KerrieJean.com

God help me…….. 

Another series of the risible MasterChef.  AND don’t even try laying the ‘you just don’t get it’ one on me…..

Call me self-obsessed, call me shallow, call me Peri-Demi-Semi Menopausal – call me anything you like but waiting around for four hours to see whether Amanda’s double crusted stingray tentacle stayed on the bed of triple dandelion infused cous cous – or fell off – is not my idea of even a passably pleasant night.

I like (no demand) that my culinary experiences are exciting, memorable……

It’s a family tradition going back to the sixties: a tradition underpinned by passion and natural yearnings to show love by saying unforgivable things around a huge laminex table groaning with iceberg lettuce, pesticide-enhanced tomatoes and the crowning glory – a four foot stack of devon. 

And make NO mistake, this was a family always looking for the next big thing.  

(The Next Big Thing! Cr: langleyo: flickr)

So when the ground breaking ’Red Steer’ Restaurant opened in Wagga Wagga, Hec and Gwennie, and their five partly grain fed girls, were among the first through the two colossal horns framing its imposing teak stained plywood door.

Inside, a clever use of space: tables and chairs placed at seven-inch intervals.

The spectacular backdrop?

A state-of-the-art 150 foot long stainless steel grill appliance capable of  shooting  flames to ceiling height. Framing it, a massive glass ‘open’ counter filled with six tonnes of crushed ice and 19 tonnes of prime Riverina beast.   

After being seated by the ‘Red Steers” smiling young staffers (dressed in impeccable fire resistant overalls), gourmand Hec came into his own.

‘Magnificent, bloody MAGNIFICENT. IT’S called a self-cook flame grill kids - which means……..

…….I get to pick what we’re havin’ and I get to cook it….’

Before (by then) a very flushed Gwennie even has a chance to say: ‘Be careful, we all love you on payday,’ Hec’s gone…….

……Only to emerge 30 seconds later from the slaughterhouse cum kitchen, sporting a (big) regulation chef’s hat and full white apron which is (unfortunately) a bit small.  Which mean the ties are straining at his bum. 

But, in the scheme of things, that’s nothing. 

Because other families trying to celebrate shotgun engagements or cancer all-clears are shocked to see our personal chef demonstrating Samurai-like two handed knife skills while lurching towards the beast cabinet.

Hec’s repeatedly waving an abattoir grade knife high in the air, bringing it down hard on an industrial size sharpening stone.

The noise – the overall effect - is blood curdling but thankfully no-one has to endure it for long.

Because within 40 seconds,  the ‘Red Steer’s’ most audacious self-cook-flame-griller has thrown seven (’one each’), eight pound T-bones at the furnace. 

Then bravely, even petulantly - with just one small spatula at his disposal – Hec’s desperately trying to control the (a) sudden surge in fire activity (b) white hot globules of  fat coming straight at him and (c) clear and present dangers threatening his dignity. 

The ‘Red Steer’ is suddenly quiet:

Has THIS Master Chef, this man of passion and nerves of steel, finally gone TOO FAR?

Thrilled to report - a resounding NO.

*We returned to the ‘Red Steer’ on several occasions during the next few years. It was always good. But while no-one dared say it the magic of that very first visit could NEVER be recaptured.

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So, so where to now…..? You’re very welcome to come in here and tell me that ‘MasterChef’ is brilliant – because anyone who knows me will assure you I’m pretty broadminded…….and one of the things I hold dear about kerriejean.com is its role as a forum for the free exchange of opinions/ideas – however whacky.

And do I need to say it? It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy when folks just report in on what’s happening in their lives. Trust me, the very first mistake you’d make would be to think: ‘Why the hell would I do that?’ So…..go on.

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it

*This is my Anzac Day Story, 2009. Circumstances haven’t changed for Hec so I’ve put it up for another viewing….with some  of the comments.

*As usual, a new story up tomorrow.

May I introduce you to handsome RAAF Navigator (Serviceman no 412859) Hec Ross of Leeton? (on right).

I carry this pic on my person and turn it over when I get nervy. You see on the back of the photo Navigator Hec is doing his coordinates, working out where the bloody hell he and his bomber mates are. So, when I get frazzled I think:

If Hec could keep his mind on the job in woeful circumstances I surely can work my piddly problems out.

So here’s to Hec who could NEVER guts the thought of marching on April 25th.

I’ve got a little box with a few Hec ‘war things’ in it.

A letter from the Air Department (Jan 21st, 1949) tells Hec that his service medals have arrived.  One, for just being there (War Medal) and the other, for just being in the Pacific (The Pacific Star). I’ve also got bits and pieces off his uniform: beautiful studs, nifty stripes (not too many mind!) and a mother-of-pearl heart with a bird on it.

I know next to nought about Hec’s War.

He didn’t talk about it but occasionally, after drinks had been taken, he’d have a little sing about it.

Now, the starting of the *Vultee is a most peculiar art…….off you go Hec….finally working up to a big finish….

Early in the morning when the dew is on the grass, you will see the Vultee men all sitting on their arse……

(*Vultee Vengeance dive bomber)

Other snippets:

**** Hec ran a war time book on the Melbourne Cup. In a gesture of unbridled patriotism, he and his pilot took a dive bomber up to get good radio reception for the race. It is acknowledged that his promotional opportunities were strictly limited after this episode.

**** Because of something which happened in The War, Hec was deaf in one ear. But Gwennie, always a great supporter of equal opportunities, made sure he NEVER felt disabled:

YOU CAN HEAR ME WHEN YOU WANT TO. YES YOU CAN HEC, YES YOU CAN!!!

**** Hec drank a fair bit of beer before The War – and he quickly resumed his normal routine after it.

**** Did the War make Hec nervy? I think so. He got himself SO worked up – particularly during the footy season, Lent and whenever anyone dared mention Billy or Sonia McMahon.

Forgot to tell you. While Hec didn’t march, he did take it upon himself to run the best Anzac Day two-up school in the Riverina…..

Always a pleasure to hear from you….

*This is Leeton’s War Monument (cr: Mattinbgn) which has been noted by contributors to this post.

Just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the ‘website’ space – not necessary!

‘Furnace like’ would be a gross understatement in describing the heat in the small irrigated township of Leeton on January 25th, 1957.

SO fierce, rice paddies turned into geysers and cling peaches became lethal when they exploded right off trees taking out thousands of innocent seasonal pickers….

Fearing for the lives of their sweltering elderly flock, church leaders declared nudity mandatory at a scheduled Methodist Picnic….

And at the Leeton Swimming Pool, desperate bathers had to be treated for shock when unprecedented evaporation emptied the Olympic size pool in just under eight minutes. 

In the middle of the chaos, Gwennie screamed: ‘It feels like I’ve got a catering size can of  peaches inside me!!!’

And out I came in the ’Warren’s Tiling  Memorial Delivery Room’ at the Leeton District Hospital. 

Girl number FIVE for Hec and Gwennie Ross who were already having trouble keeping their dignity, remaining proud of their brood in a town where the birth of a boy always generated up to 19 times as many pressies.

[Cr: Lynn (Gracie's mom) - I'm here and there's photostream: flickr]

While Gwennie was safely bringing her catering tin of peaches into The Riverina,  Hec was hard at work at the Letona Cannery telling everyone that  ‘he wouldn’t mind a boy’.  HOWEVER,  if God  - who had the right to be a real bastard -  decided this was not to be, so be it.

Hec appeared rational but underneath he was in turmoil, grappling with not only urgent gender issues but also recurring thoughts of  Gwennie’s birthing day routine.

And the fact that he’d experienced it several times before Januray, 1957, made it no less disturbing.

To be fair – by the time I was born – Gwennie always tried to get to hospital a good 20 minutes before having a baby.

Ever since Hec was forced to mentally scrub up and nearly had to go into delivery mode for girl two, Merrilee Anne, on the front bench seat of  Holden CLU 295 in his town’s bustling main street, Pine Avenue, he’d made himself  crystal clear on future obstetric protocols: ‘A man would appreciate a bit of warning.’

On the 25th of January, 1957,  things did go to plan but Hec was still left with free floating emotions – equal parts tenderness and terror.

As usual, a 34cms dilated Gwennie screaming:  ’When we going to get a Labor Government? WHEN we going to get a Labor Government? WHEN WE GOING TO GET A F****** LABOR GOVERNMENT?’ was conveyed in CLU 295 to Leeton’s crack Imminent Birth Squad. 

Hec - now with terror and tenderness threatening to bring him undone - drove (as per THE protocols) in a manner dangerous to work clutching at the certainty that a phone call would come though within the hour.

Which it did.

To say that the catering size tin of peaches had arrived in the form of Girl Number Five.

Apart from begging the doctor to closely monitor genitals and immediately report back  if there were any changes,  Hec was excited.

In line with protocol,  he drove in a manner dangerous back to the hospital, gave Girl Number Five a cuddle while winking at Gwennie and nodding: ‘ SHE’s a champion, another bloody champion!’

Not much later, Hec was heard telling a celebratory scrum in the Leeton Hotel that everyone in it had better comes to terms with the FACT that it was the most virile blokes – the blokes with the killer sperm – that had been proven to produce far more girls than their unfortunate counterparts*.

* It really is very sad that Hec wasn’t around to witness the scientific advances which proved him right.

‘To increase your chances of conceiving a girl, you should have intercourse 3-4 days before ovulation. Men produce two types of sperm — those carrying the X or female chromosome, and those that carry the Y or male chromosome. These two types of sperm are different in several ways: the male y-sperm cells are smaller, weaker, but faster than the female x-sperm cells, which are bigger, stronger, but slower. Therefore, if you have sex 3-4 days prior to ovulation, you have a better chance of conceiving a girl, because the weaker male sperm cells will die off, and the female sperm cells will be available in greater quantity when the egg is released.’

http://www.ovulation-calendar.com/hlp-d02-ovulation-and-pregnancy.html

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So good on Hec and all the other highly virile Australian fellas who produce girls. And let’s be all clear on this - these superb men have NEVER been given their due. 

Desperate to hear from particularly virile posters……

Perhaps you were born in the ‘Warren’s Tiling Memorial Delivery Room’ at Leeton District Hospital and want to publically thank  the great team there…….

And, as usual, just great to hear from everyone simply compelled to pass on their news/observations.  Everything is valid. Remember, you’re in a site which not only tolerates but positively celebrates the glorious rainbow that is humankind.

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it

People enjoy – are even naturally drawn to – Open Spaces.

Even taking, taking, TAKING their pleasures as if a constitutional right – sweating themselves stupid in the never-ending battle for just above average body weights, walking designer huskies fouling inner city courtyards, pushing their mental and physical limits via extreme Tai-Chi……

BUT DOES ANYONE STOP TO THINK WHERE NATURE’S LEISURE CENTRES COME FROM?

This is the story of the lush sports fields of St Francis De Sale College, corner of Pine and Maiden Avenues, Leeton (motto ‘Virtue et Constantia’/ ‘Courage and Perseverance’).

In the late 1960’s, these showpieces were a pathetic sun baked paddock. And, for The Sports Field Dreamers, it came with a huge logistical problem: ROCKS. From pebble to boulder proportions. Igneous. Sedimentary. Metamorphic…..

(Leeton’s Sports Fields Of Dreams: circa 1969 cr: cenz: flickr)

But that didn’t stop Sister Mary McKillya and Big Marist Brother Where Art Thou?

Quite the opposite.

The removal of 809,876,590 tonnes of rock, to be known thereafter as ‘Emu Parade’, would be the centrepiece of  all curricula and disciplinary protocols.

From 1969-1972, like hundreds of other Muscular Young  Riverina Christians, I toiled in the Paddock Of Boulders.

In 108-degree heat, Children Of The Boulders, with hunched backs and gnarled hands, battled with rocks more than twice their bodyweights.  Colossal rockpiles sprung up only to disappear overnight.  What happened to them no-one knew.  

Across the Paddock Of Boulders, there could be heard massed singing:

Consider yourself, well cooked,

Consider yourself,  part of The Family……

…..Plaintive young voices always ignored by passing motorists who desperately wanted sports fields but – God forgive them - didn’t give a damn about who got maimed and ‘melanomaed’ in pursuit of them.

The ghastliest of The Ghastly Years for The Children Of The Boulders was 1972.

Sister Mary McKillya and Big Marist Brother Where Are Ya? were nearing death and feared they’d never see the (and may I say, very handsome) Bishop of  the Wagga Wagga Archdiocese, Francis Carroll, bless their Sports Fields Of Dreams.

History records that in 1972, there were 789  disciplinary ‘Emu Parade’ actions following well-targeted surveillance campaigns ending in dawn raids. These included:

* Detection and seizure of tampons – banned because of their penetrative nature.

* Detection of kohl on eyelids – banned because Cleopatra was a tart.

*Detection and seizure of personal diaries -  banned because ‘ If you want to write to someone, write to God…..’

And so it was that St Francis de Sale College got its Sports Fields Of Dreams.

I gaze upon them when I’m home – enroute to the famed Golden Apple Supermarket to pick up a couple of bottles of local Spumante.

Cheers…….

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So, here’s to you…….how ya doin’?  At season’s change….

Can’t tell you how much this Melanoma Kid loves the first whiff of something – anything – other than summer. Feel better. Less loopy.

As usual, I await news from your patch…….perhaps you’ve even got a favourite Open Space which Australia should know about.

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it

*The Big Lebowski has been our poet-in-residence for more than four seasons (week in, week out actually). This is ‘Poem For Autumn’.

As the sun comes down
From the cloudless sky,
To end this peace-warmed,
Autumn day, a solitary fly:

Butterfly.

Seeks shelter in the avocado,
A princess on the fly.

A currawong sings above,
Its predatory and mournful song,
Cooo-rah-wong, Cooo-rah-wong,
(Missed out again! Dinner gone!)

Poor girl, you have flown so long,
A few more hours, minutes,
(whatever)
And you will lay your eggs.

Be dead and gone, lost forever.

But no, you leave me, great gifts.
Inherited innocence,
Sweet morsel of a soul.

Behind all this, an immortal dream.

Girl of my dreams that I had sought
in bars on buses on ferries on trains
on vacationless holidays
in the stars.

***********************(latest KJ post below)

Postmodernism?  NO time for it.

There is Truth. And while Christian leaders indulged in unedifying s****fights over Easter I was endeavouring night and day to seek one:

Was Leeton Australia’s premier hot spot for ‘Swingers’ Circles’ in the sixties and seventies?

(*Dutch Swingers: 1964: Cr: National Archief, Netherlands: flickr)

Why now KJ, why the desperate need to answer this NOW?

Simple. Because Easter always sees me in a spin…….

One minute He’s having tea, then He’s fronting his best mate in the garden, then He’s in more trouble than Speed Gordon, then He’s dead, then He’s not…Oh boy, I’m exhausted….I need certainty…….best to concentrate on the Swingers’ bizzo……all right, ALL RIGHT I will….it might even be good for me….SO…..to work…….

It is often claimed – for three main reasons – that country towns produced far more Swingers per capita than city centres:

(1) Abject boredom. *Peaking during off footy season sizzling summers.

(2) Difficulty of conducting traditional extra-marital affairs. * ‘I’m not, NOT gunna pay 45 bucks for a night in Wagga – what’s wrong with Warren’s and your bed?’

(3) The perversion (by perverts) of the traditional culture of caring and sharing in tight knit communities.

(Note to self: Keep cool. No, NOT just cool. Get CLINICAL. Just because YOU abhor perversions - and perverts - of any kind, keep your tightly held moral code out of this. The FACTS please KJ, just THE FACTS….)

 All right, ALL RIGHT these are THE FACTS……

Women (yes women) tucked up in the same bed every night with the same ‘Wazza’ ( well, not quite the same – marriage day 1967- 90 kilos, 10th marriage anniversary – 156 kilos) and who continually told their girlfriends that if Wazza died of a heart attack tomorrow they’d be off to Surfers for a week to celebrate WERE the folks who ran around naming alleged Swingers and their despicable set of behaviours.

According to these women (yes women) Swingers met at this or that house – addresses always provided – where husbands in leopard print G-Strings deposited car keys in tupperware lettuce spinners.

Then Swinging Hostesses – in black see through negligees purchased in Sydney – pushed the spinning mechanism. 

After the keys -  on key rings which clearly said things like ’Return to Barry’ or ‘ Terry’s Tune-Up Services’ or ‘I Love Pork’ -  stopped spinning the men plunged their hands into the device, picked a key and WHAMMO – the wife of the owner of the key was theirs! *’On appro’ is probably more accurate.

What happened next – according to the Swinger whistleblowing women (yes women) was that Swinging couples adjourned to bedrooms where downright kinky acts took place. Kinky, kinky, KINKY!  Particularly acts involving  ingredients for the sacred ritual of crackle making: specificially copha, cooking chocolate and rice bubbles….

According to our informants, Swingers’ parties always ended in the same way.

Participants – initially resembling flushed crackles - frolicked under backyard sprinklers, got dressed and then carefully secreted their leopard print g-strings and see through negligees in the spare tyre compartments of family sedans. They then went home to their children.

UNTIL NEXT TIME…..

*I have reviewed all the evidence.

Was Leeton a seething haven of Swingers’ parties – with all their attendant gross distortions of what it is to REALLY love, to REALLY feel…?

YES.

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*Controversial (maybe even hurtful to a lot of people) BUT I didn’t get into this business to pay the rent: I got into it to make a difference, tell the truth – however unpalatable that may be.

If you have any evidence of country people and their propensity to Swing please get in touch. *Protection of sources guaranteed.

And – do I need to even say it? – I’m looking forward to hearing from you about anything at all. You may think you’re life is small (even inconsequential) but I’m here to reassure: It ISN’T! So, post away – go on…!

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it.