sweet madelaine

Sweet, pure and shiny.

2009-02-05T13:20:00.006+10:00

I went, this morning, to see my doctor (who happens to look like Simon Baker, so never a hardship) for a full check-up. What this means is that at my prompting I have, this morning, had blood tests taken for everything and anything - organ function, cholesterol, iron, hormone levels etc etc etc.

I also had two tiny spots burnt off my face - well frozen. They were so small to be almost invisible but I could feel them with the tips of my fingers, so he removed them. These are a result of growing up in the Tropics. Over the last couple of years I've had 3 others frozen off. I am vigilant about it. A spot vigilante. He is always impressed that I've managed to locate such tiny things. In return I try to impress on him how much I like being alive in explanation.

He has been my Doctor now for many years. When he started his first practice, I was one of his first clients. I have remained with him as he moved on up to his present position at the best private Medical Centre in Cairns. He wears gorgeous silk shirts and Italian leather shoes, is a vegetarian, smart as the proverbial whip and is musically trained. I adore him. He says things like: 'I'm never going to get time for creativity if I stay in medicine', and this morning, upon hearing that I have begun my Doctorate: 'I admire you, you're so pure.'

So, you see - always entertaining. As though medicine is a millstone around his neck and I'm living a covetable life. Very funny.

But, back to the tests. In the spirit of transformation I am giving my body a thorough tune-up. Much as I hate car metaphors when discussing the human body, this one seems appropriate. No longer brand-new, I'd like to be well cared for and shiny anyway.

So, coming at you; sweet and pure, soon to be shiny.
Darkness is, of course, a given.
Midnight blue perhaps?

Conniptions.

2009-02-03T10:59:00.002+10:00

Gaaah! Am having a conniption re: templates.
Is it a symptom of other things?
Perhaps a crisis of identity?

Maybe it's the low pressure curtesy of Cyclone Ellie, who blustered around off the coast a bit before blowing herself out, without so much as a fallen branch.

Conniption indeed.

A conniptious week then.
So far.

(Doo doo doo) looking out my front door.

2009-01-31T12:31:00.002+10:00

Le Wet Season.

Diversions.

2009-01-31T03:32:00.002+10:00

Have just arrived home from a rather diverting evening - a dinner party where each guest was required to give a performance of some sort, kicked off by the host who ate a number of pages of a book she didn't much like. Was she swallowing? No. After 10 or more pages were torn into small pieces and compacted somehow in her mouth, she spat it all onto the floor in front of her. Some review, huh?

Next was a fine piece of slide guitar, followed by an acapella gospel song, a book reading by the author of said book, and a remarkably moving reading of 'Oh The Places you'll Go' by Dr Seuss. I, of course, played a song (the guitar was finally slung on my back again for a moment). The night continued with more music and the type of conversation that spins off satisfyingly on tangents and then rings around again to the main thrust before whimsically spilling all over the place.

Tired, yet not.

Must, of course, go to bed.

Some nights: better than others.

On Death. ( A Post in 6 parts).

2009-01-29T23:31:00.008+10:00

I.
Early this morning I was tossing and turning in my bed, slit-eyed at the first light that was managing to infiltrate my room, and grit-jawed at my own darkness which had laid claim to me in the night. 'Dawn be damned,' it/I said.

Hi-jacked for the day I made busy. Cleaning. Shopping. Sorting. Reorganising. And yes, running. I pounded the pavement, venturing further than I had so far. It helps. O tomorrow I'll be sore. Sore beats angst (paper covers rock).

The strange thing is that since I've taken up jogging, I've been dreaming it too. In my dreams I am strong and never tire. I run the length of the town, run the hill at the end of my street, run along the landing strips of the airport, and beyond.
Just as though I would live forver.

II.
I have begun reading for my grand project. First up: Breton's 'Manifesto of Surrealism' and Artaud's 'The Theatre and its Double' which already has me tracking back to Nin's diaries and wondering who in fact she did and didn't sleep with.

III.
The black dog is an unruly bastard. He really isn't mine. Maybe I'll put up some posters, somebody might lay claim.

IV.
I am considering a french polish. In honour of Anais.
Tomorrow I would like to don a red velvet cape and run off to a liquid lunch with Henry Miller. Alas. What I'll actually do is step out into the great wet blanket of the monsoon season plastered with repellant to guard against the outbreak of Dengue fever which is IN MY STREET as I write.

V.
Yesterday someone I know died suddenly. This goes a long way to explaining I. and III.

VI.
Life's too short etc. I won't bang on about it.
I will, however, recommend jogging and philosophy.
That is, of course, if you aren't in love.

Here's the rub.

2009-01-27T15:43:00.004+10:00

I have just had a day to myself. My daughter has finally started school for the year, and I gave myself the day off before starting back myself.

I had coffee with good friends then took myself off for a much anticipated massage. I thought I'd choose something different in the spirit of transformation (my word for the year incidentally) and went for the 'Hot Rock' massage which involved warm rocks on chakras, a very nurturing massage involving said rocks, and the scents of vetiver and pettigrain and bergamot. There was even, at one stage, the sound of Tibetan chimes to 'breathe' in, and some Reiki.

I have noticed lately that I'm becoming sick of my tendency towards cynical stances. I'm tired of it. So, in the spirit once more, I shall just say that I felt extraordinarily relaxed and somehow opened up at the end of the session which lasted well into the second hour. So whether it was the rocks or the chimes or the Reiki or the rub matters not. The proof of the pudding is indeed in the eating, or in this case, in the feeling. I felt good and I don't give a rock why.

I'm booked in again next month.

Messing

2009-01-15T23:44:00.002+10:00

I'm messing with templates. Obvs.
I like rearranging furniture too. Can you tell?

Feastish things, and an admission.

2009-01-11T00:42:00.004+10:00

Just surfing around after a feastish night at a buffet on the Cairns Esplanade called 'Charlies'. 'Charlies' is one of those places you would never go unless your Swedish step-mother, who is in town sans your father, (and with a rather bright grand-daughter who is halfway through medical degree in tow) invites you there.

Three languages were spoken, many oysters eaten, and much women's business hashed over, from recipes to Pilates to my absent father's increasing girth. Apparently living back in Europe has prompted a not surprising return to drinking and proscuitto and other good stuffs, and really, why wouldn't it?

We also discussed jogging, and since I've now mentioned it, I will now have to admit to this year's resolution. Oh yes, really.

And since I've now admitted it, I suppose I shall have to keep you updated.
Oh, alright then, if I must.

Fortune, the gods, and Spanish crushes.

2009-01-08T12:20:00.004+10:00

And then . . . a new car!
Well, newish. White and sporty at that.
I pick her up today. She shall be named sometime soon. The last was called Silver. Hi ho and away. I have bequeathed Silver to my brother who will perform some sort of man's business on it, and resell it for a tidy profit.

Anyhow, what with the scholarship and the car, and managing Christmas without too much moroseness and no family arguments at all, I am growing a little anxious.
You know - it's all just going a bit too well to be comfortable.

There have been times in my life where it's been too easy to believe that the gods are gaming with me - 'HA, lets see what she does if we throw this at her!' Looking at misfortune like this gives a sense of perspective, fulfills hero fantasies and gives you something to rail against, to shake your fist at so to speak.
It's not illogical then, is it, when experiencing a run of good fortune, to be suspicious.
What are they planning?
Did someone hear a snicker just then?
I thought I heard a snicker.

In other news, I went to see 'Vicky Christina Barcelona' last week, and what was with that annoying Voice Over? I really would have preferred to gaze at Javier Bardem uninterrupted, thankyou v. much. In fact I could have done without the rest of the characters, and just watched Penelope Cruz and Bardem wandering the streets of the mucho guapa Barcelona, or painting/cooking/drinking/fighting etc in that covetable house with a fair lashing of sex scenes thrown in for good gratuituos measure.

Call me shallow. No, please, feel free.
They are both being sent to the list, along with Barcelona, the star of the show.

A New Year

2009-01-04T12:35:00.007+10:00

Cairns Lagoon

This morning I slept in till 8, such luxury. We were out late last night swimming in the lagoon (yes that's it pictured), right up until the life guard blew the whistle at 10pm. It was balmy and languid and every shade of tropical and included a sunset barbecue, and ice creams later in the evening.

While my daughter J slept on, I did some pilates stretches and finally, all the general hoopla of Christmas and New Year behind me, turned my mind towards the coming year, let it roll it's swanky red carpet right up to my toes.

You see I have good news. More than good news. Good news upon good news. First it was receiving great results for my Masters dissertation. Fantastique, no? Followed swiftly by an offer of a scholarship to do my PhD!

And for a creative thesis at that. A proposal which could hardly be more whimsical if it sprouted gossamer wings and flew.

Having delivered J for more swimming with the boy next door, I am sitting here letting the the full euphoric vision of what this will mean just wash over me.

Firstly, goodbye to fulltime work and hello to a part-time job, at a far better rate of pay too due to my new Masters status. And, wonder of wonders, a scholarship to do exactly what I love, that is, of course, reading and writing and setting my fancy free.

A celebration is imminent.

The last year was marked by its discipline. I chopped wood and carried water and thought of enlightenment. I spurned alcohol, coffee and all the naughtiest things for a fridge full of organics and my trusty juicer. I walked and stretched and climbed and swam and I am feeling very grateful to the person I was, the one who this time last year rang in the changes.

It was a year of mulling things over, of great nostalgic jags and long stretches of night-time sat before the screen conjuring up my dissertation. I ate in, and filled any spare time with more and more reading. Friends knew where I'd gone, though I imagine they wondered if they'd lost me forever to the page.

Perhaps I am lost to the page but it's always just for now, isn't it?

Ten years ago, I was touring endlessly (and childlessly) with a band, shacked up, when we weren't on the road, in a cottage in Richmond (Melbourne, that is) with lavender at the front gate and music spilling out of its crooked little windows day and night. Every night I would head out in my boots, with my guitar case slung over my shoulder to some gig or another to sing out my heart, to drink red wine or Guinness, to eat, to listen to music, and then late late homecomings, and the crackle of winter and the changing of guitar strings and Portishead and Tom Waits and Van Morrison's Astral Weeks on the stereo, and risotto on the stove, and white cotton sheets, and he of the pale skin and the long fingers and the darkest of deep pools inside.

Sometimes I think of strolling up that street again, pushing open the gate, crushing the lavender again between my fingers and bringing it up to my nose as I walk to the front door. I miss the familiar weight of my guitar on my back. I don't carry it anywhere anymore. It stays where it is, and I pick it up to play.

So, now, I am in thrall to the page, to words.

Everything changes.

To the New Year then. From here it looks like a blue sky, a forever sky.

I'll enjoy forever while it lasts.

Late night whimsy

2008-12-12T00:04:00.003+10:00

It's midnight. Wide awake and thinking.
Still ruminating on the transformation thing.
I realise this is a current bugbear, a bee in my beret, a splinter in the big toe of my life. I believe I have become a little complacent about certain things, become a bit of a hermit this last year.
Change is required but what?

How about a list then.

-spontaneity
-whimsy
-fancy

Well, yes those three are obvious.

-fun
-frippery
-frolicsome things

Those too.

-moonlight and stargazing.

Now we're getting somewhere.

-music: where ya been?

oh yeah. live.

-wining
-dining . . . . .

-love

Someone light a cigar I think she's got it.
Well whaddya know. That old nugget.

Who'da guessed?

Listing

2008-12-10T11:31:00.005+10:00

Having just read through the last few posts, I feel a burst of happy-go-lucky is required.
Let's see.
(a list)

1. My tax refund enters my bank account on friday - woohoo!

2. I am in a position to replace my current car with something more a. comfortable, b. reliable, c. economical.

3. Change is something that can be relied upon.

4. I'm waiting on news which could be very good.

5. Results for my dissertation have arrived and could not be better.

6. After a character-building year, my character is an edifice.

7. Plans are afoot for a day at the spa.

There, that feels better.
Call me Pollyanna.

Quiet desperation

2008-12-10T11:15:00.007+10:00

I am in need of a change. A big one.

In lieu of a holiday that is. Apparently it's as good as.

I am being rendered uninteresting by the immense structure of my days.

My strategy, you see, for motherhood, until now, has been routines, routines, routines. This was a necessary adjustment from my previous life as a fancy-free, responsibility-phobic night owl musician. The pendulum has swung entirely the other way, and seems to be stuck.

I have now become an early riser whose day is charted weeks before it dawns.

Holy sh*t, you can see my problem.

Where is the middle ground?

I have always been a touch extreme, I admit.

New year's resolutions are thus formulating.

Dreaming of a . . .

2008-12-02T09:06:00.003+10:00

I confess to an inner humbug when it comes to Christmas. Back in the fargone glory days of childfree wandering, I tended to ignore this celebration if I could, usually working on the day (music) thereby ensuring a provided lunch, money in the pocket, and another Christmas side-stepped. I don't know what it is - well I do, but I won't go into it here. Suffice to say, it's not my favourite time of year.

Now with an eight year old child, the humbug is kept on a tight leash as I do my best to make her experience magical. And despite myself, I have, in the last few years, quite enjoyed it too. Wonders never ceasing etc.

Last night we put up the tree and decorated, and then had the switching on of the lights which we toasted with lime sodas clinking with loads of ice. And it occurred to me that what I'd REALLY like is a white Christmas.
Next year.

My father now lives in Europe. Don't know why I didn't think of it before.
Now there's something that would wipe the smirk off this humbug's face.

Transformation

2008-11-12T10:17:00.008+10:00

I'm thinking about transformations. Something I'm fascinated with; the human capacity to transform. The drunks who get sober, the large who shrink themselves, the slobs who get fit, the dowdy who scrub up into swans, the houses groaning with junk which, decluttered, become places of solace.

It is that last one that I'm preoccupied with at present. My home, while not groaning with junk, is grumbling a bit at the quantity of books I have encouraged it to swallow over the six years I've been here. I just keep buying book shelves at garage sales to accommodate the screeds of words that it is my compulsion to consume.

The problem is that there has never been a plan as to the placing of these shelves, or the ordering of the books. I now have shelves everywhere and anywhere they'll fit, filled with books in the order they were bought, or read. A few months ago I bought a very large, and much needed old wooden shelf at a garage sale, which had been converted from a cupboard, and as I stood gazing in satisfaction at it, smug with the knowledge that the latest piles would now have a home, the owner said, 'and I'll throw in the books too, if you like.' How could I resist? There was Le Petit Prince, various guide books to Paris, and novels by Dickens, Miller and of course E.

So, you see. I have a problem. And this is only part of it.

I am in the midst of transformation of a kind. The spaces of my house are being rearranged according to the type of things we (my daughter and I) are working on at present. She is doing a lot of dance practice, and so therefore needs uncluttered space in which to do this, while I am spending a lot of time at the computer and (quelle surprise!) reading.

I am shrinking down the art area, which consists of a long table atop which are gathered an easel, tubes of paint and a variety of paintbrushes, a stack of w/colour paper at the ready and our art diaries (mine and hers). Next to it against the wall are frames, sketches and works in progress. This all takes up a considerable amount of space and neither of us has spent much time there in the last 6 months so, it goes. To make way for her dancing, and perhaps another book shelf. It won't disappear altogether, and will be accessible but it will be put away to make way for the new, the people we have become.

As for the many musical instruments that we have hanging around: the piano, 2 guitars, a violin, a djembe drum, a ukelele, various percussion and an antique piano accordian, these will be worked around. You never know when the urge may take you.

So, for the next few months, the Christmas season, in fact, I will be preoccupied with cataloguing, with space, with the question of who I am now as opposed to who I was last year. All in preparation for New Year's when I shall begin the wishing. Dreaming of the who I'd like to be this year.

You know me, I like a good wish. It's the way all tranformation begins.

What I missed Vince for.

2008-11-09T22:57:00.003+10:00

Have just been out of town, accompanying my daughter to a Ballroom dance competition. She (only 8) had a great time and took out a few trophies too, slick little hip swinging chacha sweetheart that she is, but, as for me, her highly strung, bookish, grave-wandering maman, I fear I haven't the heart, or indeed the claws, for the competiton that plays out around the edges of the floor.

Oh, E. I'd rather run with the bulls in Pamplona.

Summer

2008-11-02T15:55:00.006+10:00

It's starting to heat up. Summer is bearing down and I, as ever, am not really prepared. Not ready for the clouds of mosquitoes and the profusion in the garden which will grow wild through the wet if I let it. Not ready for the humidity and the endless hours of light, or for the approaching hysteria that is the commercial side of Christmas.

I do look forward to the sunsets, though, the intensity of the colours at this time of year. I wish for some good storms too. We'll put up our feet on the patio and watch the lightening claw across the sky, shout over the rain that 'IT'S REALLY CLOSE!' as the thunder claps overhead.

I look forward to putting the cotton net up over my bed, and crawling into my own little world at night, just like I did as a child. Then, the summers brought fireflies too. Lying in bed after lights out I would gaze enraptured at these magical little creatures as sleep drooped my eyelids and the fans whirred.
Everything was a possibility.

The heat just seems hotter now than it did then. There's not as much magic hanging in the air.

Que sera, it's not all gloom.
There is champagne, after all.

A Reminiscence.

2008-11-01T23:05:00.009+10:00

Watching the SBS classic albums doco on The Doors tonight put me in mind of the autumn I was in Paris. It was the nineties, I was very young and, mais oui, I was indeed in love. The day we, mon cher and I, strolled arm in arm around Pere L'Achaise cemetary was windswept and suitably spooky. Cold too, after a summer in the south of Spain. I wore red gloves. My hair was rich with Moroccan henna. I had eaten brioche and bananas for breakfast. Dead leaves fell all around. He took my photo as I stood breathless at the grave of Oscar Wilde, where someone had laid a single red rose.

We followed the trail of graffiti to Jim Morrison's grave, heard him before we saw it. A group of people were gathered around, the Doors were playing on an old tapedeck and the grave was a mound of flowers. Candles and incense burned, joints were passed around. Someone stood and read some of Morrison's poetry, quiet and reverential at the head of the grave while we lay about and got high, and the leaves scudded and the clouds rolled by and the crows cawed in reverence to the Lizard King.

I wandered off then, and found Piaf. No hoopla there. Standing before her headstone, I thought about regret. Young and in love, I found I had none. Now, years later, I wonder at the girl I was.

My friend, J, she of the Hemingway story, has also visited Jim. J likes to write her poetry on toilet doors. On the door of the toilet at Pere L'Achaise, J wrote (one poet to another):

'Poor old Jim, you're better off dead

You've got a bunch of hippies sitting on your head.'

She has a certain turn of phrase, oui?

To Paris.

Horns

2008-10-30T22:38:00.009+10:00

Good glory, I've gone all green. Some sort of bug surely, you say.

No, in fact, its all in honour of envy. Vince Jones is hitting town next weekend and I"m heading out. Yes, that's right, I'll be out of town that weekend so I won't be there. Thus the envy.

I love the trumpet. If you're not with me on this then go listen to Chet Baker's version of 'My Funny Valentine'. That's him up there.

Go on.

Oh alright, then, here: http://www.last.fm/music/Chet+Baker

All a-quiver girls?

Now, go buy a ticket to Vince. You'll love me for it.

E.

2008-10-30T22:14:00.005+10:00

Here's something muscular.

My friend was here recently from Out-of-Town and while admiring my ancient Remington on my great-grandmother's wooden table in its very own pride-of-place with a bentwood chair at the ready, she (who has been to E. Hemingway's house) said 'it looks just like his writing table'. 'Oh except there was no chair. Apparently he wrote standing up.'

Oh.

All drinking, all shooting, all fishing, up standing, all pacing man -o-man.

Lets raise our glasses, shall we?

dissing

2008-10-16T23:12:00.004+10:00

Today, I express-posted my dissertation (Masters) to its final resting place. I am about to have some more letters after my name in exchange.

Fancy.

I now assume that I will post more often than the blue moon shows its face.

And if I had a face like that, why wouldn't I?

Weekend trivialities.

2008-08-31T23:05:00.004+10:00

This is turning into a crush blog, a list of sweethearts, a wish.
I have actually been doing things other than swooning, you know.
This for example: watching the complete first and second series of 'Entourage' which I should hate but, in fact, love. It's snappy and smart and damn funny.

And just yesterday I made Pho, Vietnamese beef noodle soup. A charming and comforting TV companion when watching the aforementioned series.

The Pho followed an admirable number of laps at the local (heated) pool, and the laps followed a chai ritual with a friend at The Edge cafe.

All in all, a good weekend. And it's not over either, I have tomorrow off.

-smiles smugly-

And, yes, alright, HBO enters the list.

The Tempest.

2008-08-22T09:07:00.010+10:00

I went to see Tropical Arts' production of The Tempest last week. I lay on the grass of 'The Tanks' amphitheatre wrapped in blankets while the full moon rose directly overhead and watched Shakespeare in the tropics.

Hey, no-one said it would be easy.

Directed by Avril Duck and Kevin West, it was an atmospheric interpretation, albeit with a few flat moments. Andy Bramble was the standout for me, in the role of Trinculo. I see he's the kind of actor who loves the audience to love him.
So I did.

Warren Clements treated us to a didge-wielding Caliban, and delivered his lines resoundingly in his Tjapukai accent, resulting in an authentic portrayal, resonant, as it should be, with colonialist tensions.

Laila Thaker, as Ariel, was shimmery and flighty, powerfully will-o-the-wisp. I wondered how on earth John Lipscomb's Prospero had ever captured her in the first place.

Sarah Urquhart gave us a few good laughs as the drunken Stephano, and an extra snicker at the reversal of the tradition, of Shakespeare's day, of men taking women's roles.

I would have liked to have seen more from Jim Hill who's (brief) turn as the Boatswain was really rather good.

I shall be present at their next shindig.

Oh, and Mr Bramble earns himself a place on the list.

Crush.

2008-06-17T09:29:00.002+10:00

It has come to my attention that Hugh Laurie is a piano player. He thereby enters my Crush list. Forthwith.
OOh la!

Food and Other Pursuits; a revelation at Cafe China.

2008-05-26T10:57:00.005+10:00

I love noodles. Slurping up a good noodle soup fragrant with chilli and coriander is, for me, the ultimate in comfort eating. At home I keep the pantry well-stocked with noodles, fish sauce and chilli in various forms and lovely fiery orange chilli oil, for those occasions where comfort is required (rather often in our house). My garden is dotted with chilli bushes too.

So, what to do when chilli has become forbidden (and therefore, by the way, taken on a more seductive and alluring charm).

I skipped into Cafe China the other day with an eating companion who, it must be said, has a charm not unlike the aforementioned chillis, that is seductive and alluring, though not, I believe, forbidden. But wait, I digress.

Being a woman of her word (yes, the change of diet), I ordered a chicken soup; noodles, chicken, vegetables and herbs in a clear soup and walked determinedly past the chilli. We sat in the front of the restaurant in order to watch the passing traffic but frankly my eyes didn't stray much beyond S__'s and even the soup didn't have much of a chance of competing, fragrant though it was, and not without it's attributes. You see, if I'd scattered the chilli generously, as I normally do, this soup would have been irrisistible, but as it was, my heart wasn't really in it. I had ordered a small bowl. Dear reader, I didn't finish it.

This is not wholly the fault of the soup. After all, not it's fault that I didn't dress it properly. There was a problem though. As per usual the stock was delightful, the vegetables fresh, and the noodles emminently slurpable but the chicken, bite after bite, was gristly and inedible. Cafe China has been a favourite comfort stop of mine for years, so this one problem will not deter me from their table but it was disappointing.

The other portion of fault is to be found within myself. As I gazed at S___ and disregarded the soup, I realised that, with the change of diet, has perhaps, come a change of focus. Are my attentions wandering from food to other pursuits?
Comme ci, comme ca. I'll go where the capricious wind blows.

Confessions

2008-05-19T09:54:00.004+10:00

Confession No. 1: I have developed a condition (alright,alright - chronic reflux, happy now?) that requires a change of diet. Yes, I know there are pills for such things but I am the type to tackle things head-on and have decided on the most drastic (and rather tragic) course of action, which is of course a change of diet. Italics don't seem quite ominous enough here. How about A change of diet! or maybe A CHANGE OF DIET! No wait, let's just go the whole hog:

A CHANGE OF DIET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There, that's better.
This means no coffee, alcohol, fatty foods, spicy foods. All the good stuff, right?

*cries*

Confession No 2: As a result of confession no. 1, this restaurant review blog is no longer that which it was.

Once started though, I couldn't just abandon it, poor waif blog floating around in space waiting for a paragraph or two, a sentence, even a word from it's creator.

Hmmm.
Well, I shall start with the Health Food shops, and there's Japanese, right? Salads, though not Caesar, obviously, and um, you know, clear broths and the like. Brodo, consomme, lovely.
In place of wine there's, well there's water isn't there?

*sighs*

In the meantime, I'll rant and rave and ruminate. Can't leave the poor blog floating out there now, can I?

To market, to market.

2008-05-17T07:25:00.001+10:00

Saturday mornings, I do my fruit and veg shopping at Rusty's markets in Grafton Street. This morning, I woke with my head still full of the weeks work, then the delightful realisation washed over me that it was, in fact, Saturday morning and I was filled with a lovely yellowness. (A result of my synasthesia; Saturdays are always yellow. They just are.)
First up a freshly ground coffee at home while I indulge in the no-work-today feeling. I usually wander down to the corner to buy the Weekend Australian and, I have to admit it, dive straight for the Review and the latest books, books, books, while my daughter munches on her cereal and skips around in various stages of dress-up in preparation for her dance class.
When she's ready, and there's really no rush, we head out, she to her twirling and flourishing and me to mine. I take the longest time wandering the rows of fresh produce, discerning this week's best, and often stop for breakfast, in the form of a vegetable samosa from the Hare Krisna stall, or less often, sticky rice wrapped in banana leaf from one or other of the Asian stalls. I buy coffee beans first from Coffeeworks, the Cosmic blend is my current favourite, and usually linger a bit just, you know, smelling.
Then, onto the fruit and veg, fresh herbs, and finally flowers (heliconias, huge bunches of them). Thus loaded, it's back to the car and home with my plunder, the car fragrant, the day stretching ahead, what to do for dinner on my mind, and all at peace and as it should be.
I could almost compose a poem. In Praise of Saturdays.
Almost.

Better late than never at all.

2008-05-15T12:35:00.000+10:00

I'm back. Changes are afoot. Winter is almost upon us and I, finally, am back at the blogface so to speak, so to write, so to ramble and rant and wistfully dream.
Today, a mess around with templates and fonts, tomorrow the world.
And not too soon, either.
Until tomorrow, then.

See You Soon.

2007-12-29T14:03:00.000+10:00

Sweet Madelaine is on unexpected hiatus, due to return in early February.

Christmas looms. Tra la.

2007-11-26T11:03:00.000+10:00

Hello, friends - woeful news, I have not been out to dinner in the past week. What with a sick child, extra work and putting up the Christmas tree and lights (yes I know it's early but she is seven and sick and has somehow learnt the lash-fluttering thing already), I haven't had the opportunity. Oh, and regarding the lights, they are clear and static fairy lights, one set curlicued over and around our front patio. I can't abide these flashing mismatched conglomerations we see every year yet my daughter adores them. The fairy lights are a compromise. I won't budge further on this.

So, no review this week, though, as always, I am preoccupied with food, in this case, what to do for Christmas. We celebrate on Christmas Eve in the European style, thus leaving Christmas day free for swimming, lounging and all things hedonistic, with the responsibility of feeding the hordes happily met. We feast on leftovers, drink champagne and laugh a lot while the children splash around. Happy days.

The food then. Well, there will be ham (usually baked with some sort of glaze and served not hot but warmish), there will of course be seafood, and there will not be turkey but yes, chicken. I'm not sure exactly how I will do these things as yet but am whimsically considering paella at present. I will possibly be shouted down on this one. All of this, of course, gives me the excuse to troll through my rather extensive collection of cookbooks, something I can happily spend hours doing.

Amidst all this I shall venture out and dine, a new review the purpose. Here's to expectations being met.

Salut.

The Cairns Yacht Club - 2 Stars

2007-11-19T09:04:00.000+10:00

I had friends staying this week, with their baby and 4 year old, so when Friday rolled around and the subject of dinner arose, I suggested fish and chips at the Cairns Yacht Club. This has always been reliably good after a day on the water, or indeed any sort of day that will benefit, at sunset, from a cool drink on a deck overlooking water, the promise of fried fish, done well, and the company of good friends.

The Yacht Club's days are numbered. It hunkers on the waterfront like an old pirate surrounded by slick new upstarts, landlubbers one and all, awaiting its demise. Previously known as The Aquatic Club, it is a little bit of old Cairns and should be savoured before it goes. It puts me in mind of the
old Port Douglas of my childhood where time was something long and stretched out, and no-one had heard of 'resort wear', instead, barefoot yachtees and fishermen mixed with the locals and the occasional celebrity, all saronged, all foolishly tanned, oh, but I digress . . . and childhood memories are notoriously rose-tinted, are they not?

Who, though, does not include fish and chips after a day at the beach in their own rosy collection?

So, we ordered, fish and chips all, excepting L who wanted vegetables instead of salad, paying $3 extra for them. A good table was claimed, the children ran down to frolic on the beach and we adults sipped our drinks and relaxed, anticipating a convivial evening.
Then the food arrived.

L: Oh, I ordered vegetables with mine.

Sullen waitress: No, we always serve salad with the fish.

L: Nevertheless, I ordered vegetables with mine.

Sullen waitress: No, well, you would have had to pay extra for them.

L: I did pay extra for them.

SW then snatches up plate and stomps off.
Five minutes later, SW stomps back, slams down plate and stomps off again.
As you can imagine, we were charmed.

Yes, the fish was good but, hell, it wasn't that good.
If you do decide to eat here, I recommend a bracing drink on the deck before ordering. Music from JD Worthington sweetens the atmosphere somewhat so perhaps just stop right there at the drinks and look elsewhere for your supper.

2 Stars. (One each for the fish and the music).

The Cairns Yacht club is located on the waterfront opposite the Reef Hotel Casino and is open every night. For Barramundi and chips with salad, you'll shell out $17.95 ($3 extra for the vegetables).

Ratatouille

2007-11-13T09:38:00.001+10:00

Always, when watching a movie, I find myself identifying with one or another of the characters. Last week I took my daughter to see 'Ratatouille', and my heart fled out to the character of the critic, Anton Ego, voiced beautifully by the divine Peter O'Toole. This pitiful man, grown skeletal from the lack of anything good to eat, and hardened and cynical from the death of his hopes and dreams of fine food is finally served up a meal that satisfies.

The little rat chef, who's name I have forgotten, decides to cook ratatouille, and as Anton takes his first bite he is plummeted back to a childhood memory where, running in from the fields of Provence, his mother serves him just such a dish.

I am ashamed to admit, dear reader, that tears sprung to my eyes and I was a mess for the rest of the film. Is this not why we love food? The way it can transport us to the happiest of moments, evoke the exotic, prise open the doors of our heart when nothing else can.

Oh hang on, there is music, of course.

This puts me in mind of a new list. My ten all time favourite meals, perhaps.
But for now, work.

Salut, and good eating to you all.

Engaging the Senses

2007-11-08T09:40:00.000+10:00

In order for a dining experience to be memorable, all of the senses must be engaged. How often, for example have you been out at table, perusing a menu full of promise, only to be accosted with the very worst of top forty music blasting through a speaker which just happens to be directly overhead? Or, happily sated, your empty plates remain on the table while the one waiter rushes back and forth past you in a frenzy of overwork? Or, the service is perfectly efficient and the view of the ocean sublime yet when your salmon arrives it is curled up and dry with overcooking?

Too many times, no?

This does not mean that sublime food and friendly staff can not override the fact of a view of a car park, or that music can't be loud (as long as it's good) in that funky little cafe that serves authentic tapas (this means small, small plates, people, of something tasty and fresh) or that an order-at-the-counter-and-wait-until-your-number-is-called noodle bar can't make the Top Ten.

However, generally speaking, environment, staff, music and menu should work together, each element complementing the other to transport the diner, to stimulate, beguile and satisfy so that we come back again and again, tip generously, spread the word, feel a little lighter in this too short experience that is life.

Do I expect too much?

Here's to grand expectations, then.

Salut!

Fusion Organics - 4 Stars

2007-11-05T09:28:00.000+10:00

Last Wednesday, after a long couple of hours mooching around the streets of Cairns ostensibly running errands and paying bills, in the sort of weather that could be described as sultry, nay positively exotic, I walked into the cheery bustle that is Fusion Organics, and was so impressed by the brisk to-ing and fro-ing of the staff that I decided not only on coffee but lunch as well.

I ordered from a menu brimful of the sort of conscience-salving food we all know we should be eating all the time. My choice was a cheese and salad wrap with their home-made mayonnaise and a cappuccino. Simple yet exactly, when it swiftly appeared, what my taste-buds were anticipating. The coffee was good too - Genovese, hot and strong. I took away with me a piece of their most popular cake - a hazelnut torte, which, when I savoured it, was sweet and nutty with a slight meringue style crust - chewy perfection.

The menu promises fresh healthy food, a fusion of organic and other quality produce, and caters to vegetarians, people with allergies (gluten-free, dairy-free etc) and meat-eaters alike. I highly recommend it, particularly for those 'body is a temple ' days when one is feeling rather wholesome and angelic, or indeed for the day after a night of the most devilish of excesses.

Fusion Organics is located on the corner of Grafton and Aplin Streets, Cairns, and is open 9am to 5pm everyday excepting Sundays. A quick look at their website brings the happy news that they will be opening their doors at night from April next year.

Go there. Eat.
Bon Appetit.

To Freaks and Marvels.

2007-11-01T10:49:00.000+10:00

After an enthusiastic start here, I succumbed to the flu, then gave myself a dose of food poisoning. It was a chorizo bought from a local supermarket and yes, I should know better. On the other hand, while one expects that meat from a supermarket, as opposed to a quality butcher, will be below par, one does not expect to spend the night after eating said sausage curled in the foetal position on the toilet floor awaiting the next poisonous expulsion.

I did, however, manage to attend the Yungaburra Festival last weekend and can report that:

1. Mocha's pies are no longer distinctively 'mocha' as I remember them to be from my days in Port Douglas. These pies were so uniquely themselves that after moving to Sydney I found myself walking down a city street one day when that familiar mocha smell stopped me in my tracks. 'Mocha!' I thought, adrift suddenly in balmy, blue, pie-munching memories
and, astonished, looked around to find (gasp) a Mocha's right there before me. 'Oh dear', I remember thinking (rather selfishly I suppose) at the time, 'does this mean a franchise?'
I had all but forgotten these pies of my youth until I spied their stall at Yungaburra. The familiar aroma was suspiciously not there but I bought one for old time's sake, and I'm here to tell you friends, that, though as pies go it was quite passable, it was most certainly not the mocha taste of old.

2. Praise be to Lord Krisna. The feast plate from our lovely jingly friends in orange was the highlight of the weekend, and their lemon ginger cooler was a delightful salve for the slight queasiness that always accompanies the second morning of a festival.

And as for the music, I hereby crown Mal Webb, King of the weekend. This man is a veritable freak, a monster, a maestro, funky and geeky all at once.
Rather delicious all around, really.
You may have caught him on 'Spicks and Specks' of late, you may have heard his musical craftiness on 'The Lano and Woodley Show' or you may google him up and catch him where you can.

Other kudos go to the Space Cowboy who did scary things with swords and neon lights and has my daughter hanging round the cutlery drawer earnestly trying to bend spoons.
Thank you, oh bewinged, pierced and implanted one, for recalling the days of Carnivales , and the Wonders and Marvels therein.

All for now.
Bon appetit.

A packed lunch.

2007-10-25T10:09:00.000+10:00

If Paris is a moveable feast then Cairns is a packed lunch on the esplanade, albeit with mangos. Tamarinds shall fall at our feet and there will be kite flying.

Bon Appetit!

2007-10-24T09:31:00.000+10:00

Welcome fellow lovers of fine food. I live in Cairns, North Queensland, and it has long been a bug bear of mine that my beloved town is a bit hit and miss when it comes to the high art of the cooking and purveying of food (and all the attendant fun and frippery). I therefore vow to do my humble best to give you a guide to all that is good, and indeed all that is woeful in this city and the surrounding gloriousness that is North Queensland.

So, to all ye who wield a knife and wear the checked pants of that noble profession, beware, Sweet Madelaine is at large. To all ye waiters, best ye wear a smile (and get ye the drinks to the table on time), I am hungry, and I carry a pen.

Reviews will be posted on Sundays. All questions and comments will be answered.