something kept hidden

Just for now, goodbye

2010-11-10T19:32:00.000-08:00

When one must set one's alarm clock for 10:30pm, to be at the bus stop by 11:00pm, to be at work by 11:45pm for 10 hours, one must consider the amount of time willing to be spent taking the global-trot in search of food, adventure and the likes.

Consideration taken.

I am on a little work adventure in the great southern land of Australia for three months and am sad and sorry to say that I will temporarily be away from here for the majority of that time. This is the longest I've actively not involved myself on here, whether it be writing, researching or sorting through photo's.

I've barely had time to sit down and have a conversation with my husband since starting work a week ago, so in honor of time spent well, I'm going to have a fiesta from writing and come back for a radical new year, next year.

Please come back, it will make you smile.

Never under estimate the power of hunger

2010-10-23T15:29:00.000-07:00

Our last night on the California coast consisted of me having the biggest, blood boiling, emotional episode to date. I kind of forgot about it until I was looking back at photos of our fish taco's, realizing the possibility of me having a brain aneurysm was actually quiet great.

Yes it was a combination of things, but I'd like to hold California responsible for the most part. There truly are too many people. I'm thinking a bucket of half dead mullet, all jammed in there, splashing about, water slowly leaving that plastic, blue vessel and not really caring if they're in each others faces, since they're all about to die anyway.

Harsh.

So the fish, this is the fish we bought from a little market in Hellsville, California. Some snapper, waiting to be gobbled up. Hoping to be floured, cooked and eaten that very night, it was not, due to the high-end emotional experience.

So here we are, a glorious night in Joshua Tree, some canned goods, such as beans and salsa, fresh fish and broken corn taco's.

This last photograph is one of my favorites. We tried four more times to take a variety of shots similar, but failed.

This was a one off.

It was also our first and last night at Joshua Tree. The next morning we went for a hike, where the rattle snakes and tarantulas hide out, imagining that these highly frightening creatures would be the one's to have me screaming naked out of the park. No, this did not happen. The next morning after our walk, we arrived back at camp to a colony of bee's.

Whatever species they were, they either wanted us gone or were clinging frantically to our cloths and bodies begging for us to stay. I was unsure.

These are the creatures that had me screaming almost naked out of Joshua Tree. I screamed and I screamed and I screamed.

You know what I screamed?

"THEY'RE FUCKING EVERYWHERE ... AAHHHHH... FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK..
AAAHHHH...GLEEEEEENN..DO SOMETHING.

This was being screamed over and over while Glenn threw camping items toward me to put in the car, while spraying himself with mosquito repellent and waving a single dinner fork around, presumably at the bee's.

Eventually we got out of there, taking four days for us to put our car back together, after having to throw everything in there in the middle of the bee storm.

Somehow, I'm gathering before it got to the point of screams and sobbing pleas, I managed to make a mushroom omelette for breakfast.

Three words to remember while shopping in a Mexican grocery.

2010-10-23T13:50:00.000-07:00

If you took a sticky, (where I come from, that's derived from 'sticky beak', meaning, 'to take a look') at my last post, at a grocery outside of L.A., you would have hopefully drooled over the taco's and more than likely been able to smell them through the photo's.

If you did not have a sticky, you should have one.

After we were able to drag ourselves away from the man with all the good food, we rolled into the market.

JAX.

JAX MARKET.

This is what I found.

If I wasn't so bashful and knew more Spanish, I may have had some scary and amusing photo's of the meat section.

So here you go.

I wonder, if I searched really hard, would I be able to find one of these in Australia?

Possibility. Imagination. Celebration.

Global Street Food Day

2010-10-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

Before you drool all over the photo's I'm about to show you, you need to know a little of where this place is and of course how we came about it.

The story, ever so briefly, goes like this.

Needing to get the hell out of California, well, the coast at least, we decided to spend the most part of a 111 degree day driving toward Palm Springs, where we would spend one night camping than hit Joshua Tree the following day. To do this, we needed to drive along a five lane highway in what you would still call the L.A. area. Hoping that we could get away with not driving too far into the world of mad, we were happy that it was a Sunday and that hopefully most people would still be at church and not adding to my irregular heart rhythm that I had developed since entering Southern California. The only thing I could compare it to was skydiving, only way worse.

We're now heading East and hunger is adding fast and furious to our already naughty attitudes. Of course we see an endless amount of evil and destructive signs for food not worth mentioning, somehow holding back the tears and turning to our instinct of where to eat. We are too far to wait until Palm Springs, where we could set up camp and cook something and we're still on a five lane highway with billboards towering above posting wanted adds for rapists and murderers. The only thing left to do was dive right into one of these highway neighbourhoods and hope for the best. We were approaching a place called Ontario. There was a 4th street exit coming up so we took that for no other reason than desperation.

We turned a few corners and made it to a main road where we saw JAX MARKET, with a mass construction site out the front, obviously making room for more parking spaces since people seem to feel the need to drive cars twice as wide as your every day Subaru.

At this point we thought JAX was nothing more than your just-off-the-highway-super store. Here we thought we could grab a roast chicken or something and ravage it with salt and pepper while adding to our heat stroke in the car park. We were very wrong. JAX was a Mexican grocery filled with enough glorious fascinations to keep us in there for about an hour.

This hour that we spent inside, this did not include the half an hour we sat out the front ordering and re-ordering the tastiest morsels of tacos I've put in my mouth. You must know that although I've never been to Mexico, Glenn has many, many times and he vouches on behalf of my hopes that the real deal tacos in Me-he-co are going to be just as spasmodically awesome.

They were tiny and perfect. I also do not speak a lick of Spanish, so delirious smiles and food smudged all over my burning cheeks while giving him the thumbs up was the only way I knew how to thank the man of the hour. To be honest, it's not that he didn't care, but his nervous glances toward me out the corner of his eye and his unruffled thick, black moe said nothing more than "Get stuffed lady gringo".

Of course it wasn't just about the food. Look where we were; in a car park, 112 degrees by now and a shopping trolley with a plastic tub filled with chicken and steak sitting i the under rack. (Separately) A bulk amount of napkins and salt on the table and crowds of people waiting to pay a mere $1 for a handful of corn taco, meat, lettuce, onion, and three kinds of hot, hot sauces.

Home cooking on whatever street you turn down. Why is this not yet a global holiday?

Green and grateful

2010-10-09T17:54:00.000-07:00

Spending the night in our tent on warm sand, the sound of waves making a commotion, cooking and sleeping with one blanket lightly fallen over me; today, that night still makes me smile. After being in pine forest, after mountainous national park, after another, the simplicity of being near the ocean had me pulling my pants up daring myself to get my legs nice and icy. This is where I discovered 'sand dollars'. The first time I picked one up, not knowing how fragile they were, I dropped it and it broke. I was sad; for about ten seconds when I realized that the beach was filled with these wonderful gems I never knew existed. Very cool. These I will try to smuggle back to Australia.

After happily leaving the sterile and upper something world of the South Bay (Santa Cruz and beyond), we hazily drove down the Big Sur Coast dreaming, and only dreaming, of setting up camp somewhere along the wild and rocky shores that it waved in front of us. As you would know if you've ever ventured down that way, it is limited unless you have some nice secret spots down your pants that you wouldn't dare share with anyone, which I can fully appreciate.

On we drove, keeping our eyes open for the spot which would be our second last night camping in a California State Park. Yes, we did find one that would probably be written up in Tent Camping; Secret spots that you will probably never get to camp in because you were too late arriving.

So we drove on.

Then, around the bend, balding hills, at the foot of those balding hills, a little beach town. The last American beach town. A TOWN. No resorts, no manicured palms, no high rises. I hope it stays that way.

The town, Cayucos, California.

Not far north of Cayucos, we watched fat Elephant Seals on the beach. They were fasting for their journey out to sea for the winter.

Out from our camp ground, which was a car park with grassy and sandy patches, we watched wales breaching. Serious whale behaviour going on. Spouting water and everything.

On the other side of the highway, on fields of lush, thick grass, there were elk. Elk. I know they weren't running wild, but still, my first elk sighting.

Just one more. On the back from fetching provisions of local avo's and home made spicy sausage, we watched a school of dolphins having a mighty fine time. Just a big stones throw away from the shore. They were happy we were there

As you would imagine, we were pretty hyped up about our first beach camping opportunity. Even having neighbours so close that you could here them crack a beer wasn't worrying us. In celebratory spirits, Glenn made his very green and grateful guacamole. We drank beer and worried about nothing.

And that, is all you really need to do when you're camping at the beach after driving a long, winding road.

A little under note: Flying across the sky in that last photo, pelicans. There were long lines of pelicans just before the sun went down, giving us one last show before bedtime.

I take my chopsticks everywhere

2010-10-07T12:41:00.000-07:00

After driving for a very long time, through the desert, around lakes, between mountains and finally over rolling boulders and tall, dense pine Forest's, you really begin to crave a big bowl of spicy soup. In which case, we dined on green curry with bokchoy, tofu and rice noodles, very high up in Yosemite NP.

This was the night I wore 18 items of clothing to bed. I couldn't move but the idea of waking up with icy cold bum cheeks was not going to be an option in our cozy tent.

We had been camping for only about a week, but my fear of bears coming into our campsite and mauling us while we slept was slowly subsiding, therefore, in my mind, I had a little more freedom to be uncomfortable in other ways. Like not being a to move and having your husband roll you into bed.

When camping at over 9000 feet and you're too stingy to spend $300 on a sleeping bag that will in fact keep you warm, just use a silly amount chili in your curry and drink red wine to warm you up.

Though, in my defence, and I guess also my ignorance, I didn't think we would be 'cold camping'. Up until three days prior, I thought we would be lounging be the sea and cooking up fresh fish every night.

So there you go. Be prepared, but don't stop day dreaming.

Yellow and Blue

2010-10-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

This drive across the Diablo Ranges reminded me of where I am from, only with larger hills and more road rage. The colors are home to me.

When I look back at these photo's my head goes to and fro remembering what a roller coaster ride the drive was.

Very yellow. Very blue.

The Dirt on California

2010-10-07T11:26:00.000-07:00

Have you ever driven down a road, just cruising, on your way somewhere for whatever reason, and the air is filled with the smell of strawberry fields? Well, if you haven't, think about how sensational the smell is when you're at the market and you pick up a punnet of strawberries and put your face down close and ssssssssnnnniffffffff.

That is how the air smelled driving through Los Banos, the west side of the San Joaquin Valley and east of the Diablo Ranges, all the way to the Monterey Bay coast area.

Oh, the smell of cauliflower, a vegi I rarely give the time of day.Who would have thought. I won't tell you what Glenn thought he was smelling.

Lettuce. LETTUCE. Everywhere I was seeing lettuce. I had a mix of hungry belly and happy heart. I wanted to stop the car and go roll around in the rich, warm dirt. The fields were were endless. On both sides of the road. They were whizzing past me so fast I couldn't keep up my own excitement.

Food. THIS IS FOOD. NOT IN A STORE. THERE IS DIRT. WATER. WARM AIR.

People selling their produce next to the fields they plucked it from. We have food as our language. That is all we need because we have the same intentions.

It is simple, just so simple. When I get caught up in life in a busy world, I need to think what is important to me so I can come back to reality. Food is important to me. Nourishment. Cooking. This is my reality, wherever I am in the world.

Time to eat

2010-10-03T13:35:00.000-07:00

As you can see..not a lot of footage of the mighty hamburger. Most of the time when you see photo's on here of food, cooked from me or others, I'm usually real, real hungry. My belly is in fits and my hands are shaking, but I simply cannot pass up most opportunities to get some beautiful shots of the food I'm about to eat.

Than there is Glenn. Poor Glenn. If he is with me I spasmodically ask him to wait. "Oh, holy crap, this is *&%#ing spectacular", "No wait, wait, hang on, just one more, don't it eat yet, DON"T TOUCH IT". Than, when I forget how to use my camera, that will be followed by, " *&%#, *&%#ing camera".

He is a good, good husband. If somebody asked me to not eat so they could take photo's I would probably freeze and become speechless while I slowly scooped up my food, never taking my eyes off that person who suggested such a sinful and ridiculous suggestion.

So, that is why there really wasn't many photo's of this glorious hamburger. Just too hungry and too shaky. I have to say, Aussies just make great hamburgers.

Oh, in case you were wondering, the last tow photo's really are not all that different. I just wanted to look at them twice, they looked and were so, so tasty. So there you go Joe blow.

Be careful of your chin

2010-10-01T20:17:00.000-07:00

When you are left without a toasty maker, what you're going to want to do is, grab two of the nearest and heaviest rocks; don't be too silly and get something that will in fact make your sandwich into a Frisbee.

The tomato-e, basil, chicken dish that I made the night before in a frenzied hunger, was today going to be our lunch. I have to say, it was a gooden.

I added some spicy rocket and Parmesan also.

Very, very edible.

Be careful the rocket doesn't stay attached to the sandwich and whip your chin.

The husband and the duck

2010-10-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

When the sun is shining through one's crispy tent, the only thing to do is to run down and frolic on the beach and gaze out at the water.

The best way to do this, is with a duck.

Hungry for food

2010-09-29T17:32:00.000-07:00

All I have to say, is that I can't even believe I had the energy to take any photo's this night. We had been driving for a good while and were at the stage where at any moment we could turn evil or just plain mad. I don't remember what we turned.

We needed some good food. Cooked food. With fresh ingredients. Bright and alive.

We were so happy that our camp site was a gem that exhaustion turned to happiness. Oh, and it wasn't raining. In fact, it was clear and crisp. The stars were showing.

Before we left Ashland we jammed our Esky (cooler) full of food. All from Ashland.

Grilled up some chicken thighs, all tiny and hormone-free, just like the farmer meant for them to be.

Garlic, oh you. Lots. Heaps.

Fresh tomato's and basil. Cooking away. Smelling right out there. Sliced up that grilled chicken and let them cook away together for a bit. Not too long, since we're about to get crazy if we don't eat.

Mash up some spuds with butter and Bob's your uncle. (He really is)

The Road to the Sun

2010-09-26T17:14:00.000-07:00

Dear world left behind. This is a little taste of some dinky high desert towns. Some may call them dwellings but I like to think of them as a fly on the wall. These places have seen so much and been through some wild weather.

If only the mountains could talk.

If the hills had eyes?

After spending the first several days of our long awaited camping voyage in the rain, we discovered that the closest place in driving distance with some good camping and glorious sun, was going to be Lake Tahoe. So, off we went.

Did I mention that while driving down the freeway (we've only been freeway driving the bare minimum) just after leaving The Black Bear Diner in Yreka, some crazy lady driving next to us was honking and carrying on. "What the bloody hell is she going on about?" Of course, the top of our "THULE" had blown open. For those of you that don't know what that is, it's a light weight plastic tub, shaped to look like it could go real fast if it needed to. After we pulled over, saw that we had lost two whole pillows, real cozy ones, and squabbled enough about who closed it last, know that we should get straight back in the car, keep driving and not talk to each other, I than realized that there was a great possibility that I didn't see our real, REAL cozy blanket.

Oh well, at least we got to stop and get a Mr Whippy ice-cream at a the wildest petrol station I've seen in a while. I got the last ice-cream of the season. I was pretty happy.

I wanted to take photo's of the inside but I was weary that there might be some wild boars about to jump out if I did. Every turn I took there was the lady shop keeper. I guess she was protecting her hard work.

So I bought a bright red bandanna instead and tied it around my neck.

Just a little town in the middle of somewhere.

Indian Rocks, Yosemite N.P.

2010-09-26T10:21:00.000-07:00

Good evening dear world out there. It's an unfortunate thing sometimes when you just don't have a power outlet nearby. This is one thing I didn't think off before we began our journey. Well, we did in a way. We have a charger that plugs into our car while we drive and charges our machines for us, but those machines don't stay charged forever and we sure don't like being in the car all that long.

Some places we have been lucky to score a power outlet right next to us, but most of the time, so far, we are not around too much society, nor service, nor power. Which, I am mighty grateful.

There is so much to tell and so many wonderful photo's to share with you, yet so little time here, in no power outlet world. I would never have thought I would be searching for power. Geez, on a peaceful, cross country journey through lands so far from any world I know and the first thing I wonder is, "I really hope there is Internet". Pitiful.

So this is me leaving you, just for another few days until we reach Tuscon Arizona, with my Ansel Adams inspired black and whites of Yosemite National Park. For anyone reading at home, that's in California. These were taken after a five mile hike (I won't go much further), ending up at Indian Rocks. Nice one.

P.S. my absolute dream while on this trip was to be able to sit back in the evening and share the last couple of days with you. Writing and exploring my photo's. It has been a little 'skewif', a little wild if you will. At times. Just chaotic. Just spectacular.

Everything you need to make a memorable journey.

Freestyling through the puddles: Ashland, Oregon

2010-09-24T08:37:00.000-07:00

On a very, very wet morning sometime last week, Glenn and I rolled into Ashland, Oregon. Although we had planned to spend some time there, we thought we would have been camping. Not to worry, there is always the Shakespeare Inn. Where you can enjoy jumping to and from a warm-from-the-rain swimming pool to a steaming hot tub. This is where you can watch people come and go from the Inn and also watch local deer nibbling from neighbouring shrubs. On the main road into town.

Ashland is more than happy for you to wander up and down it's theatrical streets, dodging Hamlets, Romeos and even Juliet's. You can get yourself lost through Lithia Park where a man will be waiting by the slippery slide for the rain to stop in case you want to take your inner child on a memorable ride. They must not experience the rain in great lengths.

You will see a sign reading; "DANGER: YELLOW JACKETS". Be careful to verify with your husband what this is exactly. Is it a fish, like where I come from? No, it is not. It is a BEE. A tried-to-killer-me bee. When you feel like you just ran through a poisonous cobweb, DO rip your shirt off and run through the forest topless. If anything, it psychologically allows you to feel free of the killer bee's sting.

Ashland was just, pretty great. I very much will live in a big small town soon. It's just too alive not to.

One humble night

2010-09-23T21:15:00.000-07:00

You may chuckle, you may think me a raving story teller, but really, I am very, very exhausted. How could that be you may ask? Driving and camping around the country at your leisure? Waking up and lighting a fire? Well, Glenn lights the fire and I make encouraging shoulder shrugs trying to get warm. Journey's are just tiring sometimes.

This was our fist night camping. Our first night on the road we had the chance to experience life as a duck, or say, a floating log, but decided to reside at a quuuuuaint bed and breakfast. Quaint it was.

It feels like so long ago that we were there. In real life, it has only been nine days. What tha?? In nine days we've done a lot. You'll see. Real soon. Tomorrow morning. Gotta get some sleep so I can get those, those, I can't think right now.

Hello again. Last night I was so exhausted when I wrote this that I forgot to tell you where we camped on our first night. Crater Lake is where we camped. For two nights. The first night was toasty. The second night rained. That is correct. We were the ultimate Blue Tarp Campers. Minus the tarp. We were more mesmerized by the rain dripping down the tent and into our savouring dry zone than we were about the fire. Though Glenn still maintained the fire best as he could until I lost all faith of the rain stopping, and speechlessly went to bed.

Gotta' get goin'

2010-09-21T09:37:00.000-07:00

Before I banter on with triumphant tales of life on the open road, I first must brief you on our short and productive tale of actually getting on the road.

If you've read any of my recent tales, you'll know that for the last couple of months Glenn and I have sleeping around a little, so to speak. Also known as 'couch surfing' and 'homelessness'. We tried to time the beginning of life on the road, so we could leave our home, (our very generous friend opened up her spare room for us when we arrived back from Australia) go live in our adoptive home, (house sit for another friend who was travelling) than out of there.

Since this is not a perfect world, we didn't hit the road for five days after we had planned, or hoped. Not to worry. We stayed because Glenn had a lot of work and needed to finish up, so it was unofficially worth prolonging the trip for a week.

Many post-its and two thermoses later, we were borderline psychotically ready to leave. Not Seattle though. We were ready to make our first stop. (There were five before we hit 60 miles on the speed thingy)

Stop One: Goodbye to Uncle Brad, and all the zealous workers that were sporting many tools at the work site.

Stop Two: Meet Evan and sell him our beat up old truck. Stop Two again: Say goodbye to Evan than load up our already loaded car with cans of paint and brushes.

Stop Three: Go to REI and return some things. Known as pants and solar radio.

Stop Four: Drive to Glenn's sisters place, unload all our crap that we had been living with in our working life, not the paint and brushes, than reload the car with tubs and various other bags containing our camping gear. This did not go as uniform as I had imagined. In my mind it was going to be like a game of Tetras. One tub up, one over, one moved perfectly up there. No, a car is shaped much different than the perfect rectangle I had envisioned.

Stop Five: Drive to Redondo Beach?? Paint the entire second floor of a dilapidated whole of shit building, (the bottom floor doubled as bakery and home for many large rat traps) with fish, sea grass and other oceanic like scenery. I think we did a good job considering I had a bad attitude about having to do it for the first hour. Within ten minutes after completion, the rain came. It didn't stop.

That was kind of a slap in the face since we leaving Seattle. We headed south, than west along I-84 towards Hood River, Oregon. Glenn had to constantly remind me that yes, we were still in the Pacific Northwest, where, yes, it does tend to have the same absurd climate as Seattle. If I still was having trouble fathoming it, than I could look across the Columbia River to see Washington.

So there you go. Off we went. Off we are. Ready for whatever is ready for us.

Note to Reader: Our car is now our vessel and box filled with our physical necessities. Our tent is now our bedroom under the stars. We are forming, gradually for me, a balance with nature. It's obviously happy for me to be around it, so the least I can do is to be happy being around it.

Another Note to Reader: Glenn has three times the amount of baggage as I do. Therefore we have formed an imaginary line down the middle of the backseat; one side for me, one side for Glenn. Soon I will be rationing our food supply just so we can start to see out the back window.

Memories of melting moments

2010-09-11T01:05:00.000-07:00

A while back, five houses ago and only five months ago, I was in my hobbity little kitchen baking up some melting moments, yes, melting moments, when this wondrous ball of grey and white fur sidled on up to my kitchen window and poked it's nose down into my basement.

She was a beauty.

Eyes that have you obeying the next and most impossible demands.

You will probably do whatever she puuurrrrs; because, she says so.

Her puuuuurs have the sound of bass. Your listening ear pressed up against a thumping speaker, one strum, than it disappears.

That afternoon, when I pulled my melting moments out of the oven, that is when I first saw her. I hoped that she would stay for the rest of the day, so I could feed her warm milk and let her claw at my hand.

You know what? She was such a friendly cat. She looked like she would have enjoyed sitting at my window watching me make anything I pulled out of the oven. She was just that kind of cat.

A note from me: in the last couple of weeks, a blog that I enjoy reading, "Good Egg" had featured a wonderful photo of a fury feline. As soon as I saw it I was reminded of my mystery guest one fall afternoon last year. Of course, I needed to share her with you. Enjoy.

Another note: I can't seem to find my delicious photo's of my melting moments. I will make more of those buttery, sugary goodness morsels to share with you soon. When I have a kitchen next.

No food No travel Just writing

2010-09-09T20:56:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's just me, but the smell of a lead pencil being sharpened for the first time, and all the other times for that matter, makes my belly flip around. Being that Glenn (my husband for those who have just joined me) is an artist, I am happily exposed to many kinds of pencils and their sharpening on any given day.

Such a woodsy smell. Clean and woodsy.

You see, a lot of the time, I like to jot my thoughts down for this wee blog here, than go back to my nifty laptop a little later and type up them up, as you would imagine. So, after years of being a pen girl, I have just decided to switch from pens and their inky penmanship to pencils, and, well, their pencilship. (Yes I made up another word)

It has an organized feeling that overcomes me, a feeling that has me more willing to learn and write.

School and pencil cases come to mind.

Oh, and that flick-of-the-fingers maneuver to switch your pencil around to the other end so you can use the little coloured eraser. (We call them 'rubbers' in Australia)

Brush, brush with the outside of your hand. Blow those rubbed out words away.

Blow. Brush.

Start again.

Rewrite that.

Another empty bowl that was once Vietnamese food

2010-09-01T11:31:00.000-07:00

My stomach is burning. The idea of walking over to that table and jumping into their bowl of noodles is becoming more of a possibility rather than a food obsessed fantasy.

Hearing the heavy, wooden chairs scratch along the cracked floor is sending me into a rage. My shoulders are tense with hunger pains.

Soon my face will become infused with steam, rising from my bowl of tender pork, my slippery rice noodles and my tiny cup of steaming green tea.

If it does not arrive soon, I will have to open up this jar of thick, burning chili paste and gingerly put a heaping spoonful into my speechless mouth.

My last neighbourhood in Seattle (this time around)

2010-09-01T10:48:00.000-07:00

Trying to figure out where life will take you at times, can be somewhat of a challenge. If you're anything like me, you're usually, more than likely, on the lookout for new inspiration and that next big trip somewhere, whether it be for a couple of months, or, in my recent case, the next big move: where are we going to live next.?

A tantalizing question. There have been times, just for shits and giggles, I will google, "where should I move to?" Sometimes the results are at the end of a forty minute questionnaire, thinking that surely after this next lot of questions, "what activities do you like to take part in?" there will be my answer, since this big, small world out there has just too many wonderful places to choose from.

And choose from we will, which is how Glenn and I ended up in Capital Hill for two weeks.

My story of life on the open road, a life which will commence in exactly eleven more sleeps, the life that holds the answers to "where should I move to?" will be told when this chapter has finished. For now, my new leafy neighbourhood is holding me happily captive until than.

I'm ready to hit the road, logistically. The only things that surround me now are unfamiliar places and more things. Things that will be packed away and stored in a cold and dark garage with a roller door. That door will go up and down a few more times, letting us come in and out to pack more things away and take more things out. We will take our tubs that we have strategically packed with things; things that we can absolutely live without but are not ready to let go of yet. We will use most of those things while we're on the road, to cook with, to wash with etc, than maybe we will attempt to find a store to replace them. I hope not.

I'm also emotionally ready. I've had the words, "just say see ya' later", embedded in my psyche for many years now. Though that's not always a healthy way to live your life, so I have made great efforts to actually allow myself to become close to people and places and also be able to say goodbye without floating off into the smemisphere. (I made that word up)

I've grown.

Since landing in Capital Hill, the centre of happening, so I hear, I've had the pleasure of living on the top floor of a two story, grand old brick apartment building. For me, this is as romantic as inner city living gets. Windows half the size of the walls with hundred year old trees draping the outsides, keeping us burrowed hobbits all cozy inside. Creaky wooden floors, stained the colour of dark, sticky honey. Wide doorways that will fit five people through at once, all bunched up, brushing shoulders.

I hear loud, overly energized children playing out in the streets from the time I wake up until the time I walk out my front door and past their jump rope and hopscotch games, with squeals and giggles echoing down the street behind me. I hear people planning their day from the comfort of my bed, as they walk past in their worn shoes two stories below, off to enjoy their first steaming, strong coffee of the day.

There is a yappy dog across the street also. He sounds like he is the colour of white.

This is what a neighbourhood feels like. A relatively quiet street. Dogs. Families playing on the grass. People plodding by. Talking in the evening, before saying goodbye to the day just past.

I really do wonder where we will find our wee, travelled selves at the end of two months on the road with each other, living out of our car, our backpacks, our generously spacious tent. The open skies and chilly nights. Oh geez, I'll stop before I get to started.

I do know I'll be happy to share it with you. Did I tell you that road tripping across America has been a dream of mine since I was nine years old?

Well it has. And twenty years later it is here. Or I am there, however you find yourself seeing it.

A side note from me; typing while listening to Dire Straits is phenomenal.
Another side note from me; except for the first few photo's taken in the lobby of my adopted home, all the others were taken yesterday on a rainy afternoon, just around the corner from where I am living. Thank you Thomas Street Gardens, and good luck.

A few words on a grazing gathering

2010-08-26T16:24:00.000-07:00

Several times this summer, I've hosted experimental backyard dinner parties. When Glenn and I arrived back from Australia, I decided I didn't really want to go back to working six days a week, I instead wanted to host as many "illegal" dinner parties as I could. I lacked on the "many" part, due to the usual habits that get in the way during one's life, but managed to pack about four and a "half" under my tightening belt.

The "half" because I cooked for a bunch of friends than sat down to eat with them, as opposed to me spending the entire evening in the kitchen. That "half" night, was the night I looked at a whole rabbit on my chopping board than attempted to cut it in half, than again and again with a big, shiny cleaver.

Since than, my average crowd is a bakers dozen, plus one. They like to corral near me in the kitchen. Being a beginner and all with this whole charging people to come to my house so I can cook for them, I decided to start with the people I know and than some people they know.

A good mix of characters is essential. A few of these one's and those one's. Maybe that couple since they love a chat. That person has great stories. She just gets in there and makes decisions. He will make you feel special. She will hold eye contact when having a conversation.

Usually, you're going to want dinner guests that are really just happy to get amongst it, eat and open another bottle of wine. Than another. One must be careful of one's dinner guest drinking too much than collapsing or falling asleep on the warm, soft couch.

I've gone from serving my guests their meals on shiny, round, white plates. Plates that have you oohing and aahing at your leafy green salad with soft goats cheese. But really, a little credit is owed to the plate. It wouldn't look as wonderful if your leafy salad was sitting on a plate covered with stripes and other colourful patterns. It just wouldn't.

Than I've gone to serving my guests the good old family style way. I keep on going back to this simple method. I was a little torn at first, but having to cook in a relatively small kitchen at three to five courses for fourteen people with each serving on different shiny, round, white plates, was proving more than a challenge and no more fun for me. In my mind I can do it, but executing it solo was a little more trying. Family style it is, all the way.

The family way is much more sociable to say the least. Your dinner guests are practically forced to communicate to one and other. Not only are they likely to be knocking elbows, but if they know what's good for them they would probably want to be talking about passing this or that dish along, making sure everybody gets a portion of whatever is going around.

One might wonder why you would want to talk to a stranger with a mouth full of food which happens to be no more attractive than watching a camel chew with dull observation? To see what happens next of course.

There will always be ideas rubbing off each other. I like how so many of my fantastic ideas become a realization for doing it a different way next time. That's learning right? I have learnt that photographs of food are usually there for inspiration, not to use the F word really loudly over and over because yours didn't turn out the same. Move on.

I have learnt that I like to serve three to four courses for my dinners, not four to five. I have learnt that if I want to take myself seriously as a person cooking in the kitchen, I should only pour myself a glass of wine once dessert has gone out and my walls are no longer the colour of the roasted tomato's that went out as a my first course. That one I accidentally read as a rule of thumb, nothing exciting happened for me to make that rule for myself. Not in the last three years anyway.

So, my summer in Seattle was spent hosting more than a few backyard dinners. I was lucky to have wonderful friends that didn't feel obliged to come to my home and let me cook for them, at a small fee, but were more than happy, even at short notice, to enjoy my summer of cooking with me. I've learnt and am learning and of course will always be. One step at a time. Two dreams forward, one reality back. I am okay with that.

A side note from me: most of these photos were taken on Granville Island, Vancouver B.C. Very far from where my backyard dinners took place. There was no time to take photos of my food or my hungry guests. There just wasn't.

Vietnam Part Four

2010-08-24T15:57:00.000-07:00

This is definitely the last of my photo's from Vietnam. I know it's a little overkill, a lot to take in over a couple of days, that is if you look on here four times in two days, which would be unlikely

I once asked my Aunt Kazoo ma to burn a bunch of music for me, she told me she would only give me one or two Cd's every every now and again, that way I could appreciate the music rather than be so busting to listen to it all at once just because it was in my possession.

I really do try to avoid the notorious romantic sunset photo's, but I thought the varied contrast of these two almost identical shots was a fair cry from the norm, since I had just watched some lazy daisy cow's plod on past. Oh how moments pass us by.

My last morning in Vietnam.

I like to imagine having breakfast in Saigon most mornings.

Vietnam Part Three

2010-08-18T12:54:00.000-07:00

Just so you know, there may be four of these photo journals all together. I got a little carried away, so thanks for enjoying the journey down memory lane with me.

...and there is one more to come

Vietnam Part Two

2010-08-18T09:20:00.000-07:00

the perfume river

i was spat on, thrown water on, hissed at, stared at, cheered with.

what an exhilarating soccer game.

have you ever filled your motorcycle up with fuel in the middle of a rubber forest

where the land is vast with pineapples

and hammocks for you to relax in while your lunch of rice,

grilled meat and eggs

are cooked and served to you with the most humble

family one could meet?

well you should

Vietnam Part One

2010-08-17T17:14:00.000-07:00

For the first time in three and a half years, from what I can remember, I have taken the time to sit down and click through my wonderfully tasty photo's from the time I spent in Vietnam. Some days it feels like a lifetime ago that I was there, than there are the days that I will go slurp up some tender, cooked over fiery coals pork, rice noodles with all that splendid greenery and nuoc mam (deliciously smelly fish sauce) that come with nearly every plate of Vietnamese cuisine, those are the days that take me back in a heart beat.

Since I am yet to find a home with a wall to hang all my favourite shots on, I have decided to spend three consecutive posts to share with you some of the memories I captured while travelling in Vietnam. One post would probably have been fine but there were too many I loved and too many that held great inspiration. Get out there.

These photo's are in no order and I may or may not mention where they have been taken. Sometimes it's nice to just be dreamy and wonder.

Also, I took all of these photo's with an itty bitty pocket sized Nikon digital camera. Nothing fancy. I have since upgraded dramatically and am still in the early stages of learning how to use my not so itty bitty upgrade.

Worlds away

I'm dedicating these photo's to my friends who just jumped aboard a plane to Thailand.

I'm also dedicating these photo's to my friend who really wants to jump aboard a plane to anywhere that keeps the adventure alive.

Preparing for life in the slow lane

2010-08-12T16:28:00.000-07:00

Well folks, the time is near for Glenn and I to hit the road on our long awaited South-West road trip 2010. Two months of the unknown and wonder of what will come next, camping and rolling around by the fire with our full bellies. But first, one must be prepared for such great adventures. Lists must be made (which excites me to great lengths), lives must be minimized drastically, tubs must be filled with bathroom goods, closet goods, recreational goods, and most importantly, kitchen goods. Cars also must be tapped, prodded, lifted, yanked at, mechanically sound, cleaned for the first time in two years and also have a working horn, which brings me to my outing around the lake today. After leaving the car at my friends shop to get fixed, I decided that a slow walk home with my camera was in need.

I know they are a little hard to see but that is just the way I saw them. Perched on a log in the distance enjoying the sun as much as I was. You just have to take it when it comes here in the Northwest, get your body out there and all stretched which ever way the sun is shining. Those little turtles are just so happy I think. Who knows.

I think I see a bum.

Now let me just say this, today, as I walk around Green lake, the very family friendly lake with enough summer loonies walking around if you hang about long enough to catch them in all their glory, I wondered just how I managed to not have my camera with me yesterday while I was waiting for our car to be fitted with speakers. Today, for example, you see photo's of stoned turtles sitting on logs, pink shoes and sail boats with bare bums. Yesterday was me eating noodles in the corner of a seedy strip mall gazing at the world going by while I sipped on my wet, cold Tiger beer and smelled smells only one salivates for, all the while watching a superhero kinda fella with a black and white RAT on his shoulders. Not a black and white cat, a black and white rat. As I sucked up my greasy rice noodles, slapping me in the face on the way down my throat, I was imaging that it was the rats tail. It was quiet hard to avoid thinking that. Really it was.

Just when I when I was thinking how great it would have been to snap a few shots of a man with a rat on his shoulders, digging around in rubbish bins for searching for treasures, I found a sweet ole' house with a white picket fence and a man made of hard, shiny plastic standing guard. Quiet pleasing .

As I neared closer to home I got to snack on some wholesome, wild blackberries. I'm sure I've never bought blackberries since I moved to the Northwest. I need to walk back over to that corner near the freeway and take a basket with me. I need to pick them until I've filled my basket up enough to make a pie. Although I secretly like to plop them into my mouth five at a time more than baking them.

I won't mention that when we make it to the south. I'll be very grateful.

Now, I will drink sun tea that has been warming all afternoon.

Cheers to my day of slow.

Nothing but the bread

2010-08-09T15:40:00.000-07:00

This is how a little bit of today went for me. The story goes like this: My mission for this morning was to go downtown and not drive around for 23 minutes trying to find a car park, than to pop into the Mariners store and buy an over priced plain shirt for my dad, with a collar. You see, I work at a great place that has great shirts but at the moment we are greatly out of them, leaving me to either drive to just one place where I know I could buy my extremely fussy dad a not so awesome but collared shirt from a baseball team that really isn't anywhere near worthy, or so I hear of sending merchandise to another hemisphere, or, I could drive around in Seattle traffic, with no horn in my car right now mind you, and just maybe find him a spectacular shirt at a stinky, personable old pub. Stinks to me, but I chose the first one. You need to wait though, and see why, just why oh why, it was accidentally worth buying Mariners merchandise.

The answer is:

Flour

Water

Yeast

Salt
Warmth

Tenderness

I know that it looks like a plain old 'French Stick', as my mum calls them, nothing out of the ordinary, baguette. Well, it just isn't, it's the way they all should be. The taste of simplicity is still jumping around in my mouth.

I turned the corner onto 4th Avenue and came face to face with about two dozen hungry tourists with ear pieces on and their mouths full of Tom Douglas' Triple Coconut Cream Pie, trying really hard to listen to their overly cheery guide and shovel as much roasted coconut into their mouths at the same time. This was about the same time I told myself that as a reward for driving around for nearly half an hour in downtown traffic, I could take myself into the Dahlia Bakery, for the first exciting time.

So, on my way back from buying my dad his shirt, I opened up the wooden door to the fortress of goodness, and, did I hear a little bell ring? I think that was in my hungry imagination, and scoped out what I might want to treat myself to. I was definitely getting a cup of tea, I knew that much, but what else, hmmm. Outside on the blackboard it says that there were breakfast egg sandwiches. Why don't feel like one of those right now? I'm a sucker for eggs on two pieces of good toasted bread. Than, out of the corner of my eye, at the pit of my stomach, the answer was there. The rustic bread stick. The baguette. The French loaf.

I will take that one please.

I may have blushed.

All this, before I had even ripped a big ole' piece off to satisfy my curiosity.

Of course when I did taste it I moaned and tore around for more while I was back driving in downtown traffic.

This stick of bread is humble

This bread stick is crunchy on the outside

This stick of bread is like a ball of the softest cotton on the inside

Thank you bread stick

Now that I am back home in my cozy kitchen, I search in my fridge for things to spread, slice and heap onto my perfectly imperfect stick of bread. I have wonderful cheeses and delicious hummus, crisp, green arugula and bright red tomato's. Epic, to say the least. But there is nothing, nothing I find myself even coming close to putting on my faithful stick of bread.

Come inside my Malaysia

2010-08-08T23:27:00.000-07:00

My words are being consumed

by my noodles

That is all today

B is for Bellingham

2010-08-06T16:14:00.000-07:00

Chickens and orange kayaks

Gardens that tell you how they feel

Grey walls that are just fine being big and cold

Eating amongst the flowers

Beer that asks you to jump inside

Knitting to keep the trees warm

on a Northwest summers day

I take my ham to heart

2010-07-26T14:32:00.000-07:00

If you would like to know what is just so satisfying, in a way that is only fulfilling because of its simplicity, I will tell you. If you guessed ham on toast, you are correct. I would eat ham on toast every day if it wasn't for the slathering of butter I love to brush over the toast before the ham goes floating over the top.

There are, of course, a few ways of doing this. Today for example, after being out and about in this gloriously day dreaming weather, I was hoping to have a ham sandwich when I arrived home. This nearly always calls for the freshest bread.

Actually, a ham sandwich ALWAYS boasts fresh bread, but we're heading to Vancouver BC tomorrow and I didn't want to buy more bread and have it grow lonely and old while we were away. So after thinking I could get away with two day old bread, very border-line acceptable, I found that it was growing a beard on it's crust and developing a sourish odor that did not appeal to the likes of a ham sandwich.

This of course left me no choice but to toast up some English muffins that needed to be eaten anyway.

Far from the school lunch-time feeling of eating a ham sandwich, but adjustment is just another ingredient today.

When you finally decide to make a ham sandwich for your lunch or your afternoon tea break, you must remember these few important rules.

You must only buy the simplest ham there is. Thinly sliced deli ham. If they ONLY have honey ham or black forest ham, you must back away from the counter very slowly and run to your car, never to return again. These are of course products of disgrace and will leave you with flavours other than butter and ham lingering in your mouth.

This really does go without saying, but it must be said. PLEASE ONLY USE FRESH BREAD. PLEASE DO NOT USE BREAD THAT YOU WILL FIND IN AN AISLE OF A SUPERMARKET WITH SPECKLED SWEET BITS ON IT AND TWICE WRAPPED IN CRUNCHY PLASTIC. IT IS CRAP.

If you're going to eat ham, really try and find a place that will sell you the organic way of life. It truly does taste better knowing that your lunch wasn't ridiculed and full of it's own shit before it was slaughtered to become a tub of tasteless antibiotics disguised as ham.

Just butter. Just butter. Just butter. I would instruct you to go out of your way and use butter that tastes like butter, such as any kind you will find in the Southern Hemisphere, or even a European butter. So long as it's not WHIPPED SWEET CREAMED BUTTER. But, if that's what you have than I guess that will have to do. Just butter. Don't forget. No mayo.

I guess these are the only instructions. If you are going to have ham on toast, it will be fine to use older than day old bread. That is acceptable.

Also if you are going to have ham on toast, you may find it quiet scrumptious to spread a thin layer of Coleman's Hot Mustard on after you lather on your butter. This is the kind of mustard that will block up your sinuses and leave you with watery eyes.

There is just one thing to be aware of when making ham on toast. You might discover that you have eaten all the slices of ham while you are waiting for the toast to cook. Be careful.

It's okay to fail sometimes (sometimes being the operative word)

2010-07-19T12:03:00.000-07:00

One reason I believe I have a hard time following recipes is because I don't take time concentrating on reading them, than of course following through with the instructions, the part that kind of really matters, which in my mind, means being told to do something a certain way, and therefore, not my own.

So when I decided to go and buy a rabbit from Pike Place Market, overseeing the fact that it wasn't portioned already, I had to than go out and buy a cleaver. A cleaver. I love it and now want to butcher all the meat I buy whole.

Being that I had never cooked rabbit myself, I was thinking that I would just roast the whole thing intact, kind of like a chicken, than portion it off to my dinner guests at the table.

You see though, I found a recipe in David Tanis' beautiful cookbook, A Platter of Figs, a book that leaves me wanting to cook a dinner party for eight every night, which called for the rabbit to be portioned. So of course I went ahead and followed the recipe, mostly.

I will just put it out there now: I am finding it really hard to successfully comply to recipes. I feel disconnected to the final product, like I'm observing and my hands are moving but I'm not really a part of the creation. Hmmm, we'll see if that can change.

I guess what it is I'm trying to say, is that at some point in the kitchen, we will create something, yours or another, that we can really call a failure. Maybe not a complete failure, since at the point of realizing this failure you're finding all the parts that were actually just okay. The parts that have you believing in yourself again, the parts that have you convinced as you're falling asleep, "maybe it really wasn't that bad, I know I can certainly do a hundred times better, but really, it was fine". Than you wake up every morning for the rest of the week with a sad, burning feeling in the pit of your stomach that reminds you that you really did fail. Like I said, not a complete failure. Your crafted meal was eaten with positive banter and munching, but you, YOU know it's not where your standards lie.

My yoga instructor, of recent times, says a quote after each class, which is considerate after sitting in a hot room for an hour and a half sweating out buckets of the outside world, and the quote that struck me like a brick shit house was something along the lines of, "Those things that are worth doing good, those things of importance to you, can not be perfected by doing only once". Sounds a little like what you might read in the 'self-healing' section at a book store, but it worked for me when I needed it to.

Right there though, is what I usually do the opposite of, that is for sure. I can only remember doing the things that fascinate me in the kitchen once, or maybe twice, because if I can't get it right the first time, I get frustrated than give up.

So right now, right here, I am publicly vouching for myself, I'm swearing upon the cover of Stephanie Alexander's, The Cook's Companion, that I will just give it a go. By giving it a go, I mean that I will cook the way I know how to cook, the way I LOVE to cook. Cooking the way I was inspired to cook. Simple, fresh ingredients and doing it well. REALLY WELL.

I'm going to get my hand amongst the essential ingredients. Back to making beauty with a handful of blueberries and a the zest of a lemon.

I'm going to make cakes. I'm going to make cakes and call my dad and tell him that I wish I could cut him a slice and serve it to him with fresh whipped cream, the way he loves it.

So after much pondering of how to tackle recipes, I will simply be inspired by them, maybe saving the following of instructions for baking only. That's usually a good idea.

Food and balls of water

2010-07-12T11:47:00.000-07:00

I began this post some other place but have decided to creep on up here and tell you about our first 'Summer Outside Dinner' in Seattle for the year. Other than smiling for most of the summer, I'm planning on hosting a bunch of dinners outside where I randomly have strangers and friends over for dinner, nourishing the good life. Tonight, my dinner guests are Glenn, and the infamous Caroline. Caroline is our niece. I have inherited her since marrying Glenn and I just fall in love with her every time we're able to hang out. So, although this story is going to be about the delicious food we made and devoured, I think it's really about Caroline. She is truly a character with or without a story.

Oh, but first the food. The food will always be there. It is, by far, the first thing I'm thinking about when I wake up in the morning. "What will I make today" and "I wonder how long I have to lay here for until by bladder will burst" are my first thoughts of the day.

To take bursting to a whole new level, I can tell you that when you squeeze a lemon with a hand held citrus juicer, it will squeeze out every ounce of liquid that little sucker has in it to squeeze. I've never owned or used one of these juicers. I've only done it the way you do it when you're in a kitchen with five male chef's and nothing more manly than the clench of your fist will do. So I am happy I have discovered this toy.

I will be holding that hand held juicer all year round. All of a sudden you have this plump, half of a lemon sitting there in it's place, than SQUISH, a flattened disc, a little less rounded, but no less lemony than it started out to be. This lemon has served it's purpose well.

The objective: to marinate organic chicken thighs in about six lemons and about double that of garlic and a little extra virgin. Later, after hours of sitting and patiently waiting in all that goodness, I will grill them on the BBQ, slice, than serve to my special dinner guests. That, my friends is as simple as it gets. Although Caroline informed me that she might only eat the middle of the chicken, (? not sure how she will manage that one) because she didn't like the taste of the outside. That taste was the char-grilled part.

Honesty has it's place.

Corn also has it's place; picked right from the field than straight on the grill, all wrapped up in its cozy bed of husk. Well, this time I bought it from the market, but ideally I would want Farmer Brown to hand it to me from his road side stand.

I once worked in corporate catering, a wee little company in South Melbourne, where I was mentored and made to wear stiff, white painters overalls even in the dead of a Victorian winter. It was there though, that the words, "give it a nice little CRUNCH" was repeated to me over and over so as not to forget that CRUNCH will seal the deal. Sugar snap peas are going to give you just that.

We sliced these beauties and tossed them through a salad of grilled halved tomato's, mixed greens and shaved Parmesan.

If Caroline found any imperfections with this, she didn't mention it. I took her shoveling tomato's than piling up snow peas than shoveling them into her mouth as a good sign.

When our feast was mostly all eaten up inside our very full bellies, we thought it would be a great idea to fill up water balloons and hurl them at each other. While I was inside filling up my balloons, Glenn and Caroline were outside filling up about twice as many. I don't know how many Caroline had burst on her face as I threw them at her with full force, showing no mercy, but she was showing no fear. She also showed no fear as she was trying to sneak down the back steps, which was missing the third one down, and plummeted to her knees. At about the same time as I nearly choked from laughter, she was yelling out, with her water balloon still raised above her head, "I'm alright, I'm alright, I'm good, I'm good". What a sport.

Water balloons are just good fun.

Even if they do leave bruisers the colour of your most purple balloon.

And that is the way we spend the first day of summer in Seattle. A city, for most of the year, that has you wondering if there are even people living in it. A city that has you playing childish games when the heat comes on, the heat that has you looking around the streets smiling at strangers because you have all of a sudden realized that there are people around. People walking, people skipping and looking up at the sky in wonder.

This is where you spend the late times of the day and the early hours of the night feeling the warm air on your skin, just wondering what you'll cook for dinner tomorrow night.

A short tale of where the sun has taken me today

2010-07-08T10:18:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have aunts or uncles, in laws or perhaps parents of step-parents in your lives and only insist on calling them when absolutely necessary, because when you do call them you feel the pang of nothing to talk about predicatively roll on in. Than the inevitable conversation about the weather, this is usually the life of the phone call, exposes itself. Well my friends, today that is going to be me. It just need got to be said.

Also, I will tell you about joy. The joy from the sun, that of which I'm choosing to hold onto now, now that it is after July 5th, and not just because it says so in the weather report. I'm choosing to hold onto the joy because I think there is a jumping castle sized possibility that if I don't hold onto the joy, and of course hope, than I may just pack up earlier than planned and head for the hills. The feeling of living in a plastic container with the lid closed very tightly is becoming a little too much for my soul to bare. Oh, and my sanity.

I've lived in Seattle for just over three years now and this is the first year I have yearned for sun. I arrived on an Amtrak voyage from L.A. and can still remember the feeling of my stomach as it flipped over and over with pure excitement as we made wide turn after wide turn around gentle snowy peaks. It was the end of May and their was only eye-squinting blue sky to be seen and the unmistakable feeling of new territory. Although I recall some raining days here and there, it really didn't matter what the weather was like, I was in a new and exciting country. Sun? Who really cares about sun? I've got better things to do than label the weather, right?

Than, winter arrived and had me falling in love with this place all over again. I had never seen snow. Well, I lie. I've been on snow, via a pair of skies in Melbourne, and I also touched it as a kid along the side of the road, but to live amongst the snow is something else, the falling snow. For a girl from the Australian bush where drought sets in like a face full of wrinkles, it doesn't get more magical. There's a feeling of nesting. Something I have become pretty great at in the last three years. I do love to nest.

Nesting aside, last winter came and went with zero snow, with only the idea and the longing for it to come floating down from above. This snow, I've come to realize, is the ultimate line dividing the otherwise ten months of many shades of gloom that casts upon Seattle's pasty residents. Which brings us to now, the other line that divides the gloom belt; sun. What pure joy it brings me. Just, simply, joy.

It's been two days now of just lovely warm air. The kind of days where you walk around your neighbourhood plodding from street to street. These are the days you stand on round-abouts in the middle of busy streets dancing with your husband, round-abouts that are being over ran with daisy's that sing to you.

The kind of sunny morning where you visit your favorite little cafe and buy a wonderful homemade piece of quiche. Cloud City Cafe stands for quiche. I think they should be by the lake throughout the year and sell quiche as people walk on by. I love that when I make the stride across to the glass cabinet, there will always be mismatched pieces here and there waiting for any takers. With out a doubt I have never walked in there and not eaten quiche.

I guess for some, today being me and my quiche there has to be an end , it just feels like it is nearing a little too close the second I poke my fork in. Oh well, the hot sun is shining brightly upon my golden crust of egg and cheese, and I'm going to let it rightly do so, so all I can do now is drink my cup of tea and savor each bite hoping that I don't go in any buy another piece.

These daisy's truly do brighten up my day when I get to walk past them on the way home from anywhere. I think I'll go pick some now and listen to them sing all the way home. This, walking in the sun with a belly filled with savoury deliciousness, is my joy today.

Toast will do it to you.

2010-06-25T15:37:00.000-07:00

Only moments ago I was going through photo's of our recent trip to the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, and squealing at the pure simplicity of jam on toast. Sourdough raisin bread with homemade strawberry jam and apricot marmalade. And of course the goodness of butter. Clearly the ultimate paring with toast.

You have to close your eyes and imagine that we've just taken a stroll down the side of the Three Sisters, three tall and slender rock formations at the edge of what is one of the most beautiful national parks you'll ever experience, it's 7am and as chilly as Seattle, let it be known, in the middle of June. So toast with butter and jam was literally a slice of heaven.

Though a little arctic, the skies were as blue as the mountains that surrounded us and the sight of smoke coming out of chimneys as we passed by sleepy houses was almost enough for me to leave my raining life in Seattle behind. Did I mention the leaves that were still clinging onto the tree's for dear life had turned the colour of red wine, with nothing but sun shining from behind to light up their day? That at seven in the morning, the light in Australia that shines on your face has you closing your eyes and just smiling?

Now with the feeling of morning light shining on your cheek, you should know a little about how we found the Elephant Bean Cafe. Thanks to my many years of accumulating random food magazines that I didn't even realize I had collected, until mum let me loose in my old bedroom when we arrived in Australia and I was in crap collecting bliss. I happened upon an article all about the Blue Mountains, knowing that we were headed that way, at the last minute before jumping in the car for the airport, I ripped it out, shoving it in my bag for more dust to be homed.

It wasn't until we were parked on a slope in a leafy neighbourhood in Katoomba at ten o'clock at night, trying to sleep off our pizza coma from dinner, that Glenn was searching for something to read. Since I was happy with whatever book I was reading at the time, never getting on the road without one, I rummaged through our suitcase, annoyed, and reefed out a bunch of mismatched articles.

Nestled in amongst those recipes and dreamy places to eat, was an article on the Elephant Bean Cafe. And there you have it. Four years later, a boxed up heap of food magazines served a purpose. The purpose of delicious house made bread, jams, and hot, brewed coffee.

This delicious little number had a few breakfast choices, one of them hosting white beans and chorizo sausage. Though I found it really hard to veer away from the purity of toast, so toast it was.

We were sitting on the rickety old miss matched tables and box seats out the front, watching the world of uniformed awkward teenagers and nonchalant bums wake up. This is was life is all about, I'm thinking, eating toast on a crisp Autumn morning, the brilliant light on your face leaving you speechless and wanting nothing but more of what you're feeling right at that moment.

Home is near the roses

2010-06-14T19:43:00.000-07:00

Has anybody actually stopped and smelled roses before? Driving along, pulled off the road, found a park and plodded over to some happy, bright rose bushes and taken some long hard whiffs. I got my nose right up in there and just smelled away. "Glenn, look, I'm stopping to smell the roses". Well I really just smelled a little bit, jumped onto the next rose bush, than gave myself two points for stopping to smell the roses. Like when you think you're taking time out to meditate but you're actually just wondering how long you have to sit, before getting up guilt free.

We stopped and smelled the roses in a little town called Cowra. Growing up, we lived about an hour or so from Cowra, one of those places you detested going to as a kid because it wasn't your town and you usually went there having to ride in the back seat of the car next to your younger brother, complaining the whole way about him sitting two inches too close, or travelling there with your friend from school, her mum driving slower than yours, on the way to a Netball carnival in the middle of winter at 7am on a Saturday. Doing this was bad enough, let alone not missing a day of school.

Stopping here as an adult, able to make my own decisions and pass my own judgements, Cowra welcomed us with open arms. Just a quiet little town with a very bustling main street and along with the endless paddocks of sheep, it came with endless paddocks of grapes. Those grapes came with an endless supply of juice to make such an endless supply of wine.

We could have spent a week stopping only at winery's from the Blue Mountains to Young, which was where we were headed, though with only five days left in Australia we were definitely not bound for the many winery's that whispered to us, 'this way, and stay the night in our home while we cook dinner for you and serve you endless glasses of red wine from our endless supply of grapes'. No, that was not our destination. Our home for the next four nights was supplying us with T-bone steak the size of your head, cooked on a George Foreman Grill and accompanied with four potatoes each, in mashed form and bread, of course. Thanks Nan, I love you. You're a gem.

We were only 45 minutes drive from giving my Nan a big cuddle. That means we were not very far from the place I grew up in and hold close to my heart, yet had ventured elsewhere in hopes to find something. I really don't know what it was all those years ago, but it just seemed to be in my blood, so I went happily with it. I guess when you're a teenager living in a small country town in the middle of whatever universe you're in, you really do just want to leave. To find anything, whether it's trouble or a stray dog, it's adventure right?

Thankfully, that doesn't happen to all of us, because who would we come back to see? There are the escapees and there are the lifers. Without the lifers there would be just the postman to come back to. That tiny little town in the middle of somewhere, all alone, because not only did you leave, but the lifers that make it your home, your only home, are just lost out there, never really wandering aimlessly, because that's just not what they do. They are the one's that hold their arms open so wide for you when you come back, that you wonder why you left in the first place.

That is where I shall fish from at dusk

2010-06-05T00:08:00.000-07:00

My brother Mark, is mad and keen for fishing. Some people go running, some people take pottery classes. Mark fishes. It's really that simple. So of course when we were staying with him in Australia, he was bulging at the seams with eagerness to get us out on the water.

Although it's just another day in paradise, paradise too has a down side. A side that will have your devoted to the water brother sing-songing F's and other inappropriate swear words that I wouldn't want my mum to read on here, than of course let me know that I had in fact, swore. That unwilling side would be wind. Wind is a little hairy at the best of times, so being out on the water with your brother, whom may I say is a perfectionist, and your husband, like me, who can't bait a hook, was all to adventurous without even the possibility of even catching a fish.

After Mark backed in the boat, Glenn was there holding on to it, knee deep in water, while I was sitting in the boat, taking advantage of getting some shots of Mark trying to explain to Glenn which way to push the vessel. My husband is a literal man, so when Mark doesn't tell him to get back into the boat after pushing it into deeper water, Glenn by this point, is chest high in water, with Mark and I wondering if we didn't tell him to get back in, would he have pushed us over to the other side of the river?

Although there is wind, it's still out of this world. We only had to drive around a few corners than down a road to get to the there. This was only my second time out on the Tweed River, and I had lived there on and off for about 12 years. Glenn and I were just looking at each other thinking, 'how the hell can we go back home, we need to stay here'. Besides fishing, we got to see this entirely different perspective of the area, an area I thought I knew really well. I seriously fell in love with a place I thought I already loved.

Not only did I discover that I want to do more fishing and live on the river in a shack that I've already picked out, but there is a Protected Rainforest Reserve, Stotts Island, running along the Tweed River only four minutes away. Stotts Island is the home of Mitchell's Rainforest Snail. The largest single area of the remaining habitat. Just picture, all that magnificent subterranean rain forest, surrounded with boats and cars and fields of sugar cane, there and only there are these tiny little snails the happiest.

Hello snails.

Hello lunch.

Which brings me to our my first destination of our maiden voyage together. To catch what would be lunch in three days time, we needed better bait than what we were using, which was frozen prawns, as we discovered Mark detested and were for the soul purpose of back-up bait in case the tide wasn't right for us to go catch our own fresh bait at a near by sand bank / island.

For a large portion of the journey, so far, Mark was telling us stories about different fish and other river dwelling creatures, also known as inappropriately sized sting rays, he or others had captured. So, upon arriving at the sand bank, Mark lets me know that there shouldn't be any sting rays under the mud. As you can imagine I'm doing everything in my power to tell myself to toughen up, thinking I've been in the city way to long if I'm freaking out over sting rays. Eventually I just scream at him and tell him there is no way I'm getting off the f'ing boat. Than he yells back at me and makes me feel guilty for wanting to stay on, reluctantly I get off and tread the two feet of water to land.

Seriously though, being female and boating with your brother, at times in need, such as relieving yourself, you just need to suck it up and hope that he is too busy at the other end of the island pumping for live yabbies. Which, I discovered, no matter how big the island, white bum cheeks will always stand out. This I learned as we were leaving the island and Mark told me he had turned around at the wrong time. Sorry about that.

Of course I'm not a great fisherman, I'm not even a fisherman at all, but I did manage to catch the only TAKE HOME AND COOK fish of the day. Sorry fellas, we don't like to eat sticks and leaves where I'm from. Flathead will do just fine. I'll stop gloating, now.

One more.

Once we disembarked, after waiting in an imaginary line on the river, behind other impatient fisher people, Mark did a quick gutting and beheading of the fish where I frantically rummaged to get my camera out.

Mark was practically mortified that I was snapping away, making us look like tourist. I on the other hand was excited. It's not everyday I get to go fishing, catch the fish, watch it be gutted and than filleted, cook it and than serve it with fresh, peppery rocket from the garden.

And that, my friend, is how you do it in the next world, an off-course and unassuming habitat.

Taste my banana away

2010-06-01T22:43:00.000-07:00

For some people, to name a town Chillingham, is just to good to be true. For me on the other hand, it really just sounds right. So finally, after a week of little half day trips here and there, we were headed into Queensland via the Natural Arch, which only meant that we would be driving through the edible village of Chillingham.

You should first of all know that there are endless, rough around the edges kinda villages in the whole area. The whole area being the Tweed and Byron Shire, venturing into the South East Queesnsland Hinterland. Once you arrive, you can pull to the side of the road, open the door, stretch your legs and head into the infamous Chillingham Banana Cabana.

This is a place where travellers seeking that something a little bit different, can just wonder amongst the plantation where tropical fruits thrive, afternoon thunder storms erupt in the skies, and of course, the washing on the line, for all to observe, drying before the rains set in.

Before we decided that we needed to buy every kind of fruit and vegetable, homemade jams and spreads and other delicious snacks, we headed out back where I realized that we were indeed in Australia and the snakes were quiet happy to tell me to piss off if I were to step on one. Luckily there were no snakes, just massive black ants that were sleeping on their backs and enough mozzie's to give me and the rest of northern NSW Ross river fever.

This quiet massive piece of tropical heaven in the midst of mountainous, rural mecca, is where one grows bush tucker. Bush tucker, for those who don't speak authentic Australian, means food grown native to the land. Foods such as Lemon Myrtle, Yuzu Fruit and Buddas Hand just to name a few, are all grown here, hand in hand, making this place a shrine for anyone who has even the slightest interest in food and the land.

Gerald 'Buck' Buchanan has been at this for over 25 years, not only serving as a home for hundreds of tropical fruit trees and plants, but decided to throw in a couple of bottle trees all those years ago and see how they took to the wetter than usual climate they like.

I guess they like it since we got to see them, though they had probably seen better days. There was only one left fully standing, the others had eventually given in and just toppled over in storms. Bottle trees are characters to say the least, especially when you're walking down the street in the middle of a city and there is this stumpy, prehistoric looking tree beast in close view.

Being from a land where you have easy access to banana paddle pops, I was pretty excited when the Banana Cabana had mass produced by hand, FROZEN chocolate covered bananas, ON a paddle pop stick. Attractive? No. Delicious? Yes.

I wonder if Glenn is OK with me posting these photos?

He looks too happy not to be.

I left my old man friend in the trees

2010-06-01T15:19:00.000-07:00

For one to savour a pleasing taste of the arts when bumming it by the ocean for a month with feral's and the elderly, one heads to the Murwillumbah Art Gallery. Here you will find a little cultural perspective, along with wonderful over-priced coffee in the cafe that sits mostly outdoors in amongst the trees.

It was only after I gasped at the answer to my question, 'how much is that?', that I heard my name being called. A kick ass lady who I use to know, one of those people you fancy to be around, is the busy owner of this dreamy place of great smells. I don't think I told her that I almost choked when hearing how much the coffee was. Gazing out at Mt Warning though, I really could see past such trivial complications.

This is what you get to see from the Art Gallery, whatever window you're looking out of. Let me just tell you that the ocean is only 20 minutes away, heading east, and every other way there is more of this. Also, on the way to the ocean, you're surrounded by sugar cane. Tropical and rural. You really must understand why we want to move back there. If you don't, than you soon will.

If you soften your gaze, you will see that Mt Warning looks like an old man sleeping. To me she looks like the top of a cassowary has been lodged there, to make her only more proud.

These slow moving sheep let us come right up to them and take photos. They were super quiet and looked a little like over-grown turtles. They have such have such a docile grace.

Strolling through the gallery, we got to meet some pretty fair dinkum' Aussie's.

I didn't know if I should weep or go retrieve a second case of beer for him.

As it turns out, he just wanted to be left alone.

There were others though. It was nice when Glenn was able to play a little one on one with Australia's very own, Joe Blow.

I know he has something to say, yet, nobody is listening. Just like in real life. How about that.

You, my old man friend, will always be with me.

I'll never forget you.

Just find one thing and do it really well

2010-05-28T17:57:00.000-07:00

Every now and again I wake up with the rising of the sun, in the early hours of the morning and start fossicking about. I will pull all my recipe books off the shelves and have many random lists and new ideas happening by the time Glenn wakes up, bulldozing him to the ground with my stories. This was one of those days. Only better since we're now living above ground and not in the cave like slumber of a basement apartment, which I think is pretty cozy but you just can't beat being able to look out the window and enjoy the view from street level.

Being that I am up and staring out the window at the pouring rain, I got to thinking about the beginning of our trip to Australia, how long ago it felt and also how life was starting to take on a more relaxed feel. Was it because we were on holidays or was it the sun, than maybe a little tropical rain in the afternoon? I don't know, I think it was a bit of both.

For the most part of our trip, we would plan something ever second day or so. Some kind of a structured journey that would end up taking on a life of it's own. We were there merely as guests and spectators. On our first Saturday morning we headed down to Murwillumbah, about 20 minutes inland from Kingscliff, to the markets that were indeed, very Murwillumbah. Just small and quiet abstract.

Between the Byron and Tweed shires, there is enough to satisfy everybodys craving, whether it be tie-dye, brownies with a little something extra, or potatoes just plowed, with the worms still waking up from their dirty coma. There's the old and the new, the old that still think they're new and the just plain untamed. M'bah has it all. It even has the greatest cinema ever, one that hosts rows of chairs at the back than big comfortable bean bags at the front. Yes, it does get better. There is a Hari Krishna pizzeria. You will order your pizza and they will bring it in while you're watching the movie. How good is THAT. The movies are both older and independent films.

The M'bah markets is where we found fig jam. I'm not going to harp on and tell you it was the best in the world, because I know everybody has 'a best in the world'. I will be humble on behalf of the fig jam and say it was very, very kind to us. It was so good that I felt the need to be selfless and leave the last jar there for another fortunate soul. That is all there is to say on the matter.

The man with the fig jam also sold us juicy, red, red tomatoes. He was an old school kind of fella that made me feel like a right knob when I would ask him questions or complement him. It just made me want to by more tasty tomatoes.

When I walked into the markets, which take place in a car park across from the cinema, under trees filled with cockatoo's dropping their half munched seeds on peoples heads, I instantly smelt the samosas and homemade chutneys. I was trying to hold off but couldn't wait any longer.

Just the one kind. One kind of Samosa is all you need. No need to give people choices. Though you did get to choose from two kinds of chutney. Instead of choosing, you really just took both and developed a hearty crush.

Sometimes, being human and all, we are given too many options. Too many things on the plate, so to speak. It's only human nature to want, want, want. Things we know we don't need, but when presented to us, we gobble them up. Take yourself to your local market and see how busy those places are that sell just one great thing. Meat on sticks and grilled, tacos, bowls of curry, pizza, dumplings. The list will never end. The endless list of someone creating one thing only, and making it so great, that people will love it more because they don't need to make a decision.

Bring me my family, I will bring you your food

2010-05-27T16:07:00.000-07:00

When one hasn't seen there dad for over three years and is excited to cook for him, a dad that is as old fashioned as a heavy, wrapped up Christmas cake, one decides to make kangaroo fajitas. Of course you say, why not make something that could quiet possibly be the exact opposite of warm and familiar comfort food, food that you want him to taste and think only of his childhood. Food that you want to impress your dad with, show him that you really can make a meal out it. What was I thinking to make this simple, delicious Mexican feast, when for all I know, dad has never set foot in a Mexican restaurant, let alone know what the fuck a fajita is. Thankfully, he thought they were pretty hunky-dory.

To a lot people outside of Australia, you're probably thinking that kangaroo meat is often eaten in most households, and on a regular basis. You would think so, but you would be wrong. This was my first time eating it. Like all food, I'm sure it differs each time it is prepared, so I'm going to say that it was pretty awesome but I really couldn't tell you that kangaroo specifically is out of this world, because it wasn't unlike beef. Only better. Like a strong and healthy loved cow. But it wasn't. It was kangaroo and that's why we're here. We're loving kangaroo's, not cow's. I will love you later cow.

I got the brilliant idea to show off in front of my dad, from my very pregnant and radiant friend Natalia. That night, she was making kangaroo tacos. Why not, I thought. Native and wild Mexican food. Australian style.

Like with many old dogs, I always thought my dad was pretty set in his ways. He knows what he likes and dislikes and is quiet happy to let you know, whether by sound effects or lack there of. He's a character to say the least, a man of few words before a few beers and I'm sure he'll always think it necessary to tell me old stories, in fine detail, about wenchy women he has been with in the past. So I was excited when he didn't ask me any questions about this roaring meal I was about to make him eat.

A roaring meal it sure was. I kept it quiet simple as you would imagine, throwing in some red kidney beans on the sly, since there would surely be protests about them, my dad letting me know he wasn't eating, 'that shit Karen use to eat'. It's nice to know he remembers his former relatives, (my current relatives) by the type of beans they ate.

All in all, our kangaroo fajitas were wild and tasty. Simple, was how we kept it. Our dinner, our evening, our little family all gathered together eating wild Australian, Mexican food.

Our salad was also simple. Mum had a killer crop of rocket (arugula) that needed to be harvested. Harvested being the operative word. There was so much I thought it would be easier if I went at it with a machete. We ate it almost every time we cooked dinner together. Family rocket is what we will call it.

Though my dad was set to call rocket or any other kind of green leaf we bought over, unless it was iceberg lettuce, 'wood lettice'. So I guess that is what we'll call it. Wood lettuce.

It tasted the way rocket should. The reason it got it's name. It was so peppery it nearly blew a hole out the back of my head. That's just the way we like it. Wood-like and mind-blowing.

For some reason I feel I need to dedicate another post. Since leaving Australia most recently, also being my first trip back since I left three years ago, I have felt a tug of sentimentality. I'm sure this happens as you get older, along with that, the already older people getting even older. So this I dedicate to my very NOT functional family, (I don't want to limit us to DIS functional) whom I never really embraced their awesomeness. I love you family.

You know the place

2010-05-27T00:17:00.000-07:00

Everyone has their holy sandwich. Your sandwich, will always be better than everyone else. There is also always a place where you have left and will always want to go back to for the chance to hold your holy sandwich close to you heart once again. And of course, very, very close to your watering mouth. This is the sandwich that you will go to, to rekindle your years spent apart before you even visit your parents whom you haven't seen for three years. For me, this sandwich belongs to Zanzibar.

Zanzibar is a Moroccan cafe in the sometimes bustling front street of Kingscliff. It's been around for maybe ten years by now and has held a very, very fresh and consistent standard of food. There is one menu, which is a massive blackboard to the right as you walk in. Zanzibar is not a greasy spoon, nor is it a hangout for chain smoking nincompoops. It has a bright and cozy North African spin on the place with drabs of school kids swooning around at any time of day.

One or both the owners, husband and wife, plus their two teenage boys, will usually be there, cooking those tasty lamb kebabs or casually sweeping and chatting with faithful locals. This is the place you can decide on what you want, if you're so lucky as to be able to do that, than walk three doors down to the pub, pick out a bottle of wine or a couple of beers, than walk back on up and just perch yourself down 'til heaven is served to you in the form of food. It's really that easy.

Just look at that. I'm a whole hemisphere away and it's really not fair that I can't take a bite. Here's what we're looking at. From the bottom up, than inside out.

Big handfuls of fresh tabouli
Slices of local avocado
Crisp, crunchy snow peas, thinly sliced
A thin piece of chicken, grilled and succulent
Pesto. It's really not worthy of calling it pesto unless it's made by two hands

and finally

Turkish bread. Soft and beautifully perfect.

There you have it, alive with personality.

There is a saying when it comes to this humble little cafe; Tuesday is the worst day of the week..because Zanzibar is closed. The people have spoken and they speak only of truth. They are also closed Monday nights, leaving a hungry presence sneaking out their from their locked up doors.

So I now dedicate this post to everyone who has said goodbye to a sandwich they have once called their own, who have had to rely on memory and many trial and error attempts at creating a replica for something that was once always so near and unchanged.

There's no dingo's down there, bloody dickheads

2010-05-24T13:23:00.000-07:00

It's been a thorough six week's since we were free styling up the east coast of Australia, yahooing and boozing it up until the break of day with wild locals and mad hairy men. Actually, I'm telling lies. For the first week, with the exception of falling asleep at dinner in Newtown before 9pm, we were horizontal in our van, dead to the world by the time the sun fell behind the bushes, with nothing but the sound of the sliding door opening and shutting to go wee in the middle of the night keeping us up. As time went on we made it to 10pm quiet a few times and was once even awake until midnight. So there you go, times have changed and life really isn't all about hangovers and floozy's. It's about finding that perfect motorized cart to drive around on, with your fluorescent orange flag whipping around behind you.

Glenn was dumbfounded at the amount of old bags and buggers riding the roads in their carts, stopping out the front of the newsagent's and pharmacy's talking it up with the next crazy old git, before riding of into the sunset to take their medication and watch The Bold and the Beautiful. Than, one day as we were driving with mum, she's telling us about the 'two seater' cart, as if on cue, the old girl pulled up at the traffic lights, what a beauty; the double whammy. Mum and dad, side by side in their love seat cart. We were in our glory when out jumped the old bloke from his seat, grumpily walked over to the traffic lights and pressed the walk button. I was sad when I didn't get a photo. Oh well, a variety of cart photo's to come in future posts.

Enough jabbering about geriatric transportation, let's get back on the road. Well almost. First you need to know about the time my hair dryer caught on fire. We decided that if we were heading to see my family the next day then we would need to shower at least once in four days. My hair is not beautiful nor likable, unless you're some furry bunyip creature from the southern hemisphere.

Since I'm not a fury animal, sometimes I do actually need to attend to my hair and Nambucca Heads was the place I was going to do it. Nambucca is on the east coast of Aussie, half way between Sydney and Brisbane. Enough going on there to have a good night sleep and some awesome fresh food.

The feeling of a shower at this point is so painfully close that I was happy to pay $45 for a piece of land to park our ugly van on for the night. It was well worth the money until I attached my tiny travel hairdryer to my adapter, plugged it and was left with an explosive sound quiet similar to a fighter jet taking off. It only took seconds for me to register that I didn't have a really awesome hairdryer anymore, but one that was about to catch on fire from the sparks that were assembling around the outer edge. After I looked around to see if anyone that was showering had stepped out to see if I was still alive, they didn't, I slipped the useless machine into the bin and left with mad, wet hair.

Being no different from any other morning at this point, we were up before the sun and fussed about until there was enough light as to not have to dodge spun out kangaroo's at dawn hopping about on the road. We paid a ten dollar deposit for our toilet key and needed to get it back from the office. Thinking that there would be some night person that sleeps near by would be able to pop over and give it to us, I start banging on the glass door and ringing the bell, quiet obnoxiously, in hope that we could get on the road. Than a cranky man-boy opened his bedroom door adjacent to where I was banging and made me feel like a dickhead for being so rude at this hour of the morning for a measly ten bucks. Quiet true, but ended up paying $55 for a patch of dirt and blown-up hairdryer.

Not to far up the road, just south of Grafton, a place where my friend Heidi tells me, behind closed doors they're a different breed of people, hmmm, Glenn and I find our own special breed of dog. To this day we swear black and blue that we found our very own Dingo. We had been driving really slow for the last couple of K's through roadworks and were day dreaming and looking around at more bush land when we both saw a juvenile dog playfully jumping about. We were uselessly trying to get the camera to prove our discovery when cars started honking and frightened the dog off into the bushes. It may not have been a pure dingo as if it was shipped down from Fraser Island, but it was definitely some kind of wild dog/dingo, one that has us sounding like we were taking the piss. Either way, its was pretty beautiful and mysterious.

Bypassing about a thousand places I wanted to stop and take Glenn to along the coast, we were only a couple of hours from what would be our home for the next month, so we gunned it until we arrived at Byron Bay, where I was sad to find out my love for the place was lost with the past. A happy lost. However we did find our way to revisit The Rails Hotel for a coldie, with the absence of local entertainment boozing it up in the park next to the beer garden. The Rails is the old train station that was utilized into a mighty fine pub when the trains stopped stopping at Byron a bunch of years ago. Check it out if you're about there. Less skanky backpackers and more mangy locals. It's a ripper.

I'm pretty happy we've arrived in Kingscliff. It's been a fast tracked journey to get to this point, so now i'm going to settle back and enjoy telling you my story. There are many, so please keep coming back to see what happens next.

A good night mooning

2010-05-07T00:04:00.000-07:00

Has anyone ever been to Newcastle? The Newcastle in New South Wales, north of Sydney? Well, besides on just one occasion many shady moons ago on a night when fiasco's seem to happen, I hadn't been there. This was my first wonderful experience in Newcastle, so pleasant in fact that Glenn and I made excitable plans to move here when it was time leave America. Note that since than we have decided to move elsewhere, at no fault to Newcastle. One of those days when the sun is shining hard and bright and quiet frankly, life is good.

Newcastle is a port town, a place of industry, where you look out to sea and as far as your eye can make out there are massive cargo ships waiting there for hours and days to lug themselves to shore. When you look to towards the west, the horizon is dotted with a world of coal. It's the working man's town, a proud community you could say.

After no food the night before, food has become the hour of power. Going from extremes such as overpriced, flavorless lettuce, to, how the fuck are we ever going to decide, we opted to cross the road to a little ray of light shining on the ever so tasty and local health food store.

Know this: you will rarely visit a cafe in most of Australia and not have the option of Turkish or Lebanese bread. I'm beyond baffled most of the time when I enter a cafe in America and I only see bread that I don't want to eat. It's mighty fine bread most of the time, don't get me wrong, it's just that Turk and Leb are outstanding.

I guess I'm just going to have a crack it myself. I'm not a baker my any means, patience is stuck in the oven on high and is burning into crunchy parts. You will hear about it though, just for shits and giggles.

When you're wandering and climbing the streets in Newcastle there is a constant changing contrast with what you'll see down the next one. Unfortunately, like almost every piece of land on the east coast of Australia, vacant or not, there are various groups of hellish fat cats, developers I think is their name, that seem to be tearing down places of character and erecting eye sores in place their place. My point being, Newcastle is no exception. The alluring houses and buildings that are still standing instantly take me back to a place that I never existed in.

Little terrace houses that get you picturing round, sweaty mamma's baking and beating down floury bread and making buttery, family sized meat pies.

It just so happened that a splendid fellow whom is courting my dear aunt Karen, was visiting his parents in the area, and offered to take us on a little mini tour of his childhood town. Thanks Neil. So after climbing to what had to surely be the highest point in the greater Newcastle area, we met him down the road for a little show and tell.

After playing silly buggers with a lost shopping trolley we all found our way to the ocean. Thanks to the thousands of convicts that were dropped ashore more than 200 years ago, the walk out to the light house and beyond is a pretty good one. Thanks fellas.

After a little more driving, stop, get out, take a photo, get back in, drive again, Neil dropped us off at our ugly van and we followed him out of town toward Lake Macquarie for the night. One of those massive lakes where there are entire townships dotted all the way around with perfect sunsets that cause embarrassing oohs and aaahhs every 20 seconds when the color changes slightly.

As the sun slowly set in the sky, my blood sugar levels and sanity were fading with it. As tears of hunger started to roll down my face we desperately searched for edible food. Cooking was not happening tonight. After driving 15 minutes down the road and deciding it felt to much like a haven for serial killers, we headed back to the spot Neil originally showed us. We also found Indian food. In the midst of stores housing fashion from past decades and restaurants seating people struggling to keep their eyes open, there she was. One massive tandoori oven eating his master alive.

The only very wrong thing about camping out in a van on a quiet, but a main road at that, with locals going for evening strolls and late night drivers pulling in near for snuggles by the water, is that you end up looking like a kangaroo in a head light with your pants around your ankles when you need to go to the toilet. I'm usually quiet happy to drop my dacks if I need a toilet when there isn't one, but mooning strolling families is not one of my highlights.

Goon-a-fortune

2010-05-04T21:52:00.000-07:00

There's only one thing left to do when you've got a road map, an ugly van, stale cruskits and seventeen bottles of over priced water; hit the road. It just feels so good. Spending weeks pottering around Sydney would have been easy to do, but the open road was calling.

We really only crawled out of Sydney, since we headed to the northern most tip of the Sydney beaches, oooing and aaahing over the drive towards Avalon and Newport, where we spent the night at the foot of the Newport Arms Hotel. It was the sort of overnight van camping spot that is so good, you can't help but look around, waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes when you're doing a wee saying, 'piss off, bloody tourists'.

Thankfully, that didn't happen. Instead we were greeted by a friendly

local with his weathered hand, dangerously reaching brown bag rippage, around his third long neck. Come on Aussie, come on.

If you've ever been to the northern beaches of Sydney, the far end, you'll know that on both sides of the road there is water. One for the view of cliff side mansions facing the Pacific, the other for their boats on the Pittwater Estuary side.

So when a local market holder told us about this great little pub over looking the water in Newport we thought he must have known what he was talking about. Instead of small and old we got big and new, not good for the traveller in a dying van.

What is good for the traveller in a dying van is a bottle shop, a big, wide bottle shop that has rows and rows of cask wine assortments.

When the food is just not cutting it, the kind of food Sydney weekenders flock for, and you're laying back in your faithful heap of crap with million dollar views, one can only make the assumption to crack the goon bag, pour, than watch the sun fall from the noisy sky.

why are you photographing my eggs?

2010-04-25T23:37:00.000-07:00

Does anyone else agree that the best kind of energy is when you're walking amongst a gathering of people, a social affair, and there's not one, not five, but more like fifteen different languages and ethnicities, bumping of one and other? Than Marrickville Markets are for you. When it comes to crowds you can usually count me out, but today I was bumping around with the best of them.

My dear friends, living in a nature wonderland near the Marrickville River, whom I rarely see, invited us to explore their little world on a heavenly Sunday morning. We'd spent the night with them, falling asleep at the dinner table than sleep walking to the Buzz Bar Cafe, so were now bushy enough to eat our way through the markets.

Is anyone a collector of crap? Or how about 500 magnets with 'I Love Australia'? The little squirty pump part of squirty bottles? Well M'ville Markets is also for you. Recycled Garbage is a creative mecca plopped off to the side of the community centre. It changes all the time, inviting all walks of life to come sift through massive, wooden squares of STUUUUUFF. Parents bring their children on rainy Sydney days, to go off with their imaginatioins and collect scraps of felt and naked bald barbie dolls. Way up the back there is planks of timber, sheet metal and endless tins of used house paint.

All of this could be out the door and never seen again by next week.

All I can say, is that there should be a place like this in every community.

Than there is the food. Like most markets where you can find tie-dye, there is usually pretty delicious food.

Today my friend leads us to a vendor under a shady tree, next to a lady selling fudge who assures us hers is the best. I believe her. She is living proof.

Our lady, who resembles a bee with mad hair, is giving us a bit of vego heaven. At first I wanted it all, than I got it all, than I ate it all, than I wanted more. Little balls and squares of imagination that fits in the palm of your hand and fits in the hole of your mouth.

First of all there is the Lebanese bread. Spread with what you choose. Homous and yogurty goodness for us. The bread is all rounded and hilly, like you have to go searching for your next organic morsal.

I should explain a little more clearly what this is all about. There's a whole bunch of plates filled with small bites of vegetarian and vegan bites. Rice and legumes, potato and carrot fillings with spices and fresh herbs. Oh joy.

I thought the coolest part was when her glass jar filled with shreaded red cabbage had a whole cabbage leaf used as the lid. Dandy I would say.

I think chickens and eggs are quiet nifty. I also like to eat both and one day in the near future I would like to have chickens pecking away in my back yard at worms being happy chickens. If they feel like it, they can offer me some beautiful eggs every morning. My story begins and ends like this: I was walking into the market when I see some photos of happy chickens and a big pile of eggs next to them. I thought I would take a photo of that photo and those eggs. The lady who owns that photo and those eggs thought that was a bad idea. She chased me down three stalls away, excused me and demanded she need to know why I was taking photos of her fowls. I told her we didn't have chickens where I come from. That is why you see this photo before you.

After a short encounter with my scrumptious market day, I will leave you with this. Anywhere you can perch on a thick patch of grass in the sun, in an inner city suburb, never knowing except for the planes that you are even in fact in a city, with a hand painted yoga sign, a recycled garbage centre, bogans, hippies, farmers, yuppies, families from every hidden corner of the world, food, gardens, pooing dogs and of course a procession of Somoans heading to their church, all in plain view, is somewhere to be on a Sunday morning.

Now in there for close up. It was just simply good.

Street food that doesn't need to roll you over and shake you up the wrong way.

tomato and basil sitting in a tree

2010-04-19T15:58:00.000-07:00

It's fairly wonderful when you arrive in Australia a week or so after the last of the tomatoes have been picked. For a good six months now i've been facinating about bruschetta. Making it. Eating it. I couldn't bear to make something as delightfully simple as bruschetta and use tomatoes that have been shipped halfway across the world, or even produced in a hot house as near as California. I WANT TOMATOES. TOMATOES. NOT SHAPES THAT LOOK LIKE TOMATOES.

Something else that's very smashing is that my mum has enough basil in her garden to harvest for a pesto festival held somewhere wonderful for a good week. I can see it there now. Just life giving life to all that I breath in.

Another beautiful component of bruschetta is that you can use whatever bread you like. Of course a nice french loaf or turkish bread is the most fun. Little rounded rectangles of soft crunch. This time I used store bought turkish loaf. I was told that if I wanted the real deal that I needed to get to the bakery earlier on in the day. O well. This was mighty fine. A little drizzle of extra virgin drizzled over the top after being toasted under the grill. Mmmmmm mama. So much garlic.

Other than having the garlicy, basily, oil base left to add more tomato to the next day, there is the joy of eating this with my dad. My dad is a meat and three veg kinda fellow, and seeing him involved in mmmmmm's and drizzles of oil running down his face was pure delight.

It's just too splendid when you are able to create simple food with an explosive taste for people that need to close thier eyes for one last moment of bliss, than, it's gone, only until the next bite.

let the bread speak

2010-04-18T19:02:00.000-07:00

It's time for a little bit of sentimentality. If the clouds decided to part ways than I would salute the Cascades to the east and the Olympics to the west goodbye. Instead , while waiting at the traffic lights, I was able to have some final eyebrow push-ups as the resident lunatics faught their battles up and down my clustered neighbourhood. All be it, we arrived at sea-tac hours before we took off, allowing us to sample some of our airports creative food ideas. Not really,just being silly, but we found a little wine bar that had great wine and a delicious menu with the food coming in at a close third on the tasty track. O well, we had the plane ride to look forward to, an excitable 14 hours of snacking on plane goods, flowing Australian wines to sample and endless movies to watch right? Only in my mind was that happening anywhere from San Fransisco to Sydney. If I wasn't begging Glenn to convince me that we were going to be okay and not crash into the Pacific Ocean, than I had mad motion sickness, the kind that you could imagine being chopped up than tossed into your food processor, pulsed, pulsed, pulsed, than poured. Not in anyway is that an exaggeration.

I think it was breaking point when my wine litterally flew out of the glass it was swimming in. I never knew turbulance was so mean.

I wonder if the bumpy ride had anything to do with the hunched over elderly gentleman carrrying a crucifix, man four foot nothing, crucifix four foot nothing. It was a only moderately disturbing, while walking to my seat, when I saw him hitting himself in the neck with his little old friend trying to calm him. I reckon he knew we were going down but raised his cross to the mightty force in protest. Thanks ole mate. I only wish I could have snapped a few photo's.

I must say it was a pretty sweet feeling landing in Sydney. The last few years of just wondering when the time would come. Plonk. Down on that runway. Deciding years in advance what I might want to eat first. What I might cook a bit later.

I'm still a little shocked at how I never rememberd all the little amazing details of home. My gosh, just walking down the street in Marrickville or Clovally was a treat. Black cockatoos, lorikeets, whip birds, than travelling up the coast, what we thought was a dingo playfully jumping around in national park area.

A few people we told assured us that it was only a wild dog but we like to think we saw a dingo far from what many believe are only on Fraser Island.

The mission once we stepped out of the Kingford-Smith was to get our hungry, tired asses to the

Wicked Van depot in Waterloo. Thats right next door to Redfern, with no place to go except the bottle shop at 9am for a longneck of VB. One of those you've gotta experience it yourself moments to realise just how exhausted we were after not only the flight, which would have been barable, but the 2 hour bus ride from the airport to Bondi Junction than on another bus all the way back to the same area we came from just took it out of us. There were beautiful, flowing tears and almost some wet pants from lack of food and sleep. We made it though and when we finally got on the road the only thing I had to worry about was staying on the left side of the road. Made it, with only a few times cruising down the right side, at night, when I was a little misguided from dusk lighting.

I never would have thought the first thing I was going to eat would be a hamburger, but it was a mighty fine one at that. The simple way. The way mum use to make. A handful of ground beef with onion and garlic, moulded into a flat disc and thrown on the grill. I could never forget the grilled onions. Sublime. The bun. Geez, so light the wind nearly blew it away. I don't even have any glorious photos, just toooo hungry. Than some sleeping went on, some dazed sleeping, parked at the beach, with the sound of families running around and funny dogs and dog walkers.

The best things in life are free. Well almost. It's free to get excited about all the great food i've been absent from, but far from free when I need to purchase great cheese, butter and Lebanese bread from a very small local milk bar. (More on the greatness and wonder of Lebanese bread soon).

Our first night served us well, with views of the Clovally Bowling Club. Although it was Friday night and the oldies were up for some fine bowls club grub and beer, yahooing out across the cemetary close by, we were out cold by 6pm, not noticing the hard board under the inch thick matress til' the next time we were blessed with sleeping in our van.

So much of this country to explore in every living moment. I'm facinated and have ultimately fallen in love with it. I don't know if it has been love all over again, but my eyes and heart are open now and that's what matters. I think it takes being away from a place that you know is somewhere there in your heart, just not being able to locate it at times, than coming back for to see it to really appreciate the endless joy of it. Travel; that's all I can say. Do it now. Don't forget.

P.S. Please comment. Please please please.

Indian moments between life updated

2010-04-07T13:52:00.000-07:00

I've been messing about with settings and what not on here, having technical and clerical difficulties. Nothing too blown out of the water, though enough for me to pass some unnessesarily bad vibes onto Glenn, who has been sitting here next to me at times, an innocent bystander, in our adopted basement apartment. Although it's not at all handy to miraculously loose the spell check option on your blog settings, it's also not very handy to create a war with your husband. A war that could start over something that is meant to be fun and challenging for the soul is not my pick-a-path way today. Saying that, I, at times, have been known to allow my body heat to reach boiling point and spill haphazadly over the edges and into the great abyss. So right after my last post we decided to head over to the water where I could drink tea and think about my childish ways. Which of course past when I realized that it was probably the madness in the high winds that was sending me a little sideways.

While living in and out of order at times, having the majority of pots and pans, recipe books and general inspiration all packed away and living in Columbia City, one must choose to cook one pot dishes. For a number of obvious reasons. One pot; dutch oven. Left overs; tastes better as the days go by. Mix it up; add extra ingredients later on. Last but not least, energy. You can disguise your effortless ways of preparing your usually perfectly sliced garlic and your geometically cubed onions with chucky vegi's and aromatic stocks and herbs.Who has the energy left to be so precise when you're working and packing and trying to be a sane wife? It does kill me to admit that I don't. O well. Comfort just takes me along for the ride and i'm more than happy to follow.

Only a week ago we were living across from an Indian grocery, one I would walk past if I didn't drive to work. Everyday there would be boxes of vegi's and signs that would display sales on baby goats. When you walked inside, down the back to the meat display cabinet, with the shiny clean windows, would be stuck photos of those very baby goats you are looking at skinned and portioned. I still chuckle everytime I go in there. These baby goats in the photo's look like some serious petting zoo babies. Especially the way they're looking up at the camera baaaring with there little pink tongues poking out.

I know for a moment there I might sound slightly sadistic, not very vegetarian of me. Though I did try once. I told and old chef friend ten years ago that I was stepping over to the other side, giving up the taste of flesh. He stopped speaking to me for three days. He was passionate about food, spreading my way what was the beginning of a food sensation in my life. He was the first person to teach me to treat food with respect. I guess that's why my local Indian market insists on displaying glossy photo's of edible adorables. Respect is all.

My one pot dish was to become an Indian feast. A peas and potato feast. I cooked it up the day before we ate than decided that we needed papadums. I've only seen these delicious, paper thin, crunchy morsals once over here and it was an embarassing display to say the least. So I was looking forward to frying up my own plastic looking discs at home. After I went on a voyage with the shop keeper in search of papadums, throughout the pasta aisle and than of course the rice aisle, with every other kind of pasta becoming what he was convinced was a papadum, we made it back to the counter where he took pleasure in giving me samples of Indian snacks that his fellow countryman alike come to eat. My favorite one's were the golden brown somosa that I never got to try and my least favorite were the tomato looking sweet and deep fried treats that I got to try too many times.

This recipe is nothing more than a bit of fun throughout the week when you just can't storm it up in the kitchen. I like to add any kind of Indian spices. Lots of chili and cardomon, cumin and cloves. Oh yes. They are the dream team. Cook that up with onions and garlic and they will have you coughing with joyous watery eyes. I like to pour in some homemade chicken stock and get the pot all excited. Once it you've got it simmering away and theres a good amount of liquid i'll throw in the sturdy veg. Potatoes it is. In they go with more stock if needed. Salt and pepper of course. Stir occasionally. If i'm adding peas and not going to eat until the next day than i'll just wait until about half an hour before serving.

This silly little recipe isn't anything to gee wiz about. It's merely an offering of inspiration. I'm about to go board a plane to Australia and for the past month or more i've been preparing for the trip. My first trip back there since moving to Seattle. So a nice silly little one pot dish is what one needs every so often. Enjoy the likes of whatever you create in your kitchen.

I'll be seeing you in a few days from that other hemisphere.