Spring Wardrobe Cleaning

It’s nearly the end of August. It snowed yesterday in Canberra (I hope you got to see it, it was beautiful). There’s a cold-as-charity breeze sneaking through the draught in the bathroom window. I’m still taking hotties to bed with me to keep me warm.

But, spring is coming.

I can feel it when the sun rises early enough to wake me in time to catch the 7.45am bus. I can feel it as I walk to the shops for the Saturday paper, smelling wattle mingling with smoke from the wood fires Canberrans are so fond of. I can feel it while I take a ten minute cuppa-and-novel-reading break from PhDing on the balcony to soak up some rays.

Most particularly, though, I feel it when I look at the disaster that is my wardrobe, because I can feel a cataclysmic Spring Wardrobe Cleaning a’coming.

I’m one of those irritating people who can’t make up their mind whether or not they’re a neat freak or a slatternly grotbag in matters of wardrobe maintenance. And, because I remain undecided, I vacillate between the two states, depending on particular external factors.

For instance, a rental inspection, a particularly special new clothing purchase, epic procrastination, and the first hint of warmer weather will turn me into a neat freak who sorts her (American Apparel) tights and stockings by colour and degree of ‘goodness’ (If you’re interested in the classificatory scheme? No holes = best; holes at crotch only = second best; holes in toe and crotch = third best; holes everywhere = laundry day only).

On the other hand, long days in the office without sunshine, winning gold at social decathlons (BREAKFAST! BRUNCH! HIKING! LUNCH! COFFEE! MOVIES! SHOPPING! DINNER! DRINKS! THEATRE!), and writing sessions where I’ve got my flow on, turn me into the sort of slatternly grotbag who interprets closing the wardrobe door, by even the narrowest of narrow margins, as a sign that folding, hanging and chucking out can wait for Another Day.

At present, the pendulum is well and truly making its home in slatternly grotbag territory. To give you an idea…in a two minute reconnaissance mission, the following items, hitherto missing and presumed lost, were recovered from my bedroom floor:
• one half of a very expensive pair of earrings;
• my favourite vintage Nike hoodie;
• Cath Kitson woolly wellington socks;
• a pink and cream Elle McPherson bra (I thought I’d left it at the gym); and
• countless bobby pins and hair elastics.

While this sounds dire - and, indeed, outfitting myself from my wardrobe mess for tonight’s decathlon events will be problematic - it’s actually a part of a well balanced seasonal cycle of building up, then slashing and burning, my wardrobe.

I know that in the next couple of weeks, as the sap of spring rises in my blood, I will derive a peculiar, seasonally specific, pleasure from spending the better part of a weekend cleaning, sorting, arranging, and redistributing no longer needed clothes, bags and accessories.

Just right now, though? I can feel the sun dipping below the mountains, and that cold-as-charity breeze tickling my bare feet. It’s time to put on my woolly socks, curl up with a book, and wait for Another Day. Given the pleasing signs that spring is almost here, I am sure Another Day won’t be too long in coming.

A Happy Little Vegemite

Although I was born here, travel on an Australian passport, and structured my English major around as many Australian Fiction units offered by our national university, I fall short when it comes to many significant aspects of Australian-ness.

For starters, I don’t do the team sport thing. I’ve tried to get excited about cricket - I just love the all-white uniforms and the silly hats - but a game where two teams throw a ball at each other for days on end leaves me uninspired. While I gleefully admit an abiding fondness for the Welsh Rugby team (on account of their lush facial hair) rugby’s union and league leave me cold once the national anthems are over. Large hairy men manfully singing is somethign I find rather stirring. Ball skills, not so much.

I know I’m risking deportation for putting this in writing, but I also don’t do the valorisation of sports stars as heroes. I skip the Bradman song when I listen to Paul Kelly’s ‘Songs from the South’, and make loud, prolonged fart noises whenever a faded sports star wins Australian of the Year. I have no desire to listen to has-been swimmers justify their bad behaviour on primetime TV. If you so much as mention our nation’s preparations for that eight letter ‘O’ word within earshot of me…well, let’s just say that it’s a word that might start with an ‘O', but it ends with a very angry Peggy. The only coverage of the ‘O’s’ that I intend to watch is the Bondi Hipsters’, and the synchronised swimming with Tessy Halberton, because those ladies gadding about in a pool is just too funny to miss.

On a broader level, I don’t gamble – even on the Melbourne cup – and I don’t drink much at all. My skin burns more than it bronzes. I don’t rate our flag, or our anthem, even when sung manfully by the aforementioned large hairy men. My favourite part of a BBQ is MamaK’s coleslaw. Emus scare the shiznet out of me, hot weather makes me intolerably grumpy. Home ownership and a quarter acre block feel like an impossible dream, barring a lotto windfall – an even more unlikely turn of events given that I don’t gamble.

Before you tear up my passport, though, I do have a few things to say in my defence, things that, deep down, make me True Blue.

Australia has light like nowhere else in the world, a light I ache for when I’m away from home. It’s in my bones, it’s there I feel its absence. I love the fact that we are a democracy, albeit an imperfect one, and that anyone who wants to can go and see Question Time in the House (I went last week at the suggestion of my wise colleague. Take my advice and go, it’s a hoot and a half). We have beaches like nowhere else in the world, and air and water clean enough – for now, at least - to enjoy them. And how I love our writers, our artists, our musicians and our filmmakers, especially when they capture something of our light.

But all this pales into insignificance when compared to my most compelling argument for my Aussie status: I can’t imagine a pantry without Vegemite.

There’s nothing better on toast or crackers, particularly when topped with bubbly grilled cheese, slices of jade-smooth avocado, or globs of bumpy, cellulitey, cottage cheese. I even take a leaf out of PapaK’s book and top my scones with Vegemite. We’re hardcore patriots (even though Vegemite is owned by Kraft, which is American – it’s the spirit of the thing that counts).

Although divided on Vegemite’s nutritional merits – on the one hand, those B vitamins, on the other, all that salt - I can’t help but gravitate towards Vegemite when I’m feeling, in the words of Flight of the Concords, more Vincible than Invincible.

Case in point: I had the 24 hr virus from hell a couple of weeks ago. I’ll spare you the blow by blow, but let’s just say I was so sick I fainted three times. If vomiting were a sport, I’d be representing Australia at the ‘O’s’. The first thing I ate when I was well enough to hold food down?

Vegemite toast.

And just like that, I was on my way back to being a happy little Vegemite.

Hotties, Heat Lamps, Hoodies and Warm Hearts: How to Survive a Canberra Winter

It’s the middle of winter in Canberra, and it’s Darwinism, pure and simple.

Only the fittest will survive.

Here’s the top ten secrets of the Capital's winter-fit. Now, go and make it work. We've still got two months left.

10) A proper coat. Proper, here, meaning thick wool tweed or worsted, lined, finishing - at least - at your thighs, but preferably longer, with roomy pockets. A lesser garment than the above will be insufficient. If you are new in town, this is the first order of business after ANZAC day (which Canberra natives know to be winter’s unofficial beginning).

A handy hint: the best coats I have found have been vintage, my guess is because air conditioning was less functional back in the day. My particular favourite winter coat was a $45 steal at Narabundah Vinnies. It is my very greatest bargain shopping purchase of all time.

9) Heat lamps and/or heating in your bathroom. Why? Let’s imagine you’re in a particularly awesome hot shower. It’s steamy, you’re washing your hair. You’ve even shaved your legs.

Nice.

Imagine, now, turning the taps off. You’re naked, you’re dripping wet. You step into a frigid bathroom. The air temp hovers just above ten degrees.

Not nice AT ALL.

I have lived in old, cold, Canberra houses/apartments where this sitch was a reality for June, July and August (PhD scholarship ghetto years, yo). It’s a suboptimal way to start the day, but you can avoid it by judicial deployment of energy-guzzling appliances.

8) American Apparel tights. Enough said.

7) A million and a half recipes for soup, or a mother/partner/housemate/really really good friend who will make soup for you. Unless you have a Spartan constitution, you will get sick at some point before a Canberra winter is through, particularly if you’re doing the hot shower-cold bathroom hop (see point nine). When you get sick, you need soup – chicken soup, lentil soup, pumpkin soup, pho, broth, laksa – to get you back to full health. That, and a whole lot of boxed sets of DVD’s.

Gavin and Stacey marathon, anyone?

6) Hoodies, preferably from your alma marta. Australian Bureau of Statistics data released this week indicates Canberra’s population is the most highly educated in Australia. It’s a safe town in which to get your nerd pride on.

If you’re a very clever cookie and have studied at more than one institution, pick your hoodies according to international rankings. Canberra is the only place in Australia with a population who knows and cares about such matters - choose your hoodies accordingly.

5) Hotties (Hot water bottles). If you are no longer deriving perverse pleasure from doing the whole Orwelian down-and-out-in-a-freezing-cold-climate thing, the simplest solution to your problems is to get into bed with multiple hotties.

You can pick them up for $3 at Big W. Too easy.

4) Proper Gloves. Proper, here, meaning fine calfskin leather, lined with cashmere, in a colour that says ‘Hi, my name is Fabulous’ (my gloves are violet, AKA Fabulous). As with coats (point ten), a lesser garment than the above will be insufficient. Good gloves will cost you (unless you or someone you know is travelling to Florence – in which case they will still cost you, but slightly less). It is worth the financial pain, though, because chilblains and knuckles-so-dry-from-the-cold-they-crack-and-bleed-as-you-type are best avoided.

You need the best gloves you can get your hands on. Or in. Just get some gloves.

3) Excellent company. If you are going to make the effort to leave your heater and get out of your trackpants, the conversation had better fucking sparkle.

Canberran natives know this. It’s why we all become fascinating people in the winter months.

2) Multiple Cardigans. You need at least one for each day that you are at work, because, if you are working indoors, heating levels will vary throughout the day and you may need an extra layer to keep you snug.

Some people bring blankets to work. My advice on this issue is that because its cold doesn’t mean you need your blankie. You're a grown up, put on a cardi.

1) An iPod, full of cold weather songs, because listening to Bright Eyes transforms your twenty minute walk home from a cold and miserable plod to a beautiful, pathos-filled journey of wonder. We natives know that’s what a Canberra winter is really all about – cold hands, cold noses, cold toes…

And warm hearts.

Could it be TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld? And Other Fish Parenting Dramas.

I’ve held off writing about this for the last week, scared to jinx anything, but I am now pleased to report that, after months of umming and ahhhing, I now am the proud owner of a fish tank. A rather glamorous tropical fish tank, if you must know, replete with plant life and two (for now) rather charming angel fish.

They are called TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld and DiamondsAndPearls. I think I should rename myself TheMostAwesomeBestowerOfNamesOfAllTime. This coming week I plan on adding a couple of suckerfish to the tank to help keep algae down. I think I’m going to have to lewdly name the suckers DirtyMind and IWannaBeYourLover. Eventually, I hope to have about 6 angelfish and 2 suckers, but I’ve been advised that it’s best to establish a fish population gradually. Something about bacteria, filters, and the alignment of Neptune and Pluto, no doubt. But back to the original story…

A couple of Fridays ago, Zsuzannah Verona and I made our way out to Fyshwick (what a wonderful suburb of Canberra – so much more to it than porn and pyrotechnics) to investigate fish options. A half hour later, Zusannah Verona and I were loading my car with an aquarium, a heater, a filter, some rocks and plants, a ph tester kit, some fish food…but no fish! This was because, according to the friendly man at the fish store, the tank needed to be established, the ph tested, the filter operationalised, and the temperature juuuust right before my fishy friends would be able to call my apartment their home. (This is the benefit of going to a reputable aquarium supplier – they really know their stuff and can get quite bossy about it, in the BEST possible way). Given the amount of (highly enjoyable) fuss and preparation my fish were demanding, I felt it only reasonable that they have diva-tastic names to reflect this. Hence, Zsusannah and I settled on Prince Song Titles as the naming theme for the fish. I feel that The Purple One would deem this most appropriate.

Zusannah excelled herself in her petgodparent duties. Without her calm guidance, I am convinced that the filter would have been put together wrong, the tank insufficiently filled, and the plants poorly arranged. We went out and ate some pho to celebrate (incidentally, Vietman Café at Woden does a fantastic pho – well worth a visit).

Perhaps, though, celebrations were premature. When I went back to the fish store later that afternoon, having double checked to satisfy myself that, yes, the tank was ideally ph’d, heated, and planted, I realised, rather foolishly, that I was going to have to delicately balance my small plastic bag containing two teeny tiny and quite scared angel fish while I drove the ten minutes back to my place.

What I should have done, with hindsight, was rest the bag on my lap as I drove. What I did, really really foolishly, was sit the bag in the passenger seat footwell, which meant that every time I turned a corner, the unsecured bag rolled about chaotically, giving my fish a significantly more traumatic start to life than I had planned. Fish parenting FAIL.

Clearly, though, angel fish have evolved to survive owner stupidity, and I was relieved to see when I pulled up at my apartment that the fish, although disoriented, had not retreated to that great aquarium in the sky.

The dramas were not to end there, though. Following my instructions to the letter, I allowed the fish to float in their bag in the tank for ten minutes to grow accustomed to the temperature. So far so good. Then, I opened the bag, submerged it to allow some tank water in, and allowed the fish to gently get used to their new water for about fifteen minutes. I went away to answer some emails, and came back to see how my piscean friends were doing.

DiamondsAndPearls was the only fish in the bag.

I had lost TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld.

(At this point, it’s worth mentioning that DiamondsAndPearls is pure white, and TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld is black. The background of my fish tank is black. Perfect camouflage, much?)

I searched high, I searched low. I rustled all the tank plants. I took apart the heater and filter, dreading that TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld had met a tragic end in the filtration pump. No sign. I checked behind the tank, fearing that she’d committed hari-kari and jumped over the edge. No little black fish corpses were to be seen. I was just about to give up and concede incompetence in the fish parenting stakes when, from behind a large green leaf, I glimpsed a shimmer of black tail.

Could it be TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld??

Ten minutes later, I saw movement over near the driftwood I had installed for fishtacular fun and games. Definite proof of life, and proof that I am not completely incompetent in the fish parenting stakes, despite some early setbacks.

A week and a bit has passed, and, while DiamondsAndPearls, her showier tank companion, is all over the attention-from-the-humans thing like white on rice, TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld, like all things of true beauty, can only be seen when you aren’t looking for her. But when you do catch a glimpse, it’s plain to see the reason why I couldn’t name her anything else.

Home.

You unload box after box. You haphazardly assemble furniture on the run, chugging pickled tea. You realise your bookshelf is missing a crucial brace to hold it true – you resolve to leave it leaning until you can get another brace from IKEA. You put off perfect pantry planning for a later date. You place vases wherever there is a clear surface. You plug in the new kettle, microwave, toaster, at the nearest power socket.

You know, one day, it will be Home.

A week in you rearrange the pots on your balcony – the thyme and oregano die in the deep shade and from your overzealous watering, but the lemon balm thrives.

Within the fortnight you have changed the position of the futon. You have hung all the pictures, you have scrounged new ones to go alongside. You are developing quite the collection.

A month has passed. You spend an afternoon DIY-ing that old dresser you picked up from the dumpster at your old place. You admire the results, and yourself admiring them, in the dresser’s oversized mirror.

You wonder, after five weeks, how so much dust can gather in a bathtub.

You realise, in week six, it’s because you love that breeze sweeping through the apartment when you leave all the windows and doors open, the breeze that brings dust from the renovations across the road. You swipe the dust from the bathtub each week when you clean, because you love that breeze.

Two months in, you journey to Sydney, amongst other things, to go to IKEA and get a brace for that precariously leaning bookshelf. Homeward bound and just passed Sutton, you realise you spent $300 and forgot to buy the brace. Your bookcase reproaches you every time you walk through the front door and see it, leaning.

Nine weeks after you collect the keys, and after working from home grading papers and coordinating distance ed for two courses, you realise that the study is not working. You rearrange some pictures, put some fresh flowers in a jug, swap some cushions over, and it works again. But that rug, you think, that rug will need to go sometime soon. You resolve to workshop rug options another day, you must get back to work.

Between Christmas and New Year, your father comes over and braces your bookshelves with steel webbing from Magnet Mart. You walk in the front door, you see your bookshelf, braced true and straight. You, and your books, are home.

My Place

I was intending on writing a follow up piece to last week’s theoretical deconstruction of DFO, but that’s going to have to wait until another day, as something terribly exciting has happened this weekend.

I’ve moved into my very own apartment. All by myself. (Ok, with the help of mamaK and papaK and some fantastic removalists for the heavy stuff, but it’s just me living there).

Long story short, I was intending to move later on in the year. Circumstances conspired to make me more than willing to make the financial commitment of paying double rent for 6 weeks to get into my own place sooner. Luckily, the fact that I speak fluent real estate meant that I had an offer made within 24 hours of viewing an apartment that I truly loved. (If you ever need to know the secrets to this strange dialect of sales speak, inbox me and we can liaise – that’s real estate speak for talk, FYI).

This weekend just passed was moving weekend, and those of you who know me well, or can deduce my interests from this blog, would appreciate that moving all my books, clothes and kitchenware down and then up three flights of stairs was no mean feat. But it’s done, and, with the exception of my bedroom and a few other bits and pieces, my new place is ready for me to spend the first night there later this week.

What’s really thrilling slash eerie slash awesome about this new apartment is that it has more space to call my own than I’ve ever had in my whole life. Both the family homes I grew up in, in Sydney and Canberra, were quite little for the amount of people we had living in them. I can remember being awed when I went to other people’s houses and they had spare rooms, rooms that existed entirely surplus to requirements, with pretty floral bedspreads and a mildew smell from disuse. Or rumpus rooms: a room entirely for kids to do kid stuff in. Wicked, but a totally foreign concept at my place, where every space had double or triple functions.

When I moved out of home in 2009 and into various share houses, the same applied – I had my room, but all other spaces were shared, which resulted in some pretty super hilarious fun times. But again, I found myself wondering what it would be like to sleep in a room that didn’t serve as a workspace, lounge room, dining room and laundry all at once.

This week, I’m going to find out what that’s like, because my new place has two bedrooms : a bedroom for me, and an actual spare room slash study slash extra place to store my clothes. In my spare room there’s a futon for when Merry Helliwell, Kitty Gilfeather, Clementine Kemp or Katriona Winston-Stanley come and stay for a visit. My grandfather’s writing desk sits in a corner, waiting for me to write that novel, the novel that’s nipping steadily at my heels with more than a little encouragement from Mimi Goss and Zsuzannah Verona.

My bedroom, now just a bedroom, is now a space freed up for dreaming about all these possibilities. And, of course, for storing my clothes in the obscenely large built in wardrobe.

Come By Chance

One of my favourite picture books as a child was called ‘Come By Chance’. I can’t remember exactly how this story ended, but it was about a lonely woman who comes upon a tumbled-down old house. The house is in need of a little TLC, as was the woman. Slowly but surely, the woman fixes up the old house, making it warm and cosy, and provides shelter for all sorts of animals when a storm hits. From thereon in my memory goes blank – if anybody else remembers how the story ends, I’m happy to be reminded.

What I’ve loved about that story is the sense of being able to rescue things – that, with a little attention and time, even the most dilapidated and desperate can be made whole.

So, where was I last Thursday morning, during the middle of a freakishly heavy downpour in our nations capital?

I was rescuing a dresser, single handedly, from my apartment’s dumpster, and dragging all 40+ kilos of it up three flights of stairs.

With a thorough airing out, some new knobs,


some pretty pot plants,


and a string of darling paper lanterns,



I think she scrubs up quite well, don’t you?

Recipes that Keep On Giving: Honey Baked Lentils.

Too much of too-muchness is glorious, isn’t it?

Except for the day afterwards.

Returning to my humble abode after a lovely few days of camping out at the parents, I’ve decided to make good use of a much anticipated Christmas present and cook a dinner that, whilst richly flavoured and a pleasure to eat, is low-fat, low-sugar, low-GI, high fibre, gluten and dairy free, and vegetarian – even vegan, if you’re flexible.

Normally I don’t restrict what I eat in light of any of those particular dietary requirements. After Christmas, however, a meal that fits all of those bills is not so much of an act of restrictive discipline, but more of a compassionate gesture to my system, in the hopes that it will forgive me, for I know what I have done, and it was BAD.

As for the much anticipated present? Well, let me tell you – or rather, let me show you…




It’s a Le Creuset! Those of you who are serious cooks, or those of you who’ve just watched Julie and Julia, will know that Le Creuset is the Alpha Romeo of kitchen brands. And mine is red.



Along with kindness towards my body, taking this baby out for a test drive is a further compelling reason why tonight’s dinner needed to be Le Creusefied.

So, here is my recipe for Honey Baked Lentils, served with steamed snow peas and soft polenta. I hope that your tummy appreciates your compassion as much as I hope mine will.

Honey Baked Lentils with Steamed Snow Peas and Soft Polenta

Honey Baked Lentils – serves 4, and freezes beautifully.

1 cup black, brown, or green lentils
½ an onion, chopped
2 ½ cups water
2 teaspoons vegetable stock powder (ensure this is a vegan, dairy and gluten free brand if these are core values for you)
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons honey (Here’s where the veganism of this dish is called into question. I personally think that bees are pretty darn happy buzzing around and making abundant rivers of honey, but I may just be an unenlightened philistine when it comes to bee rights. How about we all just do what we know is right in our hearts, m-kay?)
2 tablespoons oil (I use 1 tablespoon sesame oil, 1 tablespoon extra virgin)
2 garlic cloves, crushed
A large knob (about 4cm) ginger, grated. (As a side note, who decided that anything measuring 4cm merited the descriptor ‘a large knob’? Every recipe I read seems to use 4cm as the benchmark for large. In most other contexts a 4cm knob would warrant a completely different descriptor regarding size – ‘small’, ‘miniscule’, or ‘medically interesting’ are all adjectives I would use. Perhaps I should henceforth refer to all 4cm knobs of ginger as size challenged but lovely once you get to know it? But I digress…)
2 bay leaves
2 teaspoons ground cumin
3 teaspoons chilli flakes (more or less, depending on how hot you like it)

1. Preheat oven to 100 Celcius.
2. In your Le Creuset…




or, if you’re still waiting on Santa to make you a member of the Kitchen Equipment Elite, in a medium sized casserole dish with lid, combine all ingredients.
3. Place casserole dish or Le Creuset in your preheated oven for 2 and a half hours, or until lentils are soft and most if the liquid has been absorbed. You can shorten the cooking time by increasing your oven temperature to about 160 Celsius, which means you only have to wait an hour and a half for dinner. The resultant lentils are still amazingly tasty, but will probably be even better the next day, as the flavours will have had more of a chance to get to know one another. Whereas if you let them mingle in a very slow oven for three hours, the resultant flavours have had time to work out their differences and harmonise into a beautiful marriage without the need for a period in the cold wasteland of the refrigerator.

Soft Polenta and Steamed Snow Peas – this makes enough for just me, so adjust to suit yourself and the number you are feeding accordingly. It’s also a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone – you cook the snow peas in the steam emitted by the water you have to heat for the polenta.

Approx. 250g super fresh snow peas, topped and tailed, and cut into largish chunks.
1/3 of a cup instant polenta (you can get this at most supermarkets – it’s in the isle with the flours and other baking goods).
Water
Salt, pepper, olive oil, and/or butter (again, depending on taste, dietary requirements, and how much cheese you ate at Christmas).

1. Place about a cup and a half of water in the bottom of a saucepan which can be fitted with your steamer. Set over a high heat.
2. Pop the snow peas into the steamer, arrange your steamer over your pot of water, which should be heating up nicely now, and cover with a lid, so as not to loose any precious steam.
3. Give the snow peas between one and three minutes, until they are done as you like. Remove from steamer, replacing the saucepan lid. If you’re the kind of person who likes to blanche things, then blanche your peas. I just think it wastes ice cubes and makes your peas cold, but if you like cold soggy vegetables I’ll only judge you a little.
4. Set the table, even if it’s just you, with a cheerful tablecloth, soft fabric napkins, pretty bowls (another Christmas present from my lovely big little brother and his lovely girlfriend) and nice cutlery.




Don’t argue with me, just do it, it’s a very important step in this recipe.




5. Select a dining companion from your bookshelf. Tonight, I’m dining with Paul Kelly.




Paul and I go way back, and his ‘mongrel memoir’, his words not mine, was a welcome addition to my Christmas stocking. It’s the perfect reading for a dinner as soothing and compassionate as this one.
6. By the time you’ve faffed around with the peas, the table, and the bookshelf, the water should be at a good boil (there is method to my madness, as mama-K often says). Add in your polenta. The packet says ‘in a slow, steady, stream’, but I throw it in the pot and stir like hell.
7. Continue to stir until your polenta thickens – this shouldn’t be much longer than a couple of minutes. As the title implies, I like my polenta relatively soft, so I can tell that it’s done because it’s about the consistency of thick porridge. It also has the propensity to spit boiling hot dollops of polenta out of the pot and onto the stovetop, or an unsuspecting forearm, when it’s at this stage.
8. When it’s all getting a bit too difficult, remove polenta from heat, and add in your salt, pepper, oil and/or butter.
9. Pile the polenta into a bowl, top with a spoonful of the lentils, and the snow peas.




10. Eat, read, and drink some sparkling mineral water. Fell your inner equilibrium mercifully restored.

Make Me Happy

Many moons ago, my creative writing lecturer told my class that the most powerful thing that you can do is to make something – anything at all. According to him, it didn’t have to be anything special or recognised, or particularly good, but it just had to be something that you made yourself – where the lines between intent and finished product were clear and traceable, and where you had a part in something, from the beginning, middle to end.

This is something I think a lot about, as I get on with the business of life as a PhD student. I sometimes think that by being firmly situated in an analytical environment, where, at its worst, things aren’t made but torn apart, makes me all the more grateful for people who make things, and for the albeit small skills I have that allow me to make. As above, they’re not the best, they’re not critically acclaimed, they’re flawed, but there is something highly satisfying in wearing, using, or living with objects that are made, wherein you can feel the links between intention and action.

Spending a Saturday afternoon at Bunnings with the Dreamboat and what felt like the large majority of Canberrans, it became apparent that making things is something that, without thinking too hard or analysing too much, people do all the time. Something about planks of wood, nails, glue, paint, weed matting, and all those other amazing and mysterious things that make their home in Bunnings makes you feel somehow more alive and strangely competent, masterous even, of your own environment. It is, fundamentally, good for the soul. Who knew a bit of humble DIY could be so empowering?

So, here are some glimpses of things I’ve been making lately. I hope that you enjoy them, but, more to the point, I hope that it makes you want to make something of your own, whatever that may be.

Anybody recognise these cushions? They’re all reincarnated dresses/bags,

The beginnings of a new cardigan. Not sure if I like how much the ribbed cream/blue stripes remind me of a milk jug…

Table runners from dressmaking offcuts,

Sweet summer skirts,

Pots, and pots, of tea.

Happy making!

Bedroom Advice for Young Ladies – Top Five Handy Hints for Better Bedroom Experiences.

Hint #5: Size Does Matter.

I wish somebody had given me this sage advice when I bought my first ‘grown up’ bed 7 years ago, but size does matter.

(What did you think I was going to be talking about in this post? Clearly, the title could be about nothing other than interior decorating. Minds out of gutters, people…)

You see, should you want to be sharing your bed with a Someone, a Someone who is potentially rather tall, you might want to consider splashing out and going for the queen size, as opposed to double, option. Or be totally extravagant and go for a king.

Either way, remember spooning all night is delightful in the realms of imagination, but, in reality, it’s pretty annoying. And nothing kills passion like waking up cranky.

My key problem with my bed is that it has a foot on it – see picture. Whilst my bed looks lovely, like something that a Scandinavian lady-of-the-manor would indulge in romantic trysts on, it means that my Someone, who is a rather tall fellow, cannot lie straight in my bed. Instead, he lies diagonally across it, leaving me with two triangles of mattress with which to rest my weary bones. Which makes for lots of squishing, and a cranky Peggy first thing in the morning.



So, the moral to the story is, if you are at all interested in sharing a bed with a Someone, be considerate of their size. Opt for the next size up, or at least, pick a double bed frame without a foot, so that the Someone’s feet can poke over their edge till their heart’s content.


Hint #4: A Restful Colour Palette for a Good Night’s Sleep.

Your bedroom is for sleeping. Sleeping is very important. Studies vary in their recommendations, but I’ll tell you this for free – a bad night’s sleep is sure to mess up your day.

Colour, lots of it, is fabulous, and the rest of my home, and indeed most spaces I inhabit, are a veritable rainbow. But, the one place I make an exception is the bedroom. Just as certain fast food restaurants (*cough* MacDonald’s *cough* *cough*) use bright and clashing colours to stimulate appetites and encourage you to EAT THEN LEAVE, choosing restful colors, preferably from the same colour family or an analogous grouping, is a simple way to make sure that your bedroom visually cues yourself into being calm, rested, and serene. Even if you’re the latte-chugging-hurry-sick-mobile-phone-irradiated self you are during your business hours (*cough* Me! *cough* *cough*), a room that’s got a monochromatic scheme, or a subtle range of colours, is going to have some sort of a calming effect. Think shades of blue with greens, a mix of creams and wood tones, or even the classic white on white. All are excellent bedroom choices for a young lady.



Total mastery of the bedroom colour scheme isn’t easy to do in a rental property, or in other situations where you can’t paint. But, all is not lost.

One way around this is to go with whatever colour your walls happen to be, and roll with that as the theme. Luckily, the last three rooms I’ve had have been white or off white, which has meant that I’ve built up a collection of bedroom furnishings and furniture around a neutrals/white/black/wood palette.

Also, don’t underestimate the power of soft furnishings – soft in texture, but strong on impact, if used correctly. A fugly chair can quickly be turned into something much more attractive by the artful draping of a throw or two in a chosen colour – and the textural interest a throw provides can break up the potential monotony of monochrome. You can also choose to match YOURSELF to the monochromatic scheme, but I think that’s crossing the border between restful/serene, and padded walls. But everybody’s line is different…


Hint #3: Be Flexible.

As mentioned above, I’m renting, and anticipate being a renter for quite some time. Which means, regrettably, moving quite a lot more than I would like.

Moving a lot necessitates a high degree of flexibility in the bedroom. When selecting bedroom furniture, it’s imperative that it’s flexible in two ways: firstly, it’s easy to transport – it comes apart, or is lightweight, or, at very least, has ample gripping points for the brothers, dads, and friends enlisted to the task of moving to grab onto.

Secondly, you want, as far as possible, any furniture you buy to be up to radical multi-tasking, as, in the process of changing house, your room size and layout is likely to change radically as well. One of the things I loathed about working in furniture stores as an undergrad was that the ranges were targeted very specifically towards certain rooms, and to having a single use. To me, this is a really inefficient way of thinking about placing furniture in a space

My bed, with all its faults as outlined above, is fantastically flexible – it comes apart and can be put back together in ten minutes, and none of its component parts weigh more than five kilos. It can be stored virtually flat (thanks IKEA!). Because it’s a frame and mattress, rather then an ensemble, it’s also a multi tasker, in that the under bed space can be used for storage. This almost, but not quite, makes up for its other shortcomings.



Another piece of flexible bedroom furniture is my great grandfather’s fold out desk. Aside from being a lovely thing to have, with its ink stains and faint smell of pipe tobacco, it’s a truly flexible marvel.




Point A: the desk can be lowered or raised as needed, opening up a compact space when the desk it not in use. Point B: It’s actually quite roomy – and lockable – and is thus a perfect repository for various important documents and other secret things. Finally, Point C: Although it now makes its home in my bedroom, it is not bedroom specific – it’s flexible enough to be used, in other future houses, as a telephone table in an entrance way, as a desk in a study, a funky book display in a lounge room, or even as a hutch to store kitchen palaver. With flexible pieces, you are only limited by your imagination (and there I go, lapsing back into furniture salesgirl mode…)

Hint # 2: Put That Thing Back Where it Came From.

There is nothing worse than trying to relax when you are surrounded by a sea of moving bedroom debris. Hence, my very simple piece of advice: put things back where they came from.


As my pics suggest, you don’t necessarily have to put the things back neatly – they just have to go back. In their place. Leaving the important surfaces (bed, desk, reading chair) sans clutter.



So, you get your favorite yellow cardigan out to wear with your new skirt. It doesn’t work.

What do you do?

You put it back where it came from, on the hanger, in the wardrobe.

Simple.

Hint #1: You’ve Got The Love.

All of this is sounding a little didactic, but, at the end of the day, this is your room, so it should be personal – it should reflect, probably more than any other space in your home, your loves and your passions. And not in the l’amore, l’amore sense, but in the sense of who and what really matters to you, the people and things you want with you when you are dreaming.