A King of a Day

Yesterday, dearest had a seminar to attend in Melbourne, so I went with him.  We took the early bus up, shared breakfast at what has become "our" breakfast spot in the city and then went our separate ways for the day.  While he was in the seminar, I did some shopping and then we met up again to go to the King Tut exhibit at the Melbourne Museum, after which we had dinner and caught the late bus home.

It was a busy, exhausting day for me.  I wandered through the shopping district of Melbourne, indulging myself with some new bath products and a bottle of purple ink for my fountain pen, and I picked up some gifts for people.  I left dearest at the seminar about 10:30 a.m. and was on the go, seeing, doing, shopping until we met again about 2:45 p.m.  I had about a 20 minute rest while I enjoyed my lunch, and then about 15 minutes as I arrived at our meeting location early -- but then it started raining so I scampered off in search of shelter and found it in touristy shops, where I contemplated the merits of teriyaki emu jerky and lanolin/placenta overnight moisturizer as appropriate souvenirs for friends.  "I've moved to Australia, but you still have dry skin, so here have some placenta cream.  It's the thought, right?"

After meeting up again, we got a tram (kind of a cross between subway trains and New Orleans streetcars but more utilitarian than historic) out to the Royal Exhibition Building/Melbourne Museum.  It was the first time I had been to that area, and it meant I can tick off another UNESCO World Heritage Site from the list.  (My total is now 10 sites visited.)  The Royal Exhibit Building is a maintained old building.  The Melbourne Museum is slick modern building, which looks as though the builders could not steady the plumb-bob to save their lives.  Every vertical surface in the museum is at a different angle, creating many odd sloping walls and ceilings.  After finding the ticket desk, an irregular shaped island in the middle of a large open space with no indications of its purpose other than velvet ropes marking out a queueing space, and picking up our tickets, we headed to an almost-but-not-quite-triangular window that served as the coat check to drop our bags, cameras, and coats.  As in most museums, photography was not allowed in the exhibit, so why carry around the bags if we did not have to?  We had a timed entry for 3:30 and, declining the green screen photo-op at the entry way, were right on time.  I had seen the King Tut exhibit when it was at the New Orleans Museum of Art, but I was 5 years old at the time, and really remember only that road to the Museum was painted bright blue as a representation of the Nile.  I honestly think it took until the Hurricane Katrina flooding to finally get all the blue paint off the roads around the Museum.  I had also attended an Egyptian Artifacts exhibit at NOMA several years ago.  That exhibit was frightening to me as the museum had been darkened and set up as a burial chamber.  I was happy to see that the Melbourne Museum was not quite so dark or so realistically set.  We opted not to take advantage of the audio tour, instead reading the information on the display cases.  I hate people who jump into the space that is left when you are trying to be able to see both the text and the item well.  By the third gallery room, I had had enough and was beginning to get rude myself -- especially to the people who had their audio tours turned up so loud I could hear them clearly without the headsets.

It was an interesting exhibit.  The artwork was fantastic, and to think that everything was created without the aid of power tools makes everything more amazing.  Dearest commented that it was a bit like looking at the booty of grave robbers, and in a way he's right.  That aspect aside, I have another problem with the exhibit.  Whenever I see Egyptian artifacts, I can't quite shake the feeling that the gods represented are not watching us with favorable eyes.  The potential for smiting is real and palpable to me, and I can't quite shake the feeling that we are playing with forces we know not.  I am glad I have seen it, but now, being the third time I have come in contact with such artifacts, I not entirely sure that my luck has not run out.

Having wandered through the exhibit at our leisure -- it took just about an hour and fifteen minutes; I noted the time because the group ahead of us in line was given a ticket for research purposes as to how long people took in the exhibit galleries -- we collected our gear from the triangle window and had a sit down to discuss dinner plans and the bus timetable.  Deciding that even if there were food around the museum, we needed to get back to Spencer Street Station anyway, so we might as well head that way and find dinner as we saw something interesting.  (The first time I met dearest, he pointed out the station using the name Spencer Street Station.  At that time, it had been officially renamed as Southern Cross Station, but I, like the native New Orleanian I am, am loathe to use the new names of buildings, so I still think of it as Spencer Street Station.  Perhaps it helps make me sound closer to a native Melburnian than a tourist.)

So it was back to the tram stop and down to Bourke Street in search of dinner and JB HiFi (for dearest's indulgences, which turned into mine as well).  We discussed dinner and a pub meal was decided upon, and dearest wanted to try an Irish-themed one he knew.  And so we did.  I am not sure I will ever get used to restaurants where you have table service, but order at the bar.  I miss having actual waiters who come to your table and take your order.  But dearest was nice, found us a table and handled ordering.  He was issued our drinks (Coke for me -- a big pint glass of Coke! -- and Killian's Irish Red for him) and a table number and we waited for dinner.  Like other franchised themed restaurants/bars, the food was adequate, but nothing spectacular -- I had an order of onion rings (which were well fried with a crunchy beer batter), and a beef and Guinness stew (served with over-toasted, nearly burnt, bread and bland but inexplicably lumpy instant mashed potatoes; on the good note, the stew's gravy was fantastic and made an excellent dip for the onion rings).  Dearest had fish and chips, which he described as too-quickly fried.  After a less-than-satisfying dinner, soundtracked by an 80's arena-rock anthem retrospective, played too loudly for comfortable conversation, we were on our way to Spencer Street and the bus terminal, with a detour to the JB HiFi for a wander.

We arrived at the station about 40 minutes to an hour before the bus was scheduled, but by then we were both tired and ready to get home to our bed.  And two and a half hours later, I was home and in my bed, quickly drifting off to dreamland.

It was a lovely day out.

Things I Learned Today

I'm old.

I've never really thought of myself as old, but reading tweets with the @KindergartenCop hashtag reveals it's an OLD movie.

I must be old; I remember when it came out in theaters.

Russian Turtles

This evening, I watched a news story on the last NASA Space Shuttle Mission.

Dearest and I had a discussion following the story.  Dearest says it's sad that the only way to the International Space Station now will be via Russian rockets.  My contention is that fact alone indicates Russia won the Space Race.  At a time when every country is facing serious budget choices, Russia is still funding its manned space exploration while the US has scrapped the Shuttles with nothing to replace them.  Let me repeat that:  Russia is still funding its manned space exploration while the US has scrapped the Shuttles with NOTHING to replace them.

Communism may have proven to be a miserable failure as a governmental system.  The Red Menace of the 1950's and 1960's may have paled to nothing more than a Pink-ish smear in the history books.  But the Russian manned space program has outlived the US one.

From Sputnik to Soyuz, Russia may have lost battles, but it has won the war.

Indulgences

I've been bad.

I've been very bad.

I've indulged myself.

Yes.  It's a sickness.  I have told you all before.  I'm a book-a-holic.  And I indulged myself.

And I think I may have to again.  So many new books are coming out... and I need them all.  It's gone well beyond wanting; I need them -- to complete series or collections and more importantly to keep bookstores in business.  If we do not buy actual books, bookstores may go the way of the dinosaurs.  We may lose the last remaining bookstores.  I cannot be a part of anything that will kill off bookstores.  And yet, I cannot keep up this kind of indulgence.

Surely there is a middle ground.  Yes!  There is!  I can have other people buy the books for me.  That's an even better plan!  Yes!  I get to indulge my passions, and the bookstores have more, or at least different, customers.  It's the best of both worlds.  Okay readers, my birthday is at the end of August.  Between now and then there are a good number of books coming out that I need.  I will happily provide a list upon request.  :) :)

Amish Penicilin?

I spent much of the last week being sick.  I am not sure if I'm working through every Australian cold variant, it's allergies that I let get out of control, a flu of some sort, or something else entirely, but it took a lot out of me, and I spent last Friday through Thursday coming down with and getting over whatever it actually was.  And then, being the nice person I am, I decided to give it to my dearest.  Now he is in the miserable portion of the illness.

But now that I am on the mend, I'm anxious for real food -- something more than noodles with butter or scrambled eggs.  I had the last of my leftovers for dinner last night.  I wanted something real and home-cooked for dinner.  It made no sense to cook an entire meal for myself and dearest is in no condition to handle anything too heavy.  Thinking over the options, I decided that what my dearest needed was a good, warm, hearty bowl of soup.  Everyone knows that chicken noodle soup is the universal curing food.  A quick pantry inventory revealed the sad fact that we have no chicken, no noodles, and no celery.  That meant I had to search for a soup that I would make with what I had on hand.  Diving through my cookbooks, I picked out From Amish and Mennonite Kitchens, and in it I discovered a recipe using stuff I had on hand -- Potato Soup with Rivels.  The soup is made from about a dozen small potatoes, about 1/4 cup butter, salt and pepper, and enough water to cover the potatoes and have some left for broth.  I looked at the recipe and thought -- there is no way that will turn out well, but if I add some vegetable stock powder, it might approach good.  So into the pot went the potatoes with a knob of butter, I liberally sprinkled salt, topped with copious amounts of freshly ground black pepper and set the whole thing on the burner to boil.  Looking at the developing soup, I added four good spoons of vegetable stock powder and turned my attention to the rivels.

I had never made rivels, but looking at the ingredients -- 1 cup flour, 1 egg, and 1/4 cup milk -- they looked a great deal like the rolled egg dumplings I was used to making for my homemade chicken and dumplings.  The directions said to make them into crumbs the size of cherry stones.  Well, the soft, sticky dough proved difficult to turn into crumbs, so I gave up and made the rolled dumplings I knew.  I love the rolled egg dumplings, because it is nearly impossible to over-roll them.  I have a tendency to make rolled doughs too thin, but the rolled egg dumplings specifically call for them to be rolled as thin as possible.  A liberally flour-dusted cutting board, a bit of kneading and, wham! I had rolled egg dumplings, if a bit softer and stickier than I am used to.  Taking no great care, I cut the thin dough into square-ish shapes, roughly the size of cherries and dropped them in the boiling broth with the potatoes.

The recipe instructions said to drop the rivels in and cook until the potatoes were done, so that is what I did -- and hoped for the best.  And the resulting soup became so much more than the sum of its parts.  The flour on the dumplings helped thicken the broth, just as the cooking potatoes did.  The melted butter incorporated well, making the broth rich and creamy.  The potato chunks were just beginning to dissolve.  And the addition of the vegetable stock powder enriched the broth with a bit of "je ne sais quoi."

What resulted was a great soup.  I can't speak yet as to its healing properties, either alone or as compared to chicken noodle soup, but even if it fails in a medicinal sense, it will have a place on my recipe rotation from now on.

Potato Soup with Rivels (adapted from From Amish and Mennonite Kitchens)

10-12 small to medium potatoes, peeled and diced
1/4 cup butter
salt and pepper
4 teaspoons vegetable stock powder or granules (give or take)

Place potatoes and butter in large pot, covering with water by about an inch.  Season with salt and pepper.  Add stock powder.  Bring to boil over medium heat.

Rivels/Dumplings

1 cup flour
1 egg
1/4 cup milk

Blend flour and egg, adding milk to make sticky dough.  Turn dough onto well floured board, kneading 4-5 times.  Roll thin.  Cut into small squares.

When soup is at a full and rolling boil, drop dumplings into broth, stirring well to keep from sticking together.  Continue boiling until potatoes are done, stirring often.  Season to taste.

Serve soup and dumplings in bowls with toasted bread.

Note:  you can add more water to the soup to make it a bit "brothier," but do not double the rivels/dumplings.  I have tried with other recipes to double the dumplings, but it never turns out correctly and all that results is a gummy mess.

One Book and One Book Only

Day 30 – Your favorite book of all time

I think of this as a "desert island book" -- one you can read over and over and over, the one you would want with you on a desert island.  Of course, I would like to have many books on my desert island, so I would have to cheat and take my Kindle, but that would be cheating.  So, to pick only one, I would have to say Anne of Green Gables.  It's the one book I can read over and over and never get bored.

Odd Man In

Day 29 – A book everyone hated but you liked

I don't really have an answer to this.  The only books I know "everyone" hated were books we were required to read for school; and even then, someone always managed to enjoy, if not outright like, every book.  I don't really read best-sellers when everyone else is reading them, and among my friends, I am more likely to be the person who couldn't stand the book when everyone else raves about it.  I really don't know how to answer this question.  In fact the only book I have read recently that someone commented negatively on was The Secret History of the Pink Carnation, and then it was just one person, who, when she noticed I was reading it, looked at me and said "not worth it."  One person is hardly "everyone," and I was already enjoying the book at that point so her comment made me wonder what she didn't like about the book (thought having finished it and the next four books in the series, I have a suspicion).  I really have no answer to this question.

Titling

Day 28 – Favorite title

Someone once said that Dickens had the ultimate title for any book with his Great Expectations.

Titling a book is hard work.  Some titles are a link to the title character(s) -- as in Little Women or Anne of Ingleside.  Some give clues to what the book is about -- for example Murder in the West Wing or The Secret History of the Pink Carnation.  Others are much more esoteric -- Joy in the Morning or Airs Above the Ground.  And some are simple descriptions of the book -- The Norton Anthology of American Literature or On Cooking.

But my favorite title is that of a short story I read in college, as part of a reader textbook.  I have never been able to find the story in any other form, nor can I remember who wrote the story.  Like Dickens master title, this one has such potential for the story and can lead to such flights of fancy.  It is not quite as perfect as Dickens, but still, it is a great title:  Men in Bondage on Easter Morning.  (It is a short story about a sunrise service at a men's prison, and how the rebirth of Christ can parallel several prisoner's lives.)

Waiting for the Surprise

Day 27 – The most surprising plot twist or ending

Waiting for Gertrude by Bill Richardson

I don't want to give anything away, but the ending was quite a surprise to me.

Getting it Wright

Day 26 – A book that changed your opinion about something

The Women by T.C. Boyle

I am not sure how much of this book was fiction by the author and how was based in reality, but it really made me think about Frank Lloyd Wright.  After reading the book, I have a whole new opinion of the brilliant designer.

A Sweet Soul Sunny Southbank Saturday

The wedding we were attending wasn't until Saturday afternoon, so we had the morning free to do a little bit of sightseeing around Brisbane, and to meet dearest's friend and her family for lunch.  Off we went -- first stop -- the front desk to get suggestions on the best way to get into town.  After yesterday's debacle with the cab driver, we were hoping to avoid taxis if possible.  And the front desk clerk came through, offering as her first suggestion, the City Cat River ferry.  At a 10-minute or less (downhill) walk, we were sold.

Our first encounter of the morning came in the form of this friend.  He began his morning by walking around our room's courtyard.  We met again in the parking lot (car park, if I am to begin to assimilate to my new homeland).  He was a bit reluctant to have his photo taken, but I did manage at least a quick snap.  (Aside from the heard but not seen birds around my house, the neighbor's cats and dogs, and a surprisingly large number of creepy crawlies, this was the first encounter with native wildlife since my arrival in Australia in January.  Despite Hollywood's influence, kangaroos, koalas, wombats, emus, and/or platypuses do not wander the streets freely.  It was a big disappointment when I realized that.)

At the suggestion of the front desk clerk, we took the River Cat ferry into Southbank.  One of the best decisions we made.  Being from New Orleans, it was a bit strange to pay for a pedestrian ferry ride, but the $4.60 fare aside, it was a great trip, and an excellent idea for mass transport in a city divided by a river (yes, I am talking to you New Orleans City Planners).  A quick trip upriver and we were at Southbank, getting off near a ferris wheel (a ride is on the itinerary for next visit) and headed in the general direction of the Gallery of Modern Art to meet our luncheon companions. 

From what I can tell, all the arts venues in Brisbane are in line beginning with the Queensland Performing Arts Center, following along the river until the Gallery of Modern Art.  It is a lovely area and so very nice to wander along.  We were in no real hurry, and took our time from the QPAC to the GOMA, passing the other museums and the State Library in between, with some stops at the museums' gift shops to find a postcard and other souvenirs.  The first shop was in the area of the Whale Wall, where we got some snaps of the humpback whale sculpture -- complete with barnacle beards.  After that we headed along to the GOMA, where we had some time to wander through the gallery.  We found interesting bits of art -- a moving LED screen of people walking (which for some reason made me think of a 60's movie my mother told me about of people's feet as seen from a sidewalk level basement window) and a support column papered with pages from the PDR showing the stories of the Bible told in prescription medication form.  But the best work of art, in my opinion, was the sink in the ladies' room.

We met dearest's friend and family for lunch at the State Library Cafe (which offers a selection of paperbacks for your enjoyment while dining -- too cool!).  We had a lovely chat with her and her family over lunch of vegetable patties and pasta salad and a dessert of a caramel slice for me, vegetable patties and pasta salad for my dearest, a cheese burger and lasagne, followed by Mars bar cheesecake (remind me later to discuss the differences in seemingly everyday things -- but for now, Mars bars are Milky Ways to my American audience), decadent chocolate cake, and scones with cream and jam split four ways for his friend and family.  It was far too short a visit, and with promises of coming back for a better one soon, we were off -- back to the Southbank Ferry Terminal for the return journey to the Regatta landing and our hotel to prepare for the afternoon wedding.   We had enough time to stop for some shots around Toowong, including some of the flood damaged buildings.  I feel bad sightseeing at flood damage, but at the same time, it was an event, and one that has made Brisbane what it is today.  And signs of recovery were everywhere -- buildings were in the process of being gutted and rebuilt, and favorite pubs, shops and places were open either in exile or new locations, while the original historic locations are being returned to a new sense of glory.  I was torn between the happy feeling at the progress and the overwhelming sense of loss at what once was.  I know the feeling too well, and the flood damage hit home a bit too hard.  But I was not in Brisbane to dwell on the similarities between it and my home, I was there to attend a wedding.  And putting flood thoughts out of my head, that is exactly what I did.  

 First through, we had to get to the wedding.  And my luck with taxi drivers was holding on at them 2, Lynn 0 for this trip.  We ordered the taxi for 3:15 in order to get the approximate 10K to the wedding in time for its 3:45 start.  We thought we would have plenty of time and no issues getting there.  We were wrong.  We should have realized when the tax driver's first question was "what suburb?"  Come on taxi drivers!  I use taxis to avoid driving in strange cities!!!  I trust you to know, or have a rough idea, of where you are going.  After longer than I expected, several calls on the radio and both the driver and dearest having a look at the maps and GPS, we were on our way.  I watched as this driver followed the GPS route, and at the end of the world's longest 10K, we were close enough to the wedding location to be left and walk the rest of the way.  I was not relishing the return journey to the hotel, but put those thoughts out of my head until later, and set off to enjoy myself at a wedding -- the first wedding dearest and I had been to as a couple.

It was a beautiful outdoor ceremony, with elements of the couple woven through the vows and readings. (For those that are interested -- the guys had on 3 piece suits in a dove grey, while the bridesmaids wore floor-length strapless satin dresses in an all-over floral print and bright pink open-toed pumps; the bride wore a strapless white dress with a fingertip veil, complete with a blusher.  The flowers were simple and understated, mainly whites and pinks, with lotus pods highlighting the bouquets.)  After a complete wedding group photo in the still-damp grass, we headed to a patio for cocktail hour, and some of the best non-alcoholic punch I have ever had.  After meeting and mingling for a while, we were invited to dinner and dancing to follow.   I get the feeling the guest list was weighted toward the bride, as everyone I spoke to asked me "How do you know the bride?"  I felt like a caught and exposed crasher answering that my husband went to school with the groom.  The table topic cards on the table included one that asked "when did you meet the bride?" and I laughed with dearest, answering to him "when she greeted me after the ceremony."  After some preliminary chatting, and a glass of white wine, dinner was served.  It was standard wedding fare, white meat for women, red for men.  Dearest had the vegetarian option that was served to me, and I took his red meat, which was lamb.  Not being a fan of lamb, I ate around it -- a fact which was not unnoticed by the servers.  I again felt like a horrid gate crasher with I replied sheepishly (pun intended) that I simply do not care for lamb.  I was waiting for the dessert course anyway.  As everyone knows, one goes to wedding receptions strictly for the cake!  In a departure from the US weddings with which I am familiar, the couple cut the cake, which was then taken a away and served sliced to alternate guests.  Every other guest had wedding cake with ice cream, with the remaining having raspberry cheesecake with a mint cream. Dearest was served cake, but being the sweetheart he was, traded me for the cheesecake my place received.

After dessert, speeches began, and several toasts later, guests were invited to open the bottles of scotch on each table.  Our table had a bottle of what we assumed to be J&B, but found out was home-distilled by the bride's father.  I do not like scotch, so I did not partake, but dearest was quite impressed with the homemade scotch.

Dancing followed -- the couple danced their first dance to World Party's Sweet Soul Dream, which was an excellent choice.  Not overdone and still a lovely song to start their lives together with.  Dearest and I finished out the dance with the happy couple when invited to do so.  Music was great for the rest of the night; nothing objectionable or overplayed was to be heard.  It was a great reception, with plenty of time for chatting with guests in various stages of inebriation, as well as a nice chat with the bride and groom.  Eleven o'clock came and the with the sounds of the last song playing, we headed toward the entrance to the venue to see about calling a cab.  Dearest had the great idea to ask the wedding party bus driver if there was room on the bus, because at the very least we'd end up closer to our hotel and/or an ATM for taxi-fare cash.  After some negotiations, the driver agreed he had space for us, and would drop us within 10 blocks of our hotel.  A peaceful ride back, followed by a quick walk, and we were in bed falling to sleep.  We had an early wake-up in order to get to the airport for our flight Sunday morning.