fresh, local, in season

the alternative: farmers’ markets

It’s a low-key highlight of my week, the local Farmers’ Market on Friday mornings, down at the showground. 

It’s not a big market, just the right size - small enough to see your friends there,  and to know the stallholders, big enough for a little bit of a hustle and bustle feeling. There is usually a local musician performing - violin, guitar, singing.

But the main thing is the food. It  is all local, and a lot of it is organically grown. Unlike the selection available at the supermarket, nothing is flown in from far away. No Californian oranges in the middle of summer, no  cherries in the middle of winter.

Not so many greens one week, a lot of basil the next, or bananas, or passionfruit, or pumpkin. Depending on the weather, the season.

Initially I was a bit put out that I couldn’t get everything I thought I wanted. We’ve all been seduced into thinking ‘abundance’ means a  ridiculous choice of everything from everywhere, whenever we want it.

But when you think about it, why eat something that is not fresh, local or in season? Apart from the environmental footprint of all those food miles etc., it’s also stupid, healthwise to be eating (say) midsummer fruits from the other side of the world when it’s winter here. Why not accept what Nature offers here and now?  

I learn that they've started to harvest the macadamias, but the first lot aren’t the best. Avocados are just coming good again. The first of the new season’s apples arrived a couple of weeks back. The big heritage tomatoes should be back soon (‘We’ve just planted them”) Later there’ll be custard apples...

There are  locally made cheeses, keffir, roast garlic spread and  macadamia paste, marinated olives, Davidson plum jam  & other bush tucker stuff; even organic liqueurs, including my favourite, limoncello. 

Plus, you can get a good coffee and a cake ( gluten free/ vegan if preferred) and sit at a ricketty table under the huge shady trees chatting and watching the passing parade.

Does this all sound like a sort of promotional spiel? I guess I am smug about living in such a great little community. Because actually the main thing isn’t just the food - it’s the food and the sense of community

Interesting link re food sovereignty: http://preventdisease.com/news/11/032511_food_sovereignty_maine.shtml

WHILE ROME BURNS

Another tedious, meaningless State election comes and goes. We all obligingly show up , compliant, complicit in the public charade - as if in our wonderful democratic country there is actually a choice between something and something else. Whereas in reality, almost all power now rests with Big Business, and it’s just a matter of which of the various squabbling toadying political puppets we end up with to bicker over the scraps and distract us from the main game. 

Yes, I know I should be grateful to live in a country where nobody gets shot at, where no polling booths are fire-bombed, no candidates assassinated. Grateful that I don't live in Libya. Our local style here  is ‘Not with a bang but a whimper’ .

Whichever  of the two dreary, sycophantic  ‘major’ parties wins, none of it will make the slightest difference to the culture of Big Greed in which we are all ensnared, by which we are all seduced and anaesthetised and which is rapidly trashing our only home, this planet.

Of course I vote Green - they at least have something resembling a ‘vision’ or an ‘overview’ not entirely shaped by corporate greed. But it’s probably too late.

So there’s my bit of pessimism for the day. 

No, here’s some more: Re the way Big Retail is trying to use their Big Bullying Might Is Right  power to squeeze everyone else out of business, by undercutting prices. We consumers who are willing to sell our soul for a a fifty cent discount  are being  co-opted into the whole greed game. Long term, big mistake.  The diary farmers, even the beer manufacturers are copping it. As more and more small businesses get squeezed out, it’s scary to think about what the world will look like when we are ruled by one big corporation (Though environmental disaster  may just  intervene before that final corporate merger)

A few years back Woolies the Bullies moved into my old home town of Maleny despite massive protests - even their own survey showed most of us didn't want them. Now I've moved to a little town in Northern NSW, and it's all happening all over again. This time they have blocked off a major thoroughfare, buggered up several businesses, ruined the peace, and property values,  of nearby residents - and the shire council is helpless in the face of their might. I reckon the big corporations are the modern day equivalents of the old colonial powers ie, too bad about the natives.

Back to The Election experience - I can’t help thinking on polling day what a wasted opportunity is. I mean every single person in the state or the country, more or less, turns up at  a local hall or school. Imagine if instead of  the futile exercise of ‘voting’ we...danced, sang, told jokes, hugged, planted trees, used all that paper to draw pictures and dreams, to  imagine what sort of future we’d like for our children... 

Spirited but futile protest when the fence went up six months ago (it's still up)

who'd be thirteen again?

 F, 2010

Or twelve-and-a-half.

It was the 13th birthday party of a girl in his class  (a few weeks ago now). A rather  bright, sophisticated  girl, who - in a bold guesture of inclusiveness unheard of since they were all little babies in Class 2 -  asked the boys as well as the girls to her party.

I ask F what we should get A for her birthday present. He says, “Nothing, just money. That’s what kids my age want Mum.”

‘What?” I say, “You just shove them a $10 or $20 note and say Here y’are”?

“Yes, Mum”, he says patiently.

Naturally I think this sounds appallingly  ungracious on the part of the giver, mercenary on the part of the birthday child, and just, just... just  grubby  and  impersonal and awful.

I’m also thinking of the sweet birthday party ritual of the unwrapping of the presents, with everyone sitting around eager and bright-eyed. The rustle of colourful paper, the gasps of delight and envy. I’m thinking about style and personal guesture and...

Get over it, Mum, Move on. This is adolescence. This is thirteen.

Fortunately I also remember my long-dead Great Aunt Dorothy who used to send me a pound note from England on my birthday every year. My mother was unimpressed but I loved the free spending power of that cold cash. So I relent . Feeling not entirely happy about it. 

“What about a card?” I say, “At least you could make her a nice card”. F is a boy who has been known to spend hours working lovingly on intricate drawings for his friends*. 

“Nah”, he says. 

He agrees, at last, at least, to an envelope. I find a pretty  purple one and suggest he writes his greetings on it. Nicely. He scrawls, To A, from F

‘It’d be too embarrassing”, he explains, to do more than that. “People would tease me, they’d think I really liked her...”

Okay, now I get it.  Duh. 

He puts on his cool sunglasses and his cowboy hat and I take him off to the party.  

                                                                                      -----------------------

* like this one for his mate Leroy a year ago

p.s. for the latest Class 7 birthday celebration, I insisted on a book voucher.

maintenance

(...meanwhile, the home garden flourishes)

Maintenance.

I had a session today - Voice Dialogue. It’s a while since I sat in the client chair. Such a privilege, to spend an hour really present  with myself, and with the undivided attention of  another therapist. But it’s also a much more vulnerable role: looking at my stuff instead of someone else’s. 

( A psychotherapist who hasn’t been in the client chair has no credibility, as far as I’m concerned. i.e. most psychologists. But don’t get me started on that...) 

I re-connected with some aspects of my Self I’ve been neglecting  - small child and fearless rebel teenager. It was work I’ve done before, nothing earth-shattering. But I felt lighter when I left there. Put back together. 

Back home, the window cleaners had left, and the windows and external walls were nice and clean. But all the crap they’d hosed off the walls - mudwasp nests, dead spiders etc. was all over the verandah. So I finished off the job, hosing and mopping, and a bit of pruning; and thinking about the Voice Dialogue session. 

I think it often happens that when we are raising our own children it’s easy to forget about  the childlike sides of ourselves. The bits of ourselves that are innocent/ playful/impulsive  tend not to get so much space because we have to be ‘together’ responsible  adults  for our kids. Or something like that. The other, nice side of parenting is that you can find yourself happily galloping around the backyard with a swarm of giggling toddlers, or jumping from behind a bush yelling 'boo!' Of course F is now much too old and too cool for that kind of nonsense. I need another excuse to be silly.

I’m sweeping the flagstones in the late afternoon sun and thinking about how F  is changing so fast right now. Like a boat sailing away from shore. Wanting to be with his peers, not his parents. Having secrets and embarrassments. His bedroom getting that adolescent boy smell. 

I’m thinking how if we were in a traditional tribal culture my parenting job would be almost finished - he would be off to the men’s camp very soon. 

Mop, mop, wipe, wipe. Swab the deck, rearrange the outdoor furniture. All rather satisfying. Nice afternoon light, a touch of autumn coolness at the end of the day. The aroma of D’s chicken curry wafting . Home maintenance can be so satisfying sometimes! And the Voice Dialogue session felt like ‘maintenance’ too, of the soul and  the sanity.

chaos precedes clarity

Chaos precedes Clarity 

1. Or so I hope as I cast my eye across the mess which is our house right now. We are  in the middle of getting all the windows cleaned and the outside walls pressure-washed. I had no idea it was such a big job. The bloke - Kev - turned up, as promised, early this morning and stayed all day  but he still isn’t finished. 

The furniture and rugs are clumped  in the middle of the room, the verandah is all wet and messy, and Kev has left his ladders and things here.  And we are having a lot of trouble getting the stupid magnetic fly screens back on the windows. Magicscreens, huh! 

However, I have faith that very soon - say this time tomorrow - order will be restored. D says we just need to remove the blinds to get the screens back on. Just  remove the blinds! Thank God D is so handy. Already the big tri-fold doors and the high-up louvres are crystal clear, making everything beyond ( green paddocks, cows, horizon etc) look brighter. 

I’m trying to find a little piece of homespun wisdom, a metaphor among this domestic trivia. Like how its all a reminder - that often in life chaos and mess are necessary  before clarity and order can re-emerge.

2. Talking of works-in-progress, I went down to the Community Garden today (the aim is to get there every Wednesday morning) only to discover that all my plants were dead.  Shrivelled up by the punishing, 30 degree-plus  heat of the last two days.

But I do not despair! I chat with a woman, S,  at a neighbouring allotment. Her lush patch is well-established and well-loved, though it does not look like the more usual plot of lettuces, tomatoes, eggplants etc. It’s a leafy  green jungle  with Taro and cassava, pawpaw and pineapples (the prettiest pineapples I've ever seen) .

She says she wasn’t really too sure about the ‘instant garden’ approach at the working bee on Sunday. She herself prefers to do things more gently and slowly. And thinks that putting heaps of chicken manure down like that and planting straight into it is possibly not the best thing for the soil, too much nitrogen. I’m inclined to be persuaded by her, as we stand there in our old hats and gardening gloves, surveying my chicken pooh-smelling  plot with its sad and shrivelled plants and flies hovering over it. 

From her point of view there is more to gardening than just maximizing your crop of food. It is also about  our relationship with the earth; and this is something, like all relationships, that takes time to build. We talk about the magic of it all, the sacredness of the Earth, how  easy it is to forget .  S herself  uses Biodynamic methods & preparations only. She says they really nurture the earth. I am already thinking I might do the same. 

Seems everyone down at The Gardens has their own opinions about the ‘right’ way to grow things. Even on Sunday, there were mutterings from those who did not agree with the blitz-it chicken shit plus ti-tree mulch approach being pushed by the blue eyed German man who was the day’s prevailing ‘expert’ . It will burn the plants.  I heard murmured. And This soil needs lime to break it down. Too Yang. Etc.

I’m happy to hear what everyone says, happy to not be an expert. Zen mind, Beginners mind etc. I think - I hope - one of the good  things about this Community Garden is that it can accommodate all these people with their differing opinions and ideas. 

I put up the bamboo trellis (not the one in this pic)  as planned, for the now-dead snow peas and tomato plants. Perhaps when the intensity of the weather and the chook-pooh both subside, I will re-plant. In the meantime  I put in  some yarrow root  - given to me by my Biodynamic neighbour. Good for something but I’ve already forgotten what. 

Then I just sit there for a while, contemplating my relationship with this little square of the earth’s surface, enjoying the rare luxury of stillness. It  feels good not to rush. And good to have gotten started on the process. 

three uke family

Two excellent new things:

1. The Ukulele

It’s such a sweet, simple unpretentious little instrument. I went to my first - beginners’ - class last last Wednesday night. And I’ve been practising every day since - stumbling my plunky way through  “You Are My Sunshine” and “Dream, Dream, Dream”.  I can feel the  neuro-pathways forming,  like new  tracks in fresh snow. Exhilarating. 

Music is something I  do purely for fun. Having spent most of my life believing I was ‘unmusical’, every musical experience I’ve had over the last fifteen or so years has been a bonus - singing in choirs, learning djembe, percussion and marimba, now uke. Unlike other areas ( the things I’m meant to be ‘good at’) with music I don’t judge or critisize myself.  Or  worry that both my partner and my 12 year old son are way better musicians than I am. We have become a three ukulele family.

Of course it suddenly feels like everyone is playing ukulele.

2. The Community Garden

I think I mentioned ages ago that I got myself a little plot at the local community garden. I went down there to interview someone for a promo article on a Permaculture course last November and was so excited and inspired I signed up right away. Then somehow I just never got back there. Guilt guilt guilt, good intentions turn to dust etc. 

Last Sunday there was a working bee. The gorgeous earth mother woman who runs the place  had phoned me on Friday - not to say Get your plot together or we’ll take it back, which would have been fair enough; but rather to offer help. Because it can be a bit daunting, getting started. And it has been so hot. Etc.

It was a lovely drizzle-y, perfect-for-planting  afternoon. Also a perfect-for-lying-on-the-sofa-reading-the-weekend-papers sort of sunday. But D and I both managed to resist the call of the sofa. 

I discovered when we  got there ( it's only 5 minutes away)   that I was not the only slacker who had failed to attend to their plot. A cheery little band of gardeners were there helping eachother. Weeding, pushing around barrows full of chicken pooh and mulch. Taking armloads of weeds off to the chooks. Offering cuttings and seedlings.

I’d bought some seedlings at the market on Saturday. Within a couple of hours my  weed patch was transformed. Cucumber, eggplant, leek, basil, tomatoes plants went in. Marigolds, lemongrass. Easy. It was like one of those backyard blitz tv shows. 

Then a cup of tea and home-made biscuits in the bush kitchen. And that warm glow of community. So now the challenge is to keep it up. Weeding, mulching, stagger the plantings. Commitment, the long haul.

Gardening, playing the ukulele - great antidotes for existential angst.

Oh and I’ve finally mastered the art of compost too...things are looking up.

the banality of daily life...sigh

The window cleaner - Kev - was  coming at 8 this morning to clean our windows. Finally, after about two years I’d gotten around  to this  item on The Eternal List. In the meantime, spiders and mudwasps have had it very good at our place. But enough is enough. I find  ‘Kevin’ in the local paper. External house wash, windows. Sure, he says

Kevin has an Irish accent, which always gives an unfair advantage. He turns up - this is  a few days ago - walks around with a clipboard, agrees to come back today. Good. I can’t wait to get all those smeary, cobwebby unreachable upper windows clean. And the mudwasp palaces, despite their sculptural qualities, are getting way out of hand on our external walls and doorways.

This morning I wake up, after not sleeping very much, feeling grumpy at the thought of a stranger in the house for several hours, even though I will be out for most of it. Ah but it will be worth it!

We push the furniture away from windows. Behind the sofa  there is a dust-covered photo of F in the under 10 cricket team three years ago. And a dead frog. Behind the bed, mainly just a lot of fluff, and the odd hair tie and kleenex tissue. I’ll wait till after Kev’s been before I clean there.

Where is Kev? He was meant to be here an hour ago. I call him & he says he was just about to call me any moment but what with the weather ‘n all...

The weather here is cool and grey, just a touch of drizzle. Pretty good window cleaning weather, I would have thought. He tells me that it’s absolutely rainin’ cats and dogs up where they are - about ten minutes from here. And that you don’t want the rain spoiling your nice clean windows. ( Does rain spoil nice clean windows, I wonder?) 

Oh that’s okay, I say, I’m not worried about a bit of rain on the glass, and the really dirty ones are under the verandah roof which is why they are so dirty.

Well actually, he says, It’s his wife, she’s feeling a bit poorly today, so He’d like to stay at home with her. Well of course I say, you’d better.

D speculates that Kev’s sudden unavailability has something to do with the fact that yesterday was St Patrick’s Day. Who knows?

I contemplate doing the ‘deep cleanse’ anyway- how satisfying it would be. No, I haven’t got time. I push the furniture back where it was.  I don’t even move the dessicated frog. Maybe when Kev comes next week...God, why am I writing about all this? 

spider web art shots - AKA me farting around on the computer when I could be doing something useful like cleaning behind the sofa. 

tip of the iceberg

Someone sent me this fabulous image. Apparently it comes from Newfoundland, where  they divert the  path of icebergs away from the (oil?) rig by towing  them with ships.

In this case the water  was calm and the  sun was almost directly  overhead so the diver  was able to get into the  water and click this  picture. Estimated weight of the iceberg: 300,000,000  tons. 

tales of long-dead rellies

The yellow wing chair with the scratchy linen cover was next to the sandstone fireplace. I held his hand and led him to the yellow chair. He was my blind Uncle Geoff, who would die soon. He was thirty two years old. 

My Mother’s younger brother. Lovely person, they all said. He had diabetes, a rare complication. I held his big hand because it was my job to guide him. I imagined he saw only grey or maybe brown. I was four years old, or  maybe only three. In my good Sunday dress that I wore when I led him across the lounge room when he came with my  grandparents and Great Aunt Dorothy. On Sundays. Across the Bridge, Across the Harbour. 

Grandma Julie and Great Aunt Dorothy wore little hats with nets; and briskly unbuttoned gloves. They were powdered and perfumed and came in the big Oldsmobile, and Mum said we had to look nice for them.

I led Uncle Geoff very carefully to the yellow chair. I was too young to be sad, or to think about how it was when he died. He was the only son, the only brother, the only uncle.

Then his mother, Grandma Julie was gone too, of a brain tumour, six weeks later. 

Then my parents were gone, away on a grown-ups’ holiday to look after Grandpa because he was sad. A hushed, important  holiday, by the Sea, in Queensland. There were photos of Mum in her red car-coat against a late-afternoon dark blue Kodachrome ocean. And Grandpa, his hair parted in the middle, ruffled in the sea breeze.

I wasn’t sad, and nor was my little brother. We were left with a plump, placid girl called Denise, who moved into our house. She gave us boiled sweets and made macaroni cheese. She gave me a miniature plastic kitchen set, a magical thing with tiny pop-up toaster and mixmaster and rolling pin. I lost myself in its wondrous shiny pink world. 

It wasn’t until decades later that  the grief from that time washed over me, and I thought  about how it  must have been for my mother, for Grandpa, for all of us, the survivors.

(These recollections came out of an exercise for the writing group. We wrote about the memories we had from before the age of five. Early memories are so intensely sensory - colours, tastes, feelings. fragments of words or  music, images from time when we experienced things directly; a time before we started to interpret or to construct narratives from our experiences.)

These morning-after-the-night-before photos must have been taken in the early 1950’s. That's my young mother at her parents’ kitchen table with her new boyfriend - my father-to-be.  She's wrapped up in a sheet and my father is in a borrowed kimono of Grandpa's. And that's Geoff with his pyjama-clad girlfriend on one side, his sister on the other. And only a few more years to live.  They look so at ease - I recognise, I think, the mood from my own past, those sexy, dreamily hungover  mornings in our early twenties.

eggs straight from the hens

Well straight from this little stall anyway, which is right next to this paddock where these carefree chooks spend their days. All of which is just five minutes down the road from our place. Life in the country is pretty good.

shades of grey

                          

                          

                          

A brief moment at the beach house. Dashed up for the weekend and met with our friend K, a builder. He walked around the property with me, suggesting how to patch up/restore/revive the old place. ‘Of course’ he said, ‘It’s well past it’s use-by date, but you know that don’t you” 

Yes, I know that I’m ‘overcapitalising’. And that the ‘rational’ thing to do would be knock it down and re-build. But I don’t want to do that. 

The four of us - K, his wife M, D & I sit on the verandah, drinking tea & eating the naughty cakes they brought us. Catching up on family and friend gossip, and talking about how scary the world feels right now, our little home-planet all bucking and wobbling and writhing. I’m thinking about how a tsunami here would reduce the beach house to matchsticks in a minute. 

“We are so tiny and insignificant in the face of Nature” we say.

“Everything feels so fragile”

And, “At least with this earthquake , it’s not caused by us humans, it’s the Earth herself...”

But someone’s Facebook post said we humans may have contributed to the cataclysm:

...Global warming causes the pressure on the tectonic plates to shift from the poles to the equator. The tectonic plates slip (Christchurch) and then readjust (Japan) and then, as earthquakes usually follow in threes, readjust again. San Francisco? Los Angeles?

Could this be true?

And on the Slow Love Life blog (from CBS News site) I read that 

... the entire earth has actually lost a fraction of its daily spin through the sky. Scientists calculate that the length of day on earth has been shortened by the trauma of the quake. The coast of Japan has moved eight feet. 

What can we do but tremble in fear, and pray for suffering humanity?

And keep living our lives. Which, though clouded by the knowledge of elsewhere tragedies, are still going along as ever.

Late arvo we stroll along the beach. Everything is tones of silver and grey & white, including our four heads of hair, tousled by the autumn wind.

F has been at neighbours’ place, hanging out with a couple of girls he’s known since they were all in nappies at  Little Fishes Playgroup. We encounter the three of them, gawky adolescents mooching along the beach. The girls in short shorts. New pimples and self-consciousness. We exchange greetings with the kids and keep walking in our opposite directions. 

Of course to me it seems like barely yesterday they were little toddlers and we mothers were helping them with their plastic spades and telling them not to throw sand at eachother.

                                        

more on milk

When I was in primary school, we all got a small bottle of milk each morning at playtime. The milk was delivered early in the day and sat, un-refrigerated in metal crates with a damp hessian sack over it for a couple of hours, getting nice and tepid and a bit smelly, before we got to drink it. There was a thick yellow collar of cream, because this was in the days  before homogenisation. It was all part of an attempt by the government to prop up the diary industry -  a scheme which probably resulted in a whole generation of us growing up hating cows’ milk.

Stop and think and always drink a pint of milk a day - are you kidding!?

Years later, in my early twenties,  I worked for a brief, soul-selling period in a large advertising agency. I wrote radio commercials for a flavoured milk product called ‘Big M’. All the scripts, as I recall involved squealing teenaged girls eyeing off spunky guys, getting pushed into the swimming pool, being Sooo embarrassed, spilling your chocolate, strawberry or caramel Big M. It was yet another attempt to flog milk. 

The tv ads were a mass of youthful sun-bronzed flesh, sun and surf, bikini girls, tits, bums, streaming milk bubbles (chocolate strawberry or caramel) slurping mouths, cleavage and muscular young bodies. It was a wildly successful campaign and the person (a woman) who’d launched it was a bit of a celebrity in the advertising world at the time, something for us young copywriters to aspire to. 

I didn’t last  long in advertising. It was all too evil for me. Plus I was reading feminist books about sexist language and objectification of women, while writing ads for Sportsgirl and Big M. Too reminiscent of my poor father, who clung to the idea that he was a socialist, even after he became a member of the stock exchange.

There was a book of photos of all the aspiring Big M girls. They would come into the agency, and audition in the theatrette with the Creative Directors & Account Directors. Blokes in suits. Goose-bumped girls in bikinis. Comments next to the snapshots ‘bum too big’ ‘boobs too small’ ‘possibility?’ 

Milk, yuk. I didn’t drink it for years. Did low fat and no diary and no gluten etc. etc. Heard about how bad it was: mucus forming, designed for baby calves, not humans. Even got sucked into soy milk for quite a while...Never liked milk anyway. 

But never say never.

New favourite Ayurvedic-inspired drink: warm up some beautiful fresh raw cow milk with some cardamon ( and/or cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, raw cacao), vanilla and a little sweetener  - I use argave syrup or Xylitol. Yummy. And so soothing to the system.

(cows snapped in India, 2006)

MOOOOO

Today I finally did something I’ve been meaning to do for ages. As a part of the endless ongoing  project  to be be more clean/green/healthy/sustainable. Which often feels so daunting, but today felt easy &  fun. 

I’ve been reading about the evils of pasteurisation of milk. How it kills the healthy enzymes etc. How ‘dairy intolerance’ was pretty well unknown until the 1950’s, when they started pasteurising milk.

Today I finally went to the dairy farm - friends told me about it a while ago -  where you can fill your own bottles for a dollar a litre with raw milk, which is straight from lovely Jersey cows. Any afternoon at milking time.

Now let me stress here that the good farmers are not selling raw milk for us to drink - No, no no, because that would be ILLEGAL. We have no intention of drinking illegal, un-pasteurised milk or of putting it on our cereal, in our tea or making yoghurt with it, or giving it to our children, no way! We are going to...bathe in it, as a beauty treatment!

This beauty treatment is so fresh, so pure! And so economical! And there is no excess packaging, there are no transport costs,  no advertising costs. Just a good local product.  

So, I rattle along a rutted road past peaceful green paddocks to reach the old milking shed, where  three or four generations of the same family have milked their cows. I suppose by hand originally. Now by machine.  Ninety year old grandpa is still there helping herd the cows in and out of the bales. Waving them in with his walking stick. Inside there are big, cool vats of milk.

There is also an old copper like my grandmother had in her out house laundry.  A concrete floor, a little dog, some chooks pecking in the yard. 

There’s the smell of cows and cow pooh and grass, and the gentle mooing and shuffling of cows. With their big,  brown, long-lashed eyes. I think about how cows are sacred to the Hindus. Gentle beasts, who give us such nourishment. 

The help-yourself milk is paid for on an honesty system. You leave your dollar in the tin. A couple of other healthy-looking people are there, also getting their bath milk. Someone shows me where the pouring jug is, where the tap is. Nobody is in a hurry. The farmer seems to know everyone, waves his greetings, while busily supervising the milking shed.  

I drive home with my two glass bottles of precious stuff feeling like the cat that got the cream. 

Enjoy and share the many pleasures

I had to go up to The Coast today. (Surgeon, final check on my arm, all fine). Planned to drive straight home with no shilly-shallying up there in glitzy consumer-land. Straight home and and Get On With Things. I almost made it, but then I saw the big red and yellow sign: Asian Supermarket.

Well, I’ll just duck in and see if they have some ghee, I said to myself. Haven’t been able to get any here in town. ( There are a lot of things you can’t get here. Which I quite like, most of the time, no consumeristic temptations, no shops full of useless baubles) Also I want another fan - essential item for we  ladies of a certain age. And in this sweltering heat. Sure to be some in there.

Pretending to myself that it would be a quick visit. Hah! Asian Supermarkets are one of my favourite sort of shops. I love how they smell. I love their Asian-ness and clutter. I love all the garish colours, the gold and red, the plastic crap, the coolie hats and bamboo steamers and woks and porcelain statues and  coloured paper lanterns. I love the poetic names of Moon Cakes and Lotus Nuts, Lily Flowers and Angelica, the weird and unidentifiable products (‘Sweat’, “Pork-Floss’) - and of course the colourful labels and the spelling mistakes.

And the bundles of fake money to send off with the dead, so they won’t be out of pocket in the afterlife (Finances covered for both salvation and damnation contingencies )

The box of straw ‘Blooms’ - for sleeping the floor, I guess. A box of boomerangs next to it, just in case...

I love the varieties of green tea ( Japanese is best), and  the tea packages: 

The more you drink, the more satisfaction you have, Good Taste, Good Life, Grade: Supreme Level. Enjoy and share the many pleasures!

An hour later I carry my booty out to the car: Yes, the ghee, the fans. Also a colourful woven plastic shopping basket, three lovely pale green dinner plates we don’t really need, a red silk-covered spectacles case, some useful kitchen scourers (Cleanness Cloths, Good Help For The Sanitary Kitchen), some mosquito repellant incense (...adopting recent international technology, break-resistant, pull-resistant, belong to green product of environ, mental protection. The aged and children are even more suitable to use...)

Some black sticky rice and some coconut palm sugar - gonna resurrect that old black rice pudding recipe, star anise , bananas...coconut milk. 

Curry paste, wasabi, sushi vinegar, a ‘Tasty Bite’ ready-to-eat, all natural Navaratan Korma  ( A dish fit for kings...go ahead and pamper yourself. Ready In a Jiffy!). A completely weird-sounding ‘nature’ herbal tea, claiming assorted health benefits, an Indian Cashew curry...

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100% Fashion...OK!

I definitely see 6 flower vases...

So that lovely gal in the polka dot swimmers, with the rose in her mouth ....