad (much yummier than it sounds) followed by pannacotta with home-grown stewed apple (the 2 apples from my year-old apple tree).

We had a lovely night of music and chat.  However, while it was delightful to have adult time with The Stylist and The Builder Philosopher without distracting interruptions from The Nephew, his absence did deprive me of my life's greatest joy:  Telling Parents What They're Doing Wrong.

As all my childless* friends will know, it is one of life's great ironies that those without children are far more qualified to parent than those who are actual parents.  Without all our time being clogged up with nappy changing and time-outs, we have time to do all the things necessary to actually be a parent.  Like watching ten years of Dr Phil.  Not to mention the 4 years of Psychology that concentrated mainly on child development and rats.  And really, what is the difference between a rat and an 8-year old?  It's all reward schedules and behavioural shaping as far as I can see.  Parents keep telling anyone who'll listen how exhausted, sleep-deprived and poor they are.  You wouldn't let them operate a chainsaw but they're allowed to control (often multiple) small humans in hazardous situations (like shopping centre carparks).

Clearly if you look at any human being under 18 and ask who are the two people on the planet with the least information about them, the fewest qualifications regarding their operation and the least energy to do anything about it... yep, their parents.

And the most informed, qualified, energetic and interested... their favourite aunt!  Who owns cattle.  And a dog.  If you can get 1000 kilos of heaving animal to enthusiastically embrace the delights of a less enticing paddock, you can get a kid to eat breakfast.

Though I'm still puzzled as to why my excellent and constant advice is not met with more grateful appreciation by the parents involved...

Anyhow, in the absence of The Nephew, The Stylist had time to plant her birthday present.

It is a truth not universally acknowledged that a Cattle Baroness in possession of a tree-less front yard must be in want of a windbreak.  What better way to acheive this than to present those celebrating milestones (birthdays, anniversaries, visitors, just people driving by) with a small tree, a plot and a spade. 

Much digging, mulching, planting, wartering and tree-guarding later I (I mean they) have their very own tree.

Everyone's a winner.

The Stylist and her Birthday Eucalypt

And with prizes for Stoic Olive-Picking, Intellectual Dinner Chat, Excellent Musicianship, Tree Planting Despite Discouraging Conditions and Leaving The Nephling at Home, The Stylist and The Builder Philosopher are so far leaders of the pack in the Best Guest 2011 - Family Section.

* There has to be a more appropriate term than 'Childless', which implies something lacking.  Instead of something '-less' maybe something '-more'.  Time-More people.  Money-More people.  Those Whose Taxes Subsidise The Kids of Others.  Or maybe just ... Readers.