Christmas Markets

I was born in Australia and have spent all bar three Christmases in the searing heat of an Australian summer. But this year, I miss the cold of a London winter. For the last five years, Christmas here has peaked at more than 40°C and while we cope the best we can, avoiding the hot roast dinner and flaming pudding in favour of cold ham and icecream bombe, it is still a sweltering occasion with the family wilting as the day progresses.

My last two Christmases managed to circumvent this as I was living in London experiencing first hand the concept of a proper white Christmas.  Neither was a white Christmas, though it was close, but the short days and biting cold of London's winter were a contrasting and welcome change. Instead of the feel of sweat running down the small of your back, the air chilled your fingers to the point of numbness and the breeze sent icy fingers down the neck of your felt coat. You felt glad you'd remembered to wear your felt-lined boots or even your toes would be suffering from the chill rising through the frozen ground.

Hearing now of the current festive season in London, I'm drawn back to the Hyde Park Winter-Wonderland where bright lights and German signs advertising bratwursts and gluhwien draw you through the stalls selling christmas ornaments and lollies into the muddy heart of wonderland. I miss the thrill of wandering around London after work snug in a warm elegant coat and fur hat admiring the Christmas lights down Oxford Street and the windows of Fortnum and Mason. Then traipsing across the river at Charing Cross to visit the Southbank markets where stalls sell scarves and jewellery, and delicate glass ornaments to decorate the tree regally awaiting your return home. 

For each of the two years I spent in London, I bought a little ornament for my Christmas tree, a small decoration that symbolised that year's adventures. The first year it was tobogganing in Greenwich park with housemates as we celebrated the first snow and the close of schools. We borrowed the landlady's tea tray with strict instructions to prove its indestructibility. It returned, a slight dip in the middle as we'd pulled the handles up hanging on for life as we careered down the steep slopes of Greenwich park. The second year I'd finally discovered the deer who resided in the corner of Greenwich park and so the wooden ornament depicted them calmly grazing amongst a forest of evergreens. 

I miss the bright red berries of the holly as it heralded the arrival of the festive season, and the alternative Christmas tree it provided for me as its green and variegated leaves lit up a corner of my little room. 

And hearing of my sister's current adventures through the markets in Potsdam, sampling the German food on offer just makes me want to leave the chaos of organising Christmas here and return to the calmer (if colder) airs of London.

That Ring Finger

It's a strange feeling, to have your ring finger obviously checked for signs of marriage.

I'll admit, on this occasion, perhaps it was a little more expected than usual as I was at a wedding dress exhibition and was so obviously taking notes on the wonders of the exhibition. And assumption has it that someone my age would no doubt be there looking for inspiration... that is if I wasn't already married. So she had to check. So she knew how to word her question. Silly really, as historical fashion is enough of a draw for me. But I suppose she wasn't to know that.

It's strange though because I view my marital status as completely irrelevant both to my life, and to society's view of me. I am who I am, an interesting person in my own right. And if you feel the need to check my finger before deciding whether its worth your while to come and talk to me, I wonder whether I'd want to talk to you. But it still holds an immense importance for others and guides (even if only subtly) their expectations and assumptions. Norms that deserve to be tested and challenged.

I'll admit, I delighted that on this occasion the woman's response to my fingers was pure confusion and I had to draw her attention away from the solitaire diamond and heirloom wedding band on the wrong  finger to accept a view at odds with the standards in social expectation. I wear old jewellery: my mother's Art-Deco diamond, my grandmother's cross, my great-grandmother's earrings, my great-great-grandmother's wedding band named and dated for prosperity. It just so happens that my mother's solitaire compliments the wedding band quite superbly and raises more questions than I'd ever allow it to answer. You see, for me marriage is very much an after-thought; as my sister puts it, only of consideration when financially advantageous to her overseas life with her partner. While I understand its importance to others, I didn't grow up dreaming of my wedding dress, planning my wedding in detail whilst waiting from 'the one.' It didn't seem necessary... at least not to me.

Kitchen Tea Etiquette

This past weekend I attended the kitchen tea of a dear friend and watching as she sat in a pile of presents opening them one by one, it was becoming increasingly obvious that the rules of a Kitchen tea were unknown to more than one of the guests. Despite the looming cost of the wedding presents, the bride was unwrapping expensive tea sets and seasonal plates by Rob Ryan, gifts that surely cost far more than the $2 that will get you a perfectly functional spatula from Kmart.

As dictated to me by my mother, when she and previous generations married the bride went from being a daughter in her parent's house to owning and running her own house, a house that needed kitting out before she moved in as a newly married woman. Then, the groom provided the house but as the bride's role in the new house was running the household and ensuring her husband was fed, it was her duty to fill the kitchen and linen closets. The bride's dowry box contained the household linen, and the bridal registry contained the more expensive, more important items, the typical white goods of the house: the microwave, the toaster, and the crockery and cutlery of the house. But the kitchen drawers still needed to be stocked with those utensils so necessary to preparing dinner like vegetable peelers, spatulas and potato mashers. To accommodate this, the female family and friends of the bride would gather together and present to the bride these utensils.

As my generation has preferred the practise of moving out of our parent's home before marriage, we have acquired for ourselves the household of furniture and medley of kitchen utensils. However the tradition of the kitchen tea has quietly hung on and is now making a come back. Unfortunately in conjunction with this the etiquette of this occasion is not experiencing an equal resurgence: mothers have forgotten to pass this vital information on to their daughters to the extent that some girlfriends have no idea of what a kitchen tea actually is. And of those who do, some still don't realise that they are supposed to arrive with nothing more than the eponymous vegetable peeler.

With the passing of time

We used to catch up every Christmas. Once a year, every year, my Mother's aunts, cousins and their children would descend upon my Granddad's place and for seven hours would interact as though we'd never been apart. This was only a small part of the older generations, the part still talking to each-other and willing to endure again the tradition of Christmas Eve together. Of the children, there were 11 of us then, all just kids, with about eight years between us and together we instinctively resumed the teasing and petty alliances that had formed the memories of last year's Christmas Eve. We knew each-other at that age: we were young enough to truly focus our attentions on the small swing-set placed on one corner of the backyard and squabble fiercely over the placement of baby Jesus in the manger when midnight arrived. We were also clever enough to know which traditional desserts required our undivided attention as like each-other they only appear at festive times of the years when the grandparents had taken the time and effort to create them especially for us.

As the years progressed, misunderstandings arose and the petty alliances of the children transferred to the grownups. Christmas Eves dwindled until the cousins stopped coming and it became just my extended family. Children grew up, finished school and then finished uni and are now heard to be travelling the world and starting their own families with their own traditions. Cousins maintained their feuds, divorced and came to terms with the idea of dating anew and becoming grandparents. And the grandparents themselves just got older and frailer and smaller.

Now, we catch up almost every year, once a year. We congregate outside and exclaim at how the children have grown, how much they look like Uncle R or Cousin E. Cousins swell in pride at their childrens' accomplishments, how well they did in uni, what graduate program they've successfully gained admittance to and how successfully their love lives are blossoming into fruition. About once a year, my Mother's aunts, cousins and their children descend upon a local church and a service is held in memory of one of the grandparents.

Avenues of Blue

Its strange, being home you take delight in the little things you used to take for granted. Little things like the expanse of the unconfined river weaving its way through the landscape, its banks occasionally dotted with houses, the sight of native scrub lining each side of the freeway... The jacarandas here are out and have been for a couple of weeks now. They are stunning as they stand out from the surrounding suburban landscape and provide this intense flash of colour that can catch you unaware until you are under the tree and travelling through the carpet of soft velvety purple flowers. They've become a strange source of reminiscences as they flower in the last six weeks of school and every morning on the way to school my sister and I would count all the jacaranda trees that we could see from the back seat of the car. I vaguely remember the 10 minute drive produced at least two thousand trees as we were always competitive and made the most of our excellent eyesight and memories to out-count the other. Now, driving through this purple flecked landscape I remember those days and the disappointment in my final years of school and then uni when exams and even earlier finishing dates meant that we were already on holidays before the jacarandas had begun to light up the surrounding roof-scape.

As though to compensate for this, I spent the day at my old uni where two jacaranda's stood contrasting their pale purple blossoms against the vivid green of the botanical landscape. Coming back to it after so long, I wished i'd had my camera on me as I no longer take for granted our extreme good fortune that we have the ability to receive a superb education from the midst of what could pass for a botanical garden. From a seat in the library one overlooks an expansive foliage of iridescent greens peppered lightly by the blooming azaleas and limber stalks of two jacaranda trees. Even our neoclassical administration buildings, proud in age and tradition rest in the shadows of a Moreton-Bay Fig and submit to the clawing grasp of an entangling creeper. And all of this is without taking into consideration the array of bird life with which we have been blessed. Nothing creates memories of university life like the experiences of having one's lunch swiped by a kookaburra, your bottom pinched by the resident ducks or your exam interrupted by the mating call of the alpha peacock.  

Not that I'm biased or anything, but it really is the best campus in WA.

Pasar Malam

Every year, Curtin University and UWA host international food festivals centred around the culinary delights the students have brought with them from their own countries and cultures. The universities here have a large and diverse Asian population and they bring with them their cuisine, meaning that we have an equally diverse and authentic range of Asian cuisines here. 
Held on balmy spring nights they are a culmination of small local oriental businesses and kitchen-savy students selling some of the hawkers/snack food that they have grown up with and can now make themselves. As a partaker on the eating side of activities, these evenings make for a fun night where hoards of hungry students, past students and general food lovers converge on the narrow strip between the stalls making sure they don't miss out on the very best of the takoyaki balls, bubur hitam, ice chendol, grilled squid tentacles, deep-friend anything and everything, and all other delicious dishes that are going down. 
Watching the crowd, its easy to tell which stalls have the best food or the most fashionable products as  each one has a queue a mile long and you know you'll have to fight your way through to the front if you want to try it before it sells out. 
As a family, we usually make a point of going together, taking as many fellow food lovers as possible with us and gorge ourselves silly on as many different things as possible. It's like Yum Cha. the more people there are the more you can taste and ultimately the cheaper it becomes. 
This particular year there were fewer of us and unfortunately no grilled squid tentacles but after two years of London's idea of Asian cuisine, who am I to complain. 

Birds of Paradise

Mum's garden is spectacular. It is a floral wilderness at the moment and an intriguing mix of classic English flowers, local flowers that verge on being called weeds and natives plants that upon hitting water threaten to overwhelm the entire garden. Wandering though the undergrowth, you're never quite aware of what you will stumble upon; be it a forgotten fruit tree ready to be harvested, an unusual and expensive native that surely died last summer, or the lemon scented gum that decided to remind you of its fragility by sending a branch crashing down upon the rest of the garden. 

Where-ever you wander, there is sure to be something to marvel at. And because it is such a treasure trove it is filled with a superb mixture of the local bird life, all of whom torment the cats and ensure that these four legged predators are aware that they are not the masters of this small patch of paradise. We have always had the wattle birds testing the cats' agility and patience, and the baby magpies who cry pitifully for their parents to feed them... again, interspersed with the lorikeets and kookaburras who flock overhead and warble down at the dramas enacted below.
However recently we have acquired two newcomers: Curled up at the breakfast table enjoying the morning's cup of coffee it is not uncommon to see a sacred ibis tiptoe through the herb garden just outside the side door, foraging through the leaf litter for a tasty treat. They are graceful creatures who have habitually combed the neighbours’ lawn for years now, but obviously decided that this garden looked far more enticing. As morning tea time rolls around this ibis stalks the surrounding gardens aerating the soil before hydrating themselves from the lilypond at the edge of the path.

Our other guest is a beautiful little black and white kingfisher who has a taste for fish (probably frogs) and the largest worms that the garden can produce. This later guest is a delightful visitor as he hovers near to the kitchen window and is more than happy to be subjected to the gaze of anyone and everyone - provided he gets the worms he so desires. Unfortunately it makes for a bit of a standoff in the garden for Mum is fond of her worms, as she is of the coconut matting the magpies pinch for their nests, and does not take to seeing the kingfisher extract plump worms from anywhere in her garden.And when you venture out into the garden, he hops up on a hanging basket and watches you through a glistening black eye, wondering what you are up to, and ensuring that you are thinking the same of him. That is until the time it decides that you have ventured onto it's turf and are thereby classified as an intruder. It is delightful to hear as on this occasion the kingfisher was in complete uproar for the simple fact that Mum was in the garden fossicking through her pile of potting mix.
But the birds have the run of the garden, for the poor cats have been quelled into submission, though they'd hate to be told that.

Museo Massimo - Rome

Actually known as Museo Nazionale Romano and located within the Palazzo Massimo, this museum is one of my top recommendations from Rome, and sprang to mind again when my sister requested suggestions for her own imminent visit to this city of old Julius.

As mentioned in a previous post, this museum was a god-send after the disappointment of several others, but raiding my photos I felt the need to showcase a few more of its utter delights.



Though at first glance this appears very much to be a garden room, for the most part, the plants reproduced have an association with funerals and the hope for immortality. Included are Oleander (its toxicity making it a symbol of death), Arbutus (used in funeral rites to protect the dead), Date palm (possessive of powers of regeneration), Box (associated with the god Hades), Coronary Chrysanthemum (a component of funerary garlands) and among others the Opium Poppy (a close relation of death).

I wish I possessed the skills to paint something as detailed as this. It is a familiar scene though, similar to the one I am fortunate to see every time I look out of the family room window onto the back lawn.





The Greek Prometheus who angered the gods by stealing their fire to give to the mortals. As punishment he was chained to a rock and daily, Zeus' eagle would descend upon him and pick out his liver. What impresses me most about this myth though is the medical accuracy of it; even then, the Greeks knew that the liver was the one organ that could regenerate itself, to be eaten again the next day.

My darling friend N is not the most accepting of any ducks due to the indecent behaviour of the ones patrolling UWA, so this is for her, with my love.

While these ducks are beautiful in their detail and realism, they are but a small part of the border of a far more impressive mosaic, portraying most possibly a scene on the river Nile.

Would I be a sadist if I contemplated including a few of these in the tiling of a guest shower? 

The Orange of Ireland

When I was in Bodrum I bought a very bright orange cotton shawl. While I didn't need it in Greece or Rome, the moment I reached Ireland it became a godsend: after the sun of the Mediterranean the weather in Ireland felt colder than ever and I needed the shawl to keep the icey draughts away from the neck of my coat. Back in Dublin after a tour of the island, I continued to wear it: I liked the colour and against the dull grey sky and cold summer air, it provided a bright spot in each day.

I intended on my last morning in Dublin to visit the Castle and spend the morning meandering through its rooms. So after buying my requisite Ireland charm, I headed in that direction. Unfortunately, as seemed to be my luck with the Dublin Castle, it was closed for the day for a private function. As I approached and bounded into the foyer for more information, a cameraman at the door switched on his camera and very obviously started recording. Thinking about it, I wondered if the function was political: there hadn't been people arriving in cocktail dresses. Was his reaction simply because I was wearing orange? Because I was wearing orange and walking with a purposeful stride, and there had been recent troubles in Belfast? I don't know...

I like to think I looked unique enough to warrant notice.

Wishes and Kisses

Ireland appears to be the necessary place to go to have wishes granted. I only managed a week on this emerald isle, but  was offered the most ingenious ways of getting a husband, regaining my virginity and  gaining an even greater gift of the gab.

The first occurred at Glendalough, a small religious community buried in the depth of a lush valley and surrounded by rolling hills, fresh streams cutting their way through the rocky terrain, spontaneous forests of evergreens and a string of lakes that reflected back the pale grey sky.

If anything it was a setting in which to have wishes granted. In the midst of this idyll there was a large stone cross, unadorned with any ornate carving  but standing next to a delicate pink fushia. Now legend as it was told to us is that if you can put your arms around the base of this cross and interlock your fingers you were destined to be married within the year. However as I attempted this feat another person was informed that such a feat simply granted a wish of your choice. I did, and I could, but I wonder if it means I'll get married in a year, have a wish granted or just have long arms. I suppose we shall have to wait...

Further around the coast we encountered Dunuaire Castle situated on a tiny peninsula in the Galway bay. Dating back to the 16th century it is a simple tower castle and courtyard surrounded by high stone wall and thin path circling this outer wall. Here legend has it that a wander anti-clockwise along this beaten path would restore the virginity of anyone who completed the loop. However as wikipedia makes no reference of this but instead tells tale that if a person stands at the front gate and asks a question they will have their answer by the end of the day, I do wonder if our legend find its root in a tour-guide manual. 

And if this isn't enough, our tour then joined the pilgrim to Blarney Castle in the hopes of being blessed with great eloquence or skills of flattery . If only I needed that. However I was as happy as anyone to hang backwards over the battlements of the castle in order to kiss what has become a smooth and polished building block. Such eloquence! The question then becomes: how does it work if you already have a gift of the gab?

do they cancel each other out?

does one negate the other?

are they piled on top of each other so the more you kiss it the more eloquent you become...?