I've just done a survey on a new TV series. The deal is that you download the pilot episode, watch it and then answer some questions on line.
The show is set in Melbourne, and it looks like a dud to me. It plods along. The characters are not that interesting. There's no car chases of interesting special effects or real mystery to the show. It might as well have been scripted by mormons. Mormons on tranquilisers.
It may yet surprise me and succeed, but I doubt it. I really don't know what demographic is going to watch it.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
The political views of teachers
I have been reading a dissertation of some sort that is a history of the Labor party in the Leichhardt area. Some leftie luvvie has spent months sitting in pugs interviewing old activists about "the old days" and written hundreds and hundreds of pages about council meetings in the 1970's.
Don't ask me why, but I have read a couple of chapters of it (it's online, but I don't have the link on the laptop). Well, maybe skipped through a couple of chapters.
Several interesting things of note.
To start with, the term "right wing" was applied to any old style unionist that had a trade in a blue collar occupation. That is, men with three fingers on one hand (because they lost two in an industrial accident of some sort). And it was mainly men, since until the early 1970's, the only women at a branch meeting were those serving the tea and biscuits and perhaps someone to take the minutes.
The term "left wing" was applied to the newcomers that were white collar professionals or managers or some sort. ie, the basket weavers.
Amazingly, at one point, 20% of the members of the Labor party in the area in question were teachers. That says a lot about teachers and their political points of view.
I was stunned that crusty old buggers who were probably wharfies and boilermakers and painters and mechanics and so on would be classified as "right wing", and the term should become one of abuse. Weren't they the type of people who founded the party, and what the Labor party is supposed to be all about? The working class?
The left came to hate the right because the right didn't give a bugger about all the pet causes loved by the newly arrived left - the PLO, the whales, the trees, aboriginals etc etc.
Don't ask me why, but I have read a couple of chapters of it (it's online, but I don't have the link on the laptop). Well, maybe skipped through a couple of chapters.
Several interesting things of note.
To start with, the term "right wing" was applied to any old style unionist that had a trade in a blue collar occupation. That is, men with three fingers on one hand (because they lost two in an industrial accident of some sort). And it was mainly men, since until the early 1970's, the only women at a branch meeting were those serving the tea and biscuits and perhaps someone to take the minutes.
The term "left wing" was applied to the newcomers that were white collar professionals or managers or some sort. ie, the basket weavers.
Amazingly, at one point, 20% of the members of the Labor party in the area in question were teachers. That says a lot about teachers and their political points of view.
I was stunned that crusty old buggers who were probably wharfies and boilermakers and painters and mechanics and so on would be classified as "right wing", and the term should become one of abuse. Weren't they the type of people who founded the party, and what the Labor party is supposed to be all about? The working class?
The left came to hate the right because the right didn't give a bugger about all the pet causes loved by the newly arrived left - the PLO, the whales, the trees, aboriginals etc etc.
Magpies revisited
Got bombed by another magpie whilst out riding today - that is the third time in a couple of weeks. The buggers don't even give you a warning squawk before they attack - the first you know about it is when a beak goes 'clack' against the helmet.
Must remember to check helmet for beak marks.
Must remember to check helmet for beak marks.
Swimming
This coming weekend is the October long weekend, which also happens to be the traditional time for the first post-winter swim in the ocean.
In previous years, we've been sensible and organised to be somewhere up the north coast on this weekend, since the water appears to be a few degrees warmer 500km up the coast. Unfortunately, the first dip this year will be at the normal spot - Bondi - and the temperature gauge looks like it won't be interested in getting over 21 (that's air temp, not water temp).
I hate to think what the water temp will be like.
I have got all week to think about it - just so that I will really be really dreading it at 7am on Saturday morning.
In previous years, we've been sensible and organised to be somewhere up the north coast on this weekend, since the water appears to be a few degrees warmer 500km up the coast. Unfortunately, the first dip this year will be at the normal spot - Bondi - and the temperature gauge looks like it won't be interested in getting over 21 (that's air temp, not water temp).
I hate to think what the water temp will be like.
I have got all week to think about it - just so that I will really be really dreading it at 7am on Saturday morning.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Magpies
I've been bombed twice in the last week by magpies. They clipped my helmet both times - I was zooming along and there was a sudden "clack" on the plastic where a beak or claw had impacted with the helmet.
The first time it happened, the magpie came back for a second run. The sun was above and behind me, and I could see the shadow of this hovering magpie on the ground in front of me. It was a really spooky effect - I wish I could have taped it. He hovered there for a few seconds less than a foot from my head, and then gave up as I exited his territory. You don't see that everyday (the shadow thing).
The first time it happened, the magpie came back for a second run. The sun was above and behind me, and I could see the shadow of this hovering magpie on the ground in front of me. It was a really spooky effect - I wish I could have taped it. He hovered there for a few seconds less than a foot from my head, and then gave up as I exited his territory. You don't see that everyday (the shadow thing).
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Let's seen how they handle this
We live near a school. Which is great, as the school has a couple of good playgrounds and we can take monkey down there to work up a sweat once the inmates have gone home. When we moved, I thought that living near a school might be a bit of a trial (screaming kids and all that), but it's fine - apart from the idiot mums dropping their little darlings off each morning.
The only bone of contention is that their bulk rubbish bin always gets emptied at the most god-awful hour. It's one of those big bins where a truck drives up to it, sticks a couple of forks into it and up-ends it behind the cab, giving it a good shake in the process. I have no problem with a truck turning up at say 8pm to do that, but the driver that has this patch likes to turn up at midnight to do it.
If they can't land planes at Sydney airport after 11pm because of the racket, what makes him think he can drive down quiet suburban streets after that hour with a bin-shaking truck?
I've tracked down the email address of the school and sent them a quick note asking them to get the company to do their thing a bit earlier in the night.
I'm interested to see if I get any response, let alone any action.
Firstly, our state schools don't seem to be wired up to this interweb thingy too well. They understand email to the same extent as cavemen understood mobile phones, so I am not sure anyone will actually read it, since it requires turning on the computer thingy that is sitting in the corner under a drop sheet.
Then there is the matter of taking action - picking up the phone and calling the rubbish company and having a word with them. Since many teachers these days seem to have issues with having words with a 7 year old, I can't imagine how they will take on a rubbish company manager.
We wait with baited breath.
The only bone of contention is that their bulk rubbish bin always gets emptied at the most god-awful hour. It's one of those big bins where a truck drives up to it, sticks a couple of forks into it and up-ends it behind the cab, giving it a good shake in the process. I have no problem with a truck turning up at say 8pm to do that, but the driver that has this patch likes to turn up at midnight to do it.
If they can't land planes at Sydney airport after 11pm because of the racket, what makes him think he can drive down quiet suburban streets after that hour with a bin-shaking truck?
I've tracked down the email address of the school and sent them a quick note asking them to get the company to do their thing a bit earlier in the night.
I'm interested to see if I get any response, let alone any action.
Firstly, our state schools don't seem to be wired up to this interweb thingy too well. They understand email to the same extent as cavemen understood mobile phones, so I am not sure anyone will actually read it, since it requires turning on the computer thingy that is sitting in the corner under a drop sheet.
Then there is the matter of taking action - picking up the phone and calling the rubbish company and having a word with them. Since many teachers these days seem to have issues with having words with a 7 year old, I can't imagine how they will take on a rubbish company manager.
We wait with baited breath.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Three bike article that caught my fancy
I was checking out back issues of Australian Cyclist this morning when three articles caught my eye for different reasons.
The first regards a "buttguard", whatever that is - there is no accompanying photo with the article, so I can't see what it looks like.
I bookmarked it because of this paragraph:
Personally I like fitting a rear mudguard to my bike: it makes people think I’m hardcore enough to ride in the rain.
Oh for crying out loud, don't be such a wimp. If it rains, you get a wet arse. In fact if it rains, you usually get wet all over, even if you have a natty rain jacket. It's just a fact of life. You are exposed to the elements, therefore you get wet.
Hardcore. Pfft.
The next article was about riding to work. Since 90% of my riding up until now has been the ride-to-work variety, I linked to it because I can empathise with some of it.
Some of it I can't.
I did like this quote:
Early on in my racing career I earned the nickname “Aspirin” because I would dissolve whenever I got wet – racing or training, I couldn’t ride in the rain.
Aspirin - I like that.
The last article describes riding out to Liverpool, which is a Bridge Too Far if you ask me. I liked it because it explains that it really isn't that scary riding out there, although I would prefer to take a Glock with me if anyone asks me to do it.
It talks a bit about the Cooks River Cycleway, which I have been riding of late. I am about to get off my fat behind and go and do it now actually. Just need 15 more minutes of web browsing to get enthused....
The first regards a "buttguard", whatever that is - there is no accompanying photo with the article, so I can't see what it looks like.
I bookmarked it because of this paragraph:
Personally I like fitting a rear mudguard to my bike: it makes people think I’m hardcore enough to ride in the rain.
Oh for crying out loud, don't be such a wimp. If it rains, you get a wet arse. In fact if it rains, you usually get wet all over, even if you have a natty rain jacket. It's just a fact of life. You are exposed to the elements, therefore you get wet.
Hardcore. Pfft.
The next article was about riding to work. Since 90% of my riding up until now has been the ride-to-work variety, I linked to it because I can empathise with some of it.
Some of it I can't.
I did like this quote:
Early on in my racing career I earned the nickname “Aspirin” because I would dissolve whenever I got wet – racing or training, I couldn’t ride in the rain.
Aspirin - I like that.
The last article describes riding out to Liverpool, which is a Bridge Too Far if you ask me. I liked it because it explains that it really isn't that scary riding out there, although I would prefer to take a Glock with me if anyone asks me to do it.
It talks a bit about the Cooks River Cycleway, which I have been riding of late. I am about to get off my fat behind and go and do it now actually. Just need 15 more minutes of web browsing to get enthused....
Death to ibis
I contacted our council a while back about the evil ibis, which is a native bird around here. The pesky little bastards are fearless and stick their long beaks into everything in search of a feed. That includes rubbish bins like these. On the day I took this photo, one ibis managed to almost empty this bin whilst looking for a few tasty treats. That left the ground covered in crap - literally - since this bin is outside a playground and the bin is usually half full of nappies.
I asked the council to consider putting in bins with lids instead. I got a very nice response, saying they had bins with lids previously, but some little bastards (not their words) set fire to the bins. As they were plastic, well, you can imagine the rest. The response was to replace them with steel bins with fixed lids that can't be ripped off.
My response was "shoot the birds and the vandals". I don't think I will hear back from council again in regard to this matter.
I am a little bit ticked off, in that the usual reaction was a knee jerk reaction. I should have asked how many bins were sacrificed to Baal. If it was only one, why not put that down to drunken adolescent stupidity (been there, done that) and replace the bin with another plastic one and carry on?
What is the acceptable rate of bin burning before you cut your losses and switch to a different type? I have no idea what bins cost, but I would have thought that unless half a dozen are being immolated in the same spot per year, you'd stick with a model that is easy to empty, yet bird-proof.
I'd hate to think that the council fell for a spot of moral panic and decided to switch out the bins after just one or two bonfires. That kind of thing annoys me. There will always be idiots. Generally, they grow up and become half responsible, only to be replaced with another generation of idiots. It's a fact of life. You just have to accept a certain amount of stuff will be written off by idiots, who then grown up to become taxpayers, and have to pay for the stupid stuff that the current generation is doing. That's what I call an inter-generation transfer of stupidity tax.
My solution to bin burning is simple. Glue a large plastic bottle full of napalm, with a suitable explosive charge, to the inside of each bin. When the bin is set alight, the napalm bomb goes off, and you simply scour the burns units of the closest hospitals for likely suspects.
Or you scrape their blackened corpses off the grass and replace the bin (and bomb) with a new one.
Works for me.
I asked the council to consider putting in bins with lids instead. I got a very nice response, saying they had bins with lids previously, but some little bastards (not their words) set fire to the bins. As they were plastic, well, you can imagine the rest. The response was to replace them with steel bins with fixed lids that can't be ripped off.
My response was "shoot the birds and the vandals". I don't think I will hear back from council again in regard to this matter.
I am a little bit ticked off, in that the usual reaction was a knee jerk reaction. I should have asked how many bins were sacrificed to Baal. If it was only one, why not put that down to drunken adolescent stupidity (been there, done that) and replace the bin with another plastic one and carry on?
What is the acceptable rate of bin burning before you cut your losses and switch to a different type? I have no idea what bins cost, but I would have thought that unless half a dozen are being immolated in the same spot per year, you'd stick with a model that is easy to empty, yet bird-proof.
I'd hate to think that the council fell for a spot of moral panic and decided to switch out the bins after just one or two bonfires. That kind of thing annoys me. There will always be idiots. Generally, they grow up and become half responsible, only to be replaced with another generation of idiots. It's a fact of life. You just have to accept a certain amount of stuff will be written off by idiots, who then grown up to become taxpayers, and have to pay for the stupid stuff that the current generation is doing. That's what I call an inter-generation transfer of stupidity tax.
My solution to bin burning is simple. Glue a large plastic bottle full of napalm, with a suitable explosive charge, to the inside of each bin. When the bin is set alight, the napalm bomb goes off, and you simply scour the burns units of the closest hospitals for likely suspects.
Or you scrape their blackened corpses off the grass and replace the bin (and bomb) with a new one.
Works for me.
Progressives and teachers
I hate these signs.
I hate them so much, I am thinking of making up my own with some catchy slogans and then sticking them to school fences. Something like:
"Public education: our useless teachers are unsackable".
I read a good post over at Kerplunk today about "progressives"
Kerplunk - Common sense from Down Under: The intellectual adolescence of "Progressive" politics
It's a long post, and "progressive" really is a yank term, but it helped me understand why I hate signs like the above. What are they really saying when they write "Our children are the future"? That the children going to private schools are the past? That private school kids have no part to play in the future, or they are horrible conservatives that will take us back to 1956?
Then there is the question: the future of what?
The future of jail populations?
The future of drug abuse?
The future of dole bludging?
I'll always remember dad telling me that Hitler was a progressive. He wanted to change the world. He also wanted to kill all of us, but he thought that was a change for the better.
Progressives. Can't shoot them, have to put up with them.
I hate them so much, I am thinking of making up my own with some catchy slogans and then sticking them to school fences. Something like:
"Public education: our useless teachers are unsackable".
I read a good post over at Kerplunk today about "progressives"
Kerplunk - Common sense from Down Under: The intellectual adolescence of "Progressive" politics
It's a long post, and "progressive" really is a yank term, but it helped me understand why I hate signs like the above. What are they really saying when they write "Our children are the future"? That the children going to private schools are the past? That private school kids have no part to play in the future, or they are horrible conservatives that will take us back to 1956?
Then there is the question: the future of what?
The future of jail populations?
The future of drug abuse?
The future of dole bludging?
I'll always remember dad telling me that Hitler was a progressive. He wanted to change the world. He also wanted to kill all of us, but he thought that was a change for the better.
Progressives. Can't shoot them, have to put up with them.
Monday, 17 September 2007
What the f....?
I bought a loaf of bread tonight.
Spotted on the side was a sticker proclaiming that it is "98% fat free".
Since when has bread been full of fat? Am I missing something here?
Spotted on the side was a sticker proclaiming that it is "98% fat free".
Since when has bread been full of fat? Am I missing something here?
Truth in photos
If you scroll down a bit, you'll find a photo that I took outside our local House of Plod. It's a beer bottle in a brown paper bag, with the Police sign in the background. I reckon it is one of the best photos I have ever taken.
I could have made it better by fiddling with the location of the beer bottle. As it stands, all you can see is the bag, and not the bottle it contains. However, I decided to take the photo as it was, and not mess with it. It's still a powerful photo.
I wonder how many media types could resist the temptation to move the bottle in order to frame the shot a bit better?
I dare say the answer is nil.
Why can't the media just be truthful and accurate about the little things?
I could have made it better by fiddling with the location of the beer bottle. As it stands, all you can see is the bag, and not the bottle it contains. However, I decided to take the photo as it was, and not mess with it. It's still a powerful photo.
I wonder how many media types could resist the temptation to move the bottle in order to frame the shot a bit better?
I dare say the answer is nil.
Why can't the media just be truthful and accurate about the little things?
Turds
We put our old couch out last night for the 6 monthly rubbish collection.
We put it back together after moving it (ie, put the cushions back on etc) so that it looked like a nice couch, and didn't cover the footpath in rubbish.
It's a sofabed couch. Some turd has come along, pulled out the sofabed thing to look at the mattress, then just half stuffed it back in and left cushions strewn all over the road.
I will say it again. Why does the government not issue shooting permits for occasions like this?
We put it back together after moving it (ie, put the cushions back on etc) so that it looked like a nice couch, and didn't cover the footpath in rubbish.
It's a sofabed couch. Some turd has come along, pulled out the sofabed thing to look at the mattress, then just half stuffed it back in and left cushions strewn all over the road.
I will say it again. Why does the government not issue shooting permits for occasions like this?
Local govinmunt
You find the most amazing stuff on this interweb thingy. You trawl around and all sorts of stuff just pops up in front of you. No, I am not talking about Britney Spears - I am talking about the minutes of a Leichhardt council meeting.
Before you write me off as a completely boring old bladder, go and have a look at the minutes. This is how our elected local government representatives spend their time. And our rates.
The first few pages are just complete tripe. It must have taken them an hour to get to the meat of the matter - the performance reports from the various divisions of council, and those are just glossed over.
I'll be glad when this particular council gets chopped up and fed to the surrounding councils.
Before you write me off as a completely boring old bladder, go and have a look at the minutes. This is how our elected local government representatives spend their time. And our rates.
The first few pages are just complete tripe. It must have taken them an hour to get to the meat of the matter - the performance reports from the various divisions of council, and those are just glossed over.
I'll be glad when this particular council gets chopped up and fed to the surrounding councils.
Winos vs Police
I took this happy snap on the way home the other day. It features a beer bottle in a brown paper bag out the front of our local plod shop.
Nice. Says a lot about how safe I feel about walking around Wog Dock on a Saturday night.
On a positive note, I did get plod to clean up their yard. Or at least I got them to tell their contractor to clean up their yard.
Here's how it went.
I walked into the plod shop and asked to talk to the Plod Commander (Station Commander).
Plod "We don't have one."
Me: "In that case, I'd like to talk to the Plod in Charge".
Plod: "We don't have one. What's it about?"
Me: "It's about all the rubbish in your yard. I want it cleaned up."
Plod: "That's not our problem. A contractor does it."
Me: "I know that. I have seen the bloke out the front with his truck. I want you to get him to do his job properly, and actually pick up the rubbish".
Plod: "Well, you seem to know more about the contractual arrangements than we do. It's all taken care of by the Local Area Manager (LAM) at Burwood."
Me: "Who is that?"
Plod: "I don't know. Call the station and ask to speak to the LAM."
Me: "OK".
Plod: "It's been like that for 6 months. Filthy isn't it?"
Me: "Yes. Bye".
I am halfway home when I go, hang on - if the plod knows the yard is a complete disgrace, and the plod knows who to call to get it fixed, why is plod telling me to ring the LAM to get it fixed? Why doesn't the lazy bloody plod pick up the station phone, call Burwood, talk to the LAM and get it organised?
Sheesh. Talk about a total lack of drive, direction and management.
Nice. Says a lot about how safe I feel about walking around Wog Dock on a Saturday night.
On a positive note, I did get plod to clean up their yard. Or at least I got them to tell their contractor to clean up their yard.
Here's how it went.
I walked into the plod shop and asked to talk to the Plod Commander (Station Commander).
Plod "We don't have one."
Me: "In that case, I'd like to talk to the Plod in Charge".
Plod: "We don't have one. What's it about?"
Me: "It's about all the rubbish in your yard. I want it cleaned up."
Plod: "That's not our problem. A contractor does it."
Me: "I know that. I have seen the bloke out the front with his truck. I want you to get him to do his job properly, and actually pick up the rubbish".
Plod: "Well, you seem to know more about the contractual arrangements than we do. It's all taken care of by the Local Area Manager (LAM) at Burwood."
Me: "Who is that?"
Plod: "I don't know. Call the station and ask to speak to the LAM."
Me: "OK".
Plod: "It's been like that for 6 months. Filthy isn't it?"
Me: "Yes. Bye".
I am halfway home when I go, hang on - if the plod knows the yard is a complete disgrace, and the plod knows who to call to get it fixed, why is plod telling me to ring the LAM to get it fixed? Why doesn't the lazy bloody plod pick up the station phone, call Burwood, talk to the LAM and get it organised?
Sheesh. Talk about a total lack of drive, direction and management.
Bring out your dead
It's that time of the year again - our lovely council has organised to take away any old crap that you can be bothered putting out on the verge. It's done twice a year around here - I wish it was done 4 times a year. People need to be encouraged to ditch old junk more regularly. It's the only way to keep the Chinese economy powering along, and thus continuing our resource boom. C'mon, if we aren't throwing stuff out, we aren't buying stuff. Do it for the miners - buy something.
I started doing a little photo essay on what the neighbours are chucking out, but I was too slow. The scavenger vehicles have been doing the rounds as well and I reckon they have nabbed all the good stuff before I have had a chance to photograph it.
I blew up our old microwave a few weeks back. I put a cup of coffee into it to reheat, and the blasted thing caught fire. I put it out on the verge last night, and by the time I went inside to get the camera to take a photo of it, someone nabbed it.
Who on earth would want a fried microwave? Surely they must have noticed the big black melted section inside? Ah well, I guess they will when they plug it in and turn it on...
Here is a short selection of what the neighbours are ditching. Nothing of any great interest unfortunately. Sometimes you see really fascinating stuff being thrown out, but I think because we are in a high-wog area, the old wogs won't throw anything out until it is totally and utterly knackered. A chair has to be down to its last leg before they'll toss it.
These chairs though look like stolen property - from St Albans.
The esky contains pebbles - the sort you normally find in ornamental gardens or fish ponds. I was looking for the fish tank, but there was naught to be seen.
Here is one of the sly bastards doing the rounds picking up all the good bits.
This garage door was not being thrown out. I took a photo because I was fascinated that someone would let their door get this bad. I'd be out there with a tin of paint in a flash if this happened to me.
Then I'd rig a claymore mine to a sensor that detects aerosol paints.
I will have to walk the streets again this morning to see what else ends up out the front. There has to be something half interesting out there.
I have only spotted one couch so far - ours. As soon as I found out the bulk rubbish collection was on, we hot footed it over to Crows Nest, which is the land of sofa shops, and bought a new couch. It won't be here for 4-5 weeks, but we took the opportunity to get rid of the old one in anticipation.
The old couch still has plenty of life left in it, but it's too short. We have bought something that is long enough for people around 6 1/2 feet tall to stretch out on. I guess the old one will end up at Bondi.
I started doing a little photo essay on what the neighbours are chucking out, but I was too slow. The scavenger vehicles have been doing the rounds as well and I reckon they have nabbed all the good stuff before I have had a chance to photograph it.
I blew up our old microwave a few weeks back. I put a cup of coffee into it to reheat, and the blasted thing caught fire. I put it out on the verge last night, and by the time I went inside to get the camera to take a photo of it, someone nabbed it.
Who on earth would want a fried microwave? Surely they must have noticed the big black melted section inside? Ah well, I guess they will when they plug it in and turn it on...
Here is a short selection of what the neighbours are ditching. Nothing of any great interest unfortunately. Sometimes you see really fascinating stuff being thrown out, but I think because we are in a high-wog area, the old wogs won't throw anything out until it is totally and utterly knackered. A chair has to be down to its last leg before they'll toss it.
These chairs though look like stolen property - from St Albans.
The esky contains pebbles - the sort you normally find in ornamental gardens or fish ponds. I was looking for the fish tank, but there was naught to be seen.
Here is one of the sly bastards doing the rounds picking up all the good bits.
This garage door was not being thrown out. I took a photo because I was fascinated that someone would let their door get this bad. I'd be out there with a tin of paint in a flash if this happened to me.
Then I'd rig a claymore mine to a sensor that detects aerosol paints.
I will have to walk the streets again this morning to see what else ends up out the front. There has to be something half interesting out there.
I have only spotted one couch so far - ours. As soon as I found out the bulk rubbish collection was on, we hot footed it over to Crows Nest, which is the land of sofa shops, and bought a new couch. It won't be here for 4-5 weeks, but we took the opportunity to get rid of the old one in anticipation.
The old couch still has plenty of life left in it, but it's too short. We have bought something that is long enough for people around 6 1/2 feet tall to stretch out on. I guess the old one will end up at Bondi.
Sunday, 16 September 2007
Herbies
Spring has sprung, so we've been busy filling up the garden with stuff to eat. First off is our very crowded rocket pot. It's only been in there a week and some has already started to flower. I think we will be eating some of this tonight.
Rosemary. Why do we have three tubs of rosemary? I have no idea - we somehow collected it over the years, and one day woke up to find that we had three times more than we need. I used a lot of it on lamb chops.
Sage - something for the piggies. A few weeks ago, this was completely dead looking. It was just a collection of twigs in a pot. Suddenly, it has taken off. Slugs or caterpillers seem to love it, so I am always spraying it with horrible chemicals and dropping slug pellets around the base.
Thyme - and lemon thyme at that. Something for the chickens. I make up a thyme and lemon rind butter and stuff it under the skin when I am roasting whole chooks. It's fantastic. I must remember to halve it at the start of winter so that we have two thyme plants next year.
Basil, coriander and chili - all laid out in what passes for rows around here. The bugs just love the basil as well - chemical warfare and basil go hand in hand like pork and sage.
Chives - love them in omelettes and when stuffing the chooks.
A crowded lettuce collection. I understand these will be replanted sometime today.
Mint. This time, I have left it in a pot. The last mint plant I had was stupidly planted in the garden and it spread like a weed. This one goes in drinks and into salads. This particular variety also tastes much better than the last one I had. Never knew mint could be so variable.
This is a two level planter - a survivor from my days of living in flats. It's designed to clip over the rail of your balconey.
Up top, we have tarragon and coriander. It's french tarragon, not russian. I made the mistake of planting russian tarragon last year. It tastes like crap. The french stuff is great in a simple salad of grapes, goats cheese, a bit of green stuff and tarragon - dressed with a red wine vinegar and shallot dressing. Very pungent, but very good.
Down the bottom is oregano, which mainly goes into pizza sauce.
Another view of our only bit of dirt - this is where the basil and tomato plants and coriander live.
The tree stump on the left is the remains of some horrible tree that left its roots all through the garden. The yellow patch is unplantable - there is a terrible tangle of roots just under the surface, and the only way to get rid of them is to rent a roto-rooter or stump grinder. And I'm not going to bother with that.
There is also some dill in a pot in this photo - must remember to plant it out today.
I am not going the whole hog like I did last year, when I planted capsicum, cabbage and cauliflower. The cauliflower did well in the end, but it takes up a lot of room and the bugs love it. Besides, it all came good at the same time, so we ate nothing but cauliflower for a week, and then had no more for the rest of the season. Same with the cabbage (I did purple cabbage). We got so sick of eating it, I gladly left it to the bugs.
You really need enough garden where you can plant stuff a week or two apart, so you get a continual flow of goodies through the season. I'm just not that organised.
Rosemary. Why do we have three tubs of rosemary? I have no idea - we somehow collected it over the years, and one day woke up to find that we had three times more than we need. I used a lot of it on lamb chops.
Sage - something for the piggies. A few weeks ago, this was completely dead looking. It was just a collection of twigs in a pot. Suddenly, it has taken off. Slugs or caterpillers seem to love it, so I am always spraying it with horrible chemicals and dropping slug pellets around the base.
Thyme - and lemon thyme at that. Something for the chickens. I make up a thyme and lemon rind butter and stuff it under the skin when I am roasting whole chooks. It's fantastic. I must remember to halve it at the start of winter so that we have two thyme plants next year.
Basil, coriander and chili - all laid out in what passes for rows around here. The bugs just love the basil as well - chemical warfare and basil go hand in hand like pork and sage.
Chives - love them in omelettes and when stuffing the chooks.
A crowded lettuce collection. I understand these will be replanted sometime today.
Mint. This time, I have left it in a pot. The last mint plant I had was stupidly planted in the garden and it spread like a weed. This one goes in drinks and into salads. This particular variety also tastes much better than the last one I had. Never knew mint could be so variable.
This is a two level planter - a survivor from my days of living in flats. It's designed to clip over the rail of your balconey.
Up top, we have tarragon and coriander. It's french tarragon, not russian. I made the mistake of planting russian tarragon last year. It tastes like crap. The french stuff is great in a simple salad of grapes, goats cheese, a bit of green stuff and tarragon - dressed with a red wine vinegar and shallot dressing. Very pungent, but very good.
Down the bottom is oregano, which mainly goes into pizza sauce.
Another view of our only bit of dirt - this is where the basil and tomato plants and coriander live.
The tree stump on the left is the remains of some horrible tree that left its roots all through the garden. The yellow patch is unplantable - there is a terrible tangle of roots just under the surface, and the only way to get rid of them is to rent a roto-rooter or stump grinder. And I'm not going to bother with that.
There is also some dill in a pot in this photo - must remember to plant it out today.
I am not going the whole hog like I did last year, when I planted capsicum, cabbage and cauliflower. The cauliflower did well in the end, but it takes up a lot of room and the bugs love it. Besides, it all came good at the same time, so we ate nothing but cauliflower for a week, and then had no more for the rest of the season. Same with the cabbage (I did purple cabbage). We got so sick of eating it, I gladly left it to the bugs.
You really need enough garden where you can plant stuff a week or two apart, so you get a continual flow of goodies through the season. I'm just not that organised.
Come in spinner
Here is my almost new Zyliss salad spinner. I had the brain wave of putting my sliced tomato into it in order to get rid of the excess water.
A few spins later, this is how much came out - lots.
Of course I failed again to slice up enough tomatoes to cover a single pizza. I must remember to cut up 4 of them, not 3.
A few spins later, this is how much came out - lots.
Of course I failed again to slice up enough tomatoes to cover a single pizza. I must remember to cut up 4 of them, not 3.
More experiments in pizza
I was reading a new cook book the other day and it gave this idea for pizza topping.
Instead of making a tomato sauce to cover the base, finely slice some tomatoes and spread them across the base.
I tried it last night. I sliced three of them, then flicked out most of the seeds and gave them a slight squeeze to get rid of some juice and then salted them lightly and left them to drain in a collander for an hour. When I got back, there was a reasonable amount of water under the collander, so my draining theories seemed to be working.
I then made two lots of dough with just white flour - no wholemeal and no semolina. Just white dough - kind of how you get it at your local pizza restaurant.
I rolled out the first bit of dough, brushed the top with olive oil that had been infused with garlic (ie, I crushed a few cloves and bunged them in a small pot of oil for an hour) and then laid out the tomato.
I was planning on doing two pizzas, but soon realised that I had underestimated the amount of tomato required by half. It was the worst estimation of food required since Napoleon woke up one day and said, "I understand Moscow looks delightful in the snow. Let's go. Gather then lads - we march in the morning".
I managed to cover most, but not all of the base in tomato. I was planning on lapping the tomato slices over each other, but had to give that idea up pretty quickly and spread them around with gaps in between the get the required coverage.
As for topping, I grilled a zucchini on the BBQ, along with two baby eggplant, and added some leftover baked leek and capsicum from the night before. I then threw on some goats cheese and pine nuts and hoped for the best.
It was absolutely superb. At least that's what I thought. J gave it a mediocre score, but then it's not her type of pizza.
I just know that next time I try it, I will fuck it up completely and it will be a disaster.
Instead of making a tomato sauce to cover the base, finely slice some tomatoes and spread them across the base.
I tried it last night. I sliced three of them, then flicked out most of the seeds and gave them a slight squeeze to get rid of some juice and then salted them lightly and left them to drain in a collander for an hour. When I got back, there was a reasonable amount of water under the collander, so my draining theories seemed to be working.
I then made two lots of dough with just white flour - no wholemeal and no semolina. Just white dough - kind of how you get it at your local pizza restaurant.
I rolled out the first bit of dough, brushed the top with olive oil that had been infused with garlic (ie, I crushed a few cloves and bunged them in a small pot of oil for an hour) and then laid out the tomato.
I was planning on doing two pizzas, but soon realised that I had underestimated the amount of tomato required by half. It was the worst estimation of food required since Napoleon woke up one day and said, "I understand Moscow looks delightful in the snow. Let's go. Gather then lads - we march in the morning".
I managed to cover most, but not all of the base in tomato. I was planning on lapping the tomato slices over each other, but had to give that idea up pretty quickly and spread them around with gaps in between the get the required coverage.
As for topping, I grilled a zucchini on the BBQ, along with two baby eggplant, and added some leftover baked leek and capsicum from the night before. I then threw on some goats cheese and pine nuts and hoped for the best.
It was absolutely superb. At least that's what I thought. J gave it a mediocre score, but then it's not her type of pizza.
I just know that next time I try it, I will fuck it up completely and it will be a disaster.
Fair trade vs food miles
For reasons that I will not go into, I sought out and visited the Fair Trade cafe in Glebe last week. I specifically went there to have a cup of coffee. Fair Trade coffee, as you can imagine by the name above the door.
Getting there was no big chore - it is just around the corner from a shopping centre that I go to in order to buy my favourite salad dressing, so all I had to do was walk out of the parking thingy and up the hill a bit and there I was - in folk and charm music heaven.
Glebe is awash with cafes. It's like a hippy with lice - they are everywhere. I have walked up and down Glebe Point Rd many times, and tried a lot of cafes, and as usual, where there is a cluster of cafes, I use the Force to choose which one to dine at.
The first thing I look at is the decor and fitout. If it has cheap, formica tables and looks dirty, I'll avoid it (which is why I avoid eating in most country sandwich shops).
The next thing I look at is how crowded it is. Large groups of people can't be wrong. And before you say, "But look at McDonalds - lots of people go there", I will respond, "I like McDonalds".
I don't eat there every day. I don't eat there every week. Sometimes months will go by and not a single quarter pounder will pass my lips. But that doesn't stop me from respecting the company and liking their food. I don't crave it, like I crave good Thai or Indian food (unless I have a hangover - then I would kill for McDonalds), but I like their food. It is not crap. It's not great, but it's good enough.
Anyway, I look at the volume of patrons (and by that, I do not mean how large each patron is). It was a weekday, around 10am, so most of the cafes only had say 6-10 people in them.
Fair Trade had 1.
That is never a good sign. But I persisted.
They have these great windows that open out onto the street, and the window ledge is wide enough for one to spread the paper and eat breakfast at. That includes a paper as big as the SMH. I didn't feel like a feed, so I just had a coffee.
That might be a good thing.
Whilst waiting for the coffee, I had a poke around the cafe. The counter was covered in the usual hippy pamphlets - "come and see Lailieaphaedron perform a harpsichord phenomena dedicated to celebrating the coming birth of the earth-mother" and that sort of dribble.
The menu actually had meat on it, in the form of bacon and a hamburger, but that was it.
The menu also described the origins of the coffee that they serve. It's fair trade, and it's a blend of beans from PNG, East Timor (or Timor Leste as some prefer) and Peru.
Peru? Who ships goods halfway around the world for rich westerners to consume as pleasureable items? What a waste? Think of the CO2 emitted to ship goods from Peru! And bulky goods at that! Add up the food miles and you'll see how many polar bears were microwaved as a result!
Oh, it's fair trade coffee is it? Well, that's all right then.
I wonder what happens when the fair trade people end up in the same room as the food miles people. I guess it's similar to when the spartacists turn up at a meeting with the trotskyites.
And the coffee?
Terrible. Burnt. Bitter. Nasty. Really, really nasty.
I decamped back to the shopping mall and spent five minutes walking around trying to find something that would get rid of the terrible taste in my mouth.
Gloria Jeans? Nope, don't want another coffee.
Sushi? Don't think it will work.
Vanilla slice? Don't think that will work either.
Sausage roll? I'll give it a go, but I don't have 20 cents for the sauce. Ugh, a dry sausage roll.
It worked though. Somehow the dry, flakey pastry managed to strip most of the raw, burnt coffee husk taste off my tongue.
That said, I will apply my golden rule of cafe rating and go back for a second attempt. The hippy on duty might simply have been unable to work the coffee machine, or she might have been too blissed out on whale music to be pulling the right levers. I will also give the food a go next time around.
Apart from that, it seemed like a pleasant place to hang out. Except that I hate the thought of it being busy - packed with stinking hippies from the floor to the rafters.
Getting there was no big chore - it is just around the corner from a shopping centre that I go to in order to buy my favourite salad dressing, so all I had to do was walk out of the parking thingy and up the hill a bit and there I was - in folk and charm music heaven.
Glebe is awash with cafes. It's like a hippy with lice - they are everywhere. I have walked up and down Glebe Point Rd many times, and tried a lot of cafes, and as usual, where there is a cluster of cafes, I use the Force to choose which one to dine at.
The first thing I look at is the decor and fitout. If it has cheap, formica tables and looks dirty, I'll avoid it (which is why I avoid eating in most country sandwich shops).
The next thing I look at is how crowded it is. Large groups of people can't be wrong. And before you say, "But look at McDonalds - lots of people go there", I will respond, "I like McDonalds".
I don't eat there every day. I don't eat there every week. Sometimes months will go by and not a single quarter pounder will pass my lips. But that doesn't stop me from respecting the company and liking their food. I don't crave it, like I crave good Thai or Indian food (unless I have a hangover - then I would kill for McDonalds), but I like their food. It is not crap. It's not great, but it's good enough.
Anyway, I look at the volume of patrons (and by that, I do not mean how large each patron is). It was a weekday, around 10am, so most of the cafes only had say 6-10 people in them.
Fair Trade had 1.
That is never a good sign. But I persisted.
They have these great windows that open out onto the street, and the window ledge is wide enough for one to spread the paper and eat breakfast at. That includes a paper as big as the SMH. I didn't feel like a feed, so I just had a coffee.
That might be a good thing.
Whilst waiting for the coffee, I had a poke around the cafe. The counter was covered in the usual hippy pamphlets - "come and see Lailieaphaedron perform a harpsichord phenomena dedicated to celebrating the coming birth of the earth-mother" and that sort of dribble.
The menu actually had meat on it, in the form of bacon and a hamburger, but that was it.
The menu also described the origins of the coffee that they serve. It's fair trade, and it's a blend of beans from PNG, East Timor (or Timor Leste as some prefer) and Peru.
Peru? Who ships goods halfway around the world for rich westerners to consume as pleasureable items? What a waste? Think of the CO2 emitted to ship goods from Peru! And bulky goods at that! Add up the food miles and you'll see how many polar bears were microwaved as a result!
Oh, it's fair trade coffee is it? Well, that's all right then.
I wonder what happens when the fair trade people end up in the same room as the food miles people. I guess it's similar to when the spartacists turn up at a meeting with the trotskyites.
And the coffee?
Terrible. Burnt. Bitter. Nasty. Really, really nasty.
I decamped back to the shopping mall and spent five minutes walking around trying to find something that would get rid of the terrible taste in my mouth.
Gloria Jeans? Nope, don't want another coffee.
Sushi? Don't think it will work.
Vanilla slice? Don't think that will work either.
Sausage roll? I'll give it a go, but I don't have 20 cents for the sauce. Ugh, a dry sausage roll.
It worked though. Somehow the dry, flakey pastry managed to strip most of the raw, burnt coffee husk taste off my tongue.
That said, I will apply my golden rule of cafe rating and go back for a second attempt. The hippy on duty might simply have been unable to work the coffee machine, or she might have been too blissed out on whale music to be pulling the right levers. I will also give the food a go next time around.
Apart from that, it seemed like a pleasant place to hang out. Except that I hate the thought of it being busy - packed with stinking hippies from the floor to the rafters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)