Mock Lamb

As a kid I was duped a bunch of times into eating things I wouldn’t knowingly eat. Curry chicken stew with a side of boiled white rice was a staple in our house for a while. I would help mum cut the carrots and onions for it. We would brown them of in some butter and scrape them into the huge silver boiler on the stove. It wasn’t until I was a bit older I learned it was in fact rabbit. Curry Rabbit Stew. Mmmmm mmmmm. I will admit it was delicious and very yummy even as an eight or nine-year old.

Wednesday night in our house has sort of become the weekly roast night. It’s the one day of the week I am generally home to cook something elaborate and delicious while racing around getting housework done. Tonight was going to be roast “lamb”. I prepped it with a marinade of sea salt, cracked black pepper, garlic cloves, rosemary and olive oil, beaten to a pulp with my mortar and pestle. I rubbed it into the leg and placed it into the baking dish, covered it with foil and popped it into the oven at about 10.30am on a very low heat.

The smell filled the house and welcomed the boys as they walked through the door after school. “Smells good Mum” says one, and the other says, “is that the goat leg that was in the fridge?” “Nah, it’s not, that went out of date and I had to throw it out. I zipped out this morning and got a leg of lamb instead” while I bent down to hide my smirk. My reasoning was apparently valid after I assured him that I wouldn’t lie to him, it is definitely lamb.

So bread mopped up the gravy on empty plates, whilst one boy chewed on his ‘lamb sandwich’. The dog sat beside me waiting for some scraps, and it seems that the roast was a hit. The meat was sweet and fall apart tender, with the just-right amount of saltines and a hint of rosemary and garlic. Delicious without a doubt.

Ben and I whispered about telling them, sniggering between ourselves and in a passing comment, I ask Mitch how his roast goat was? With the biggest ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ smirk he bleats, I knew it! You bloody lied to me! … Well, I did, sorta, I admit, but just a little white lie to help you experience something yummy I reasoned while laughing.

Being fooled by your parents to eat something you wouldn’t try on your own, whether its mashed peas in potato or medicine in cordial, is mandatory. We have all done it as a parent and no doubt I’ll continue to do it even if it’s just to get a reaction from them.

Perhaps I’ll cook a Curry Chicken Stew tomorrow night, while singing My Highland Goat?

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!

Nom

Starlight Blogger Award

I was nominated for the Starlight Blogger award by 5cheekymonkeys whom I thank very much. This award is for inspirational blogs. I don’t actually follow many blogs, but I do read a lot of random blog posts through the reader. Generally what ever catches my attention I will read. I would never consider myself to be inspirational, I’m just a normal chick, living a normal life. Some of the blog posts I have read are dealing with huge issues and personal challenges, they’re truly inspirational.

Thank you for the nomination 5cheekymonkeys, I’m a bit chuffed.

Here are the RULES:

  • Thank the person that nominated you and link back to their blog.
  • Answer the 3 questions that are given to you.
  • Pass the award on to 6 or more other bloggers of your choice and let them know that they have been nominated.
  • Include the logo of the award on your blog, please never alter the logo and never change the rules.

The Questions:

What’s something you miss from your childhood? This answer should be my Mum, but truly I think I miss the freedom and carefree’ness of childhood. The never having to worry about anything except keeping warm and being fed.

Something that made you smile today? Walking the supermarket aisles with my hubby today and he requests that I make sausage rolls instead of buying them pre-made, “yours are better!” he says… Uh, well there ya go!!

Your favourite drink (not coffee!)? Jameson Whiskey straight up after a few with water and a squeeze of fresh lemon on ice.

I nominate:

A Room of My Own

Naptime Writing

Amie Writes

Put On Your Happy Face

Amanda Mininger

Random. Structured. Haphazard. All Me.

My 3 Questions Are:

Who is your one true hero? (From the heart who truly inspires you?)

What is you favourite sweet / lolly / candy?

Where do you see yourself in 10 years time?

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!

Nom

starlight-blogger-award

Hot Wax and Pubes

Considered a modern necessity, ripping the pubic hair from your mons pubis with hot wax would easily be the most inconvenient and painful way of keeping ones bush tamed. What is it that makes a naked labia majora attractive? We just can’t bloody wait to grow pubes as a blossoming adolescent and then all of a sudden, we are clipping, shaving and or ripping them out by the roots, aiming for what we once wore naturally. None of it makes an iota of sense.

It occurred to me the other day while spread eagle on the conveniently warmed waxing bed, one leg almost behind my head,  I really had no clue as to why I endure this ritual every four weeks. I lie, I do have some clue, that being my husband but if it wasn’t for him, honestly I probably wouldn’t do it. Yeah sure, there’s a fair amount of appeal that comes with a neat fanny, if you love fannies I guess and just on the quiet, I don’t, I think they’re hideous but what I don’t entirely get is, what’s wrong with a neat hairy fanny? Perhaps there isn’t anything wrong, but I am yet to be involved in an open conversation between friends where a bloke (or woman) says, “I love a hairy moot”… surely some do right? Somebody’s got to love the Bush.

thVGJKA8TOThe old Map of Tassie just isn’t what she used to be. It once stood strong, proud and thick up there on the pubic bone, just a little bit of a bikini trim was all it took to keep the fringe at bay. But generally she’s not even a triangle shape any more, she’s more often than not an ‘airstrip’ or some other general shape to celebrate an upcoming special occasion. Not that I have ever gone to the lengths of having the shape of a heart waxed into my mappatazzie, and I’ve never even fucking considered it, but a LOT do. Some even go to the lengths of colouring their old ginger ninja to match their upstairs curtains. I mean really, are we that vain and insecure now, that perhaps ya partner might not like odd curtains? I doubt they even care because he/she’s gettin’ some … just saying.

Not getting pubes inconveniently stuck in your teeth and the back of ones throat would probably be the only bonus with the whole Brazilian wax and hairless cat thing. This one reason for waxing makes sense entirely, besides the creeping ivy down ones legs that really needs to be mown back if you’re going out in public. Gagging is not a sexy look in the boudoir, nor is picking the pubes out of your teeth or off your tongue. Yes, yes, I just said that, you were all thinking it right?  The downside but reality is, sometimes you have your skin torn off, bleeding pores and lets not forget being burned by the hot wax. Oh wait, and I have heard that piercings can also be hazardous… Imagine one of those ripped out accidentally…

While trying to avoid the embarrassment of spreading your legs into positions that a contortionist can’t do for a random waxing lady, many women fail to the hazards of home waxing; sticking ya flaps or arse cheeks together is common practise, so too is missing chunks of pubes so you look like a sick animal, and then there’s dripping wax everywhere else but on your flaps and perhaps even giving yourself third degree burns from the over heated wax. After all that, you then have to deal with your undies getting stuck to your skin until residue wax is washed off and then the ingrown hairs start to appear a little later and they’re as itchy as all fuck.

For all the trouble it’s worth, I am beginning to wonder if it is. Hubby might have something to say about that, so for the moment I’ll keep the mane tamed but I’m not getting it shaped nor coloured.

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!

Nom

Fog, 11 & 13 don’t play well.

I was going through a few things in an old jewellery box on Saturday and came across an old worn envelope. It was folded down into a strip, like it was keeping something safe. Unrolling the folds, I pulled the envelope apart and there clumped in the corner were a reminder of just how lucky I have been.


June 13th, 1986 was a Friday, a Black Friday, or so they call them. The dreaded Friday the 13th when everything that could go wrong, does. I was eleven then, innocent and happy. We were living on the ‘block’ at the time, winter days of thick fog and drizzling rain. As we bustled around the caravan getting ready for school, Mum hauled two huge baskets of dirty washing out to the old white Renault wagon and jammed them into the back, she would take them to the Laundromat after the school drop off.

My sisters and I scrambled into the car with our school bags, Mick sat in front, while myself and Lana jumped in the back. It was always a shit fight as to who was sitting in the front seat. My kids now whine about it too, like it matters. It doesn’t now and it didn’t matter then. The seats were cold and the windows fogged up thick. We wiped our sleeves across the wet glass as mum kicked the Reno in the guts. On our way to the bus stop we dropped by our “Block-lords” and grabbed their two kids Joey and Lozza. They were younger than me, happy and smiling. Climbing into the back seat the four of us sat squished in for the three kilometre drive to the bus stop.

The dirt road was corrugated and rough. You couldn’t go too fast or you would lose a mud guard or worse still, a wheel. The belting and bashing of the road was noisy, and mum had the cassette player cranked up and Lesley Gore was singing It’s My Party, and I’ll Cry If I Want To. We were all laughing and singing along, the heater blasting the interior of the car. The fog was thick outside but we could still see a little bit in front of us. It had that eerie mist feel. A car passed by us going the other way, a neighbour who had already dropped their kids off at the bus stop perhaps.

We drove up over the crest in the road and coming down the other side Mum murmured the words, “hold on” as she threw her arm across the front of the space between the front seats, reaching across at Mick. As I looked up I could see head lights and a tray truck turning in front of us. What seemed like minutes went by as Lesley Gore groaned about crying at her party and we plummeted bonnet first into the side of it.

Opening my eyes, the smell was the first thing I noticed. Iron and metal. I looked around me, Joey and Loz were already out of the car, the seat was bare to the right of me where they sat and Lana wasn’t on my left. Doors opened and voices called. It’s a blur, and fuzzy with yelling and hissing. I slid across the seat and stood at the side of the car, leaning against the door. I’m not sure who gave me the jumper from the laundry in the back, they pushed it to my forehead and I held it there. I was confused.

Looking down at the jumper, my red blood pooled on it. I reached to my head searching for the bloody source. dazed I spun around to see Mick sitting in the car holding her mouth, blood and saliva dripping from between her fingers, her eyes full of tears and confusion with more than her share of terror. I realised then what had happened and a rage pushed up from my stomach and purged out of my mouth. My vile voice of hate and anger shifted its focus to the man in the tray truck. With forced vigour I approached him, screeching at him, telling him to look at what he had done, what he had done to me holding the bloodied jumper in the air at him. I wanted to know why he did it? How could he do this?

I was ushered away from him. Were there other people there? An ambulance? It was noisy. Crying, and tears I couldn’t see through. The terror that surged through me, and where was Lana? I was so cold.

I laid on the hospital bed. Shaking. The smell of blood all around me. That iron metal smell, that dense, thick pungent and earthy smell, underneath the ether and disinfectant. A blue cloth covered my face and the sting and pushing of a needle punched my forehead. More than once. I sobbed under that blue cloth. My hand squeezed mums hand, I knew it was hers. The gritty cotton trickled through my skin pulling it tight, over, and over, and over, and over.


The three of us laid there on the floor in the caravan annex lounge. Cuddled up together in front of the pot belly stove under our feather doona. I laid there with my sisters that night, so afraid and so worried that it physically hurt me to breathe. I listened to their every breath, their every murmur, and we whispered about how we felt, our worries and how we were scared. I held them both until we all fell asleep. It was my job to keep them safe that night, there in the lounge, in front of the fire, where we belonged, together and alive.


The eleven stitches, that were snipped from my forehead 29 years ago, dropped out of the envelope and onto my hand. One for each year I had thus far lived he day it happened. I touched my forehead with some amount of gratitude. It was a Friday the 13th I will never forget and a day that began my superstition belief. A day I could have been killed, or perhaps one of my sisters just as easily. The fog still scares me a little, and I stay home if I can on Black Friday’s. Perhaps Lesley Gore predicted the gore and the crying that would present itself that morning and she was warning us? I don’t like the song… safe to say.

Lesley Gore

Make sure you turn the teapot twice clockwise and once anticlockwise!

Nom