The shirt off his back. A story.

 

 

This week saw Youth Homelessness Matters Day. I'm not quite sure why it registered with me this year as opposed to other years but it must be a good thing that it is coming more into the public consciousness. The story below is about homelessness and youth, though not a homeless youth as you will see.

 

There’s a man. He’s homeless. I see him most mornings when I walk from the train station to the bus-stop. His territory is the area around the William street shops, across the road from the Wesley church, which is also the area where I have been catching buses for many years.

 

This morning when I saw him he was asleep, sitting upright against the wall of the souvenir shop and, as always, seeing him reminded me of my interaction with him which was over 8 years ago, and this story which I want to tell you now.

A winter evening on William Street. It was windy in the city as it often is. I stood in the queue for the bus, as I often did and still do. There was a stirring in the crowd to the side of me and I turned around. The man was lying on the pavement outside the burger restaurant. One of the many homeless, he was dishevelled, a bit dirty. His eyes were closed and blood pooled out around his head.

People stepped away. Others, having seen what was going on, either gawped at the spreading blood or turned back and continued waiting for the bus. Then a young man stepped out of the crowd. And he was very young, maybe 19 or 20, no older than that. He knelt beside the wounded man and gently shook his shoulder to see if he was awake. I could hear him saying “Are you all right, mate?”

I went to help because my teacher-instinct kicked in. I see a situation that needs managing and if no one else wants to take charge, I’ll do it. I can’t help it. As the young guy cradled the man’s wounded head, we eased him into the recovery position. The blood continued to pour. Later I found out that head-wounds bleed a lot, but in that moment it looked very serious. As I got out my phone and called for an ambulance, the young guy took off his t-shirt and used it to stanch the blood-flow.

Three things I remember about that occasion. The first was the wordless communication between the young guy and me. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. There was a job to be done and we just got on with it. The second was the image of a skinny youth kneeling shirtless in the winter cold, in a pool of blood, tending to someone who was injured. The last was the odd sense that the three of us existed in a bubble of a world – the people who didn’t stop to stare kept on walking; the staff inside the burger restaurant all came and stared through the window, but none of them came out to help or offer the use of a First Aid kit which they must surely have had inside.

The ambulance came eventually. I can’t remember how long it took to get there. The paramedics took over. We stood and watched as they lifted their patient onto the stretcher and got him it into the ambulance. Reality began to hit home when one of the paramedics came over to us. He offered hand-sanitiser and then advised us to look into testing for blood-born diseases as soon as we could. He looked the young guy up and down and then produced a thermal-blanket. Then they left.

And there we were, two strangers standing in the cold street. A school teacher with a blood on her skirt hem; a young guy with a silver thermal blanket where his shirt should have been. Dazed and smelling of hand-sanitiser, we looked at each other.

“I’m Snowy,” he said, and held out his hand.

I shook his hand and gave him my name.

“You did a good thing today, Snowy,” I said.

He smiled.

“Yeah, well, better go and get myself a shirt. Can’t go on the bus like this.”

“Yes, of course.”

“See you then.”

“See you.”

And he walked off.

I think it was a couple of weeks later that I saw the homeless guy again.  He was better, though bandaged.He was asleep in one of his usual spots. As I mentioned above, he is still around to this day. His situation hasn’t changed.

When I see him though, I think about Snowy. Just an ordinary young guy but one who I remember as noble and compassionate in the midst of the indifference crowd. Someone who would literally give the shirt off his back to help a fellow human.

 

Imprimatur

 

I have put some of my art online. Dipping a toe into the critical waters, if you like. I made a conscious decision to start drawing again. I made this decision in January. I went out and bought a sketch pad. I bought pens and pencils. Nothing happened for a while though. The sketch pad sat on my coffee table and was ignored. 

At one stage, I made myself pick it up and I made myself draw. The results were contrived and banal. I dropped it back onto the table and left it there. But one night, when the house was too big, too empty, too quiet for one person, and just being in it felt oppressive, somewhere around midnight I found myself holding a biro and the rejected sketch-pad. The pen moved in the familiar anticlockwise oval that I’ve been sketching for years. Around and around and around – the lines not even, not clear, a blurry edge that becomes a face. I say ‘face’ but there are never any features – these are the old friends who exist in the margins and end-pages of my books. The people of my annotations.

A person’s art is as distinctive as their handwriting. Possibly your art says as much about personality as handwriting is said to do. I wonder what mine says about me. The leitmotifs occur with regularity:

The faceless people.

The classical drapery.

The arches and fan-vaults.

Steps.

Poppy-like flowers and aspidistra-like greenery.

Swirls, spirals, scrolls, volutes, and swashes.

Spheres, cones, pyramids, and boxes.

All manner of strange craft.

Go ahead, analyse me. It’s probably all deeply significant. Or not.

Through the years I have decorated journals and notebooks with these images. As I grew older, they made their presence known in my work diary, on the edges of the minutes of meetings, and in the spaces in seminar handouts. Rarely, however, have they existed in a dedicated space. Neither have they been a focussed task, more a valve to release the pressure for a brain that was elsewhere engaged.

The sudden space and silence that has come into my life seem to have encouraged their renaissance. The florescence into colour has been enabled by the new digital dimension. A sketch becomes a photograph which transforms through applications. I have a pixelated paintbox and a whole range of effects. Finally, I can realise (if that is the word for digital art) the ideas in my head. The technology makes it possible for me to achieve the effects that I intend.

 

 

There’s a certain level of acceptance as well. A colour, selected unintentionally, is allowed to remain. A shadow caused by photography in the wrong light is turned into a feature of the piece. It’s my ‘imperfect stitch’ though not an intentionally introduced flaw, rather an uncorrected error.

 

 

It’s a new thing for me to be relaxed about imperfection. It’s a new thing for me to put my creations out there for other people to see. A couple of samples risked on Instagram brought the approval of actual artists. The virtual imprimatur was unexpected and thrilling.

I may do more of this.

Also, it has brought me back to this blog.

 

 

IQS - I quit Strawberrythief

 

 

It's been a good almost-four years but it's time for something new.

 

I've enjoyed the eating, the baking, the nostalgia, and the sharing. I'll continue to do all of these things but the eating and baking will stay on the @strawberrythief Twitter account and the nostalgia and sharing will move to a new blog which is more about me and less about what I eat and drink.

It's been so great to know that there are people out there reading what I've written and I'll be leaving the blog up so people can still read and access the recipes if they want to.
 

So long and thanks for all the Shiraz.

 

Nicki - The Strawberrythief

Summer, Secrets, and Shiraz

With the first Secret Cake Club of 2014 fast-approaching, I remembered that I hadn’t yet blogged about the last (amazing, spectacular, bigger-than-Ben-Hur) Secret Cake Club of 2013.

The theme was “Summer” which gave endless scope for creativity. When I think of summer, mostly I think of the British summers of my childhood where any day over 20C was considered hot and the high 20s were positively tropical. I think of beach holidays in Cornwall, barbecues in the back garden, long summer evenings, Wimbledon and all the things that went with it – strawberries and cream, gin and tonic, lemon barley water, cucumber sandwiches.

But I’ve lived over half my life in Australia now, so I also associate summer with Christmas and sunburn, pavements too hot to walk on, sunshine too strong to go out in. The barbecues are still there and so is the beach, but I also think bushfires and swimming pools and cold, cold wine.

 

 

In the end I decided to go for the cold, cold wine in dessert form. My go-to drink is sparkling Shiraz which I think of as inherently Australian as I had never seen it or even heard of it before I moved here. The depth and substance of red wine with the fun of champenoise bubbles – how could anyone not love it? Besides, it means that I can continue to drink Shiraz during the summer rather that wait for the cooler months to come around.

 

I used this recipe from Maggie Beer because it is simple yet stunning. It’s perfect to finish a Christmas feast, but doesn’t have to be limited to Christmas - any time in summer will do. Maggie uses raspberries in her recipe so I did too, but you could use any other summer fruit. Maggie burns off the alcohol in her recipe which I didn’t do. I like a decent boozy dessert, but if you are catering for the family, it might be worth making a booze-free batch for the kiddies.
 

 

 

I made my jellies into individual portions for the Cake Club people and prettied them up with edible gold and candied rose-buds. They looked great. They tasted…powerful. The tartness of the raspberries provided a good contrast to the heavy sweetness of the jelly. You could serve this jelly with cream or ice-cream or, as I did, just on its own.

 

It was a show-stopping cake club. Emma, our host at Table Culture in Subiaco, had gone above and beyond to make sure that we were taken care of. There were cool pitchers of iced water with chunks of fruit in them. There was a lavishly decorated table on which were two decadent Christmas cakes. There was champagne and there was barista-brewed coffee. Oh, and I mustn't forget the generous in-store discount that was offered on all products.

 

 Not only did we get the chance to participate in a raffle and win some great prizes, but, to the delight of all the guests, Emma had organised for us each to have a loaf tin to take home, courtesy of her friend, the representative of Le Creuset. There under the Christmas tree were the tins all stacked up. (If it looks a little bare in my picture that's because I was one of the last to leave and all the tins had been taken)

 

As always, Cake Club members provided an intriguing array of food.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I came home with my usual box of delights which never lasts quite as long as I think they will.

 

I also now have a very handy dessert recipe for those days when it is too hot to be in the kitchen but where a great dessert is necessary. There might also be some sparkling Shiraz left over. I said 'might'.

 

Plain sailing

 

 

It’s not a great photograph.

I was asked if I would like a picture and I said ‘yes’, handed the Captain my iPhone, and let him snap away. The filter in the app was randomised which is why the odd sepia colour. It’s not remotely flattering. I look, quite honestly, like a madwoman with particularly bad hair. I am grinning like an idiot. I’d had about 3 plastic cups of cheap sparkling wine beforehand. A tipsy madwoman with particularly bad hair. We won’t speculate on whether anyone should have let me behind the wheel.

 

 

But I'm posting it regardless because, even with the weird tone and me looking grotesque and toothy, it is my favourite picture of all the pictures that I have from my vacation because I think that was the point where I was at my happiest. I was steering a 1922 Baltic Cruiser in full sail back into port. Behind me you can see the Sydney Harbour Bridge which we had just sailed underneath. The Opera House is also in view. I’ve got the Australian flag whipping me in the face and a mouthful of hair – blame the harbour breezes – but I am controlling this amazing vessel, so all is right with the world.

December was a mix of the sublime and the utterly depressing.  The to-be-preserved-in-a-photograph moments were thrown into sharp relief by the what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do? moments. Christmas sent me into a panic. The few days before New Year were the worst –a period of displacement and dejection and aloneness. But here’s the thing, with the help of dear friends, it all came good and the sense of being cast adrift was replaced by a sense of having a destination and, ultimately, a safe place to weigh anchor.

I know that all is starting to be well again because I am writing again. This is a good sign.

So I did a lot of fun stuff and I managed a lot of shitty stuff, but the upshot is that I had my longest holiday in 6 years and have come into the New Year with a lot of plans and ideas percolating in my brain. This year will definitely be a year of changes, but the one thing that won’t change is the food adventures and the kitchen experiments and the writing that goes with them.





A few holiday snaps are below, some of which will make it into the many blogs posts which I need to catch up on, and then it’s time to batten down the hatches and set sail for the uncharted territory which is 2014.

The excitement of a journey

New places to see (the Southern Highlands)





Giving in to nerdiness (Ultimo Centre, Sydney)



Remembering how to relax (The Langham Hotel, Sydney)

Treating myself to the good stuff

A toast to the friend who saved Christmas



A heart-breaking return

BFAMS to help me through the bad stuff

The relief of New Year's Eve.

 

An unexpected addition to the new household



Melbourne Cup (and glass and plates and cutlery): three days of Victorian dining.

Melbourne dining experiences – everything they say is true. There are thousands of possibilities and combinations and, for the most part, the quality of the food and the service is of a high, high standard. Now bear in mind that I only had three and a half days so when I get asked ‘What did you enjoy the most?’ it is a hard question to answer. There was so much that was superb but also so much that I didn’t get to try. However, if I had to hand out awards, they’d be in the categories below, and some of the winners may surprise you.

Best breakfast/brunch. Nominees - Cumulus Inc, Collingwood Children's Farm Café, Apple Annie's Café and Bakery.

 

I’d been urged to try Cumulus Inc and wasn’t disappointed when I got there. There was a place at the counter for me (it became a theme of my trip: the place for one at the counter/bar) –  quality coffee (a milky mocha to ease me into the day and then a rousing long black to get me up to full speed).

 

 I enjoyed my sweet and zesty lemon-curd filled madeleine: Marcel Proust would have approved of this variation and it was worth the extra 15 minute wait which gave me time to look around the room and admire the Derby Day fashion parade that was happening around me.

 

 My smoked trout croque monsieur was a classic breakfast combo of toasty bread, fresh flaky fish, smooth cream cheese and tiny capers. A filling start to the day but perhaps not the most unusual breakfast dish I’d ever tried.

I hadn’t planned to go to The Collingwood Children’s Farm but my friend and guide, Jen, said that the breakfasts were good and that the farm gave every impression of being deeply rural even when it was only 5 minutes’ drive from the dusty Collingwood streets. My ‘Farmer’s Breakfast’ was traditional – sausage, eggs, bacon.

 

However the sausage was organic pork, the two eggs were poached to just the right consistency (there has to be enough ‘give’ in the yolk) and served on top of buttered sour dough. There were also crispy potatoes cooked in duck fat and a jar of zingy homemade relish. Two mugs of mocha (one on time and the other forgotten until I prompted) and I was ready to explore the paddocks, pet the baby animals, and admire the flower and produce gardens.

One of the many farm friends that I patted.

 

The winner is:

 

Hungry after getting up early (6am Melbourne time, 3am Perth time) to make my pilgrimage to the Castlemaine Art Gallery, I found Apple Annie’s Café on Templeton street.  I had no expectations of this café – it was one of several in the town, so the sunshine-dappled courtyard with grape vines and robinia tree was a pleasant surprise and the breakfast, sweet heavens, the breakfast! Warm apple chunks stewed in cinnamon syrup sandwiched between rounds of light-yet-rich brioche French toast. This was topped and surrounded with fresh strawberries and quenelles of dulce de leche and icing sugar dusted the whole. Gorgeous to look at, different from the usual, an elegant mix of tastes and textures – if Castlemaine itself had no other attractions (and it has many), I would return for this alone. Apple Annie’s also offers accommodation so this is probably where I would choose to stay.

Best snack. Nominees - La Vita Buona, Laika,  Movida

My first meal in Melbourne was at La Vita Buona – a café overlooking the plaza just behind the Anglican cathedral. I was physically exhausted having not been long off the plane, but mentally awake with the excitement of new places to explore. This café was quiet and provided a great place to do some people-watching. The waiter was happy to chat a bit and talk about which wines he would recommend. I chose a local red.

 

 For my snack, I dipped into the lunch menu and ordered a small serve of marinated white anchovies with crostini as well as the ‘Salumi Plate’ – cured meats and cornichons. Basic and tasty, not particularly challenging (but then my palate isn’t always up for gastronomical fisticuffs) it was a good start to my Melbourne dining experiences.

The decision to visit Laika was both a good and a bad one. I had just had a wonderful swim at the St Kilda Sea Baths plus a soothing floaty session in the their hydrotherapy pool. Swimming always makes me hungry - especially for hot chips. There's just something extra summery about the smell of swimming pool chemicals mixed with the vinegar'n'fat smell of hot chips. Laika, thought not a purveyor of hot chips, did offer a delicious Sloppy Joe and beer-battered fries with the welcome addition of a glass of Chandon.

 

 

 

 The Sloppy Joe bun was a bit singed but the filling was a satisfying savoury hit of chili, mayonnaise and pulled pork. The beer-battered fries were crispy and endless. It was a huge bowl - too much for one. This was the reason why I didn't eat out on Saturday night - I was too full to do anything but lie down on my bed and sip tap-water.

And the winner is:

 

I was urged to go to Movida by several friends so I decided this would be the first stop on a mini bar-crawl that I organised for myself on Friday night. As with my breakfast at Cumulus, there was a table for me at the counter but there difference here was that even in the rushed environment of the Friday after-work crowd, the service was excellent: friendly, efficient, helpful and informative. I made my selections with a glass of cava in my hand. There was a single oyster with merlot jus, jamon and shallots, a pastry 'cigarillo' with hazlenuts and macerated muscat grapes, cold smoked Spanish mackerel with pine-nuts, an 'empanadilla' stuffed with pheasant, chestnuts and bacon, and the white anchovy on a crouton with smoked tomato sorbet.

 

All was wonderful and different and exciting, but for me, Movida gets my vote purely for the smoked tomato sorbet. Cold, sweet, salty, fruity with a hint of char - one quenelle was not enough. Match it with a Valleformosa Penedes Cava and I can say with my hand on my heart that it was a dish that I will be raving about for a long, long time.

Best dinner. Nominees - La Citta, Chin Chin

 

La Citta in Degraves Lane was a suggestion made by a friend from Sydney. I was told that it was reliable for a good feed and that is exactly what I had. After my exodus from Cookie (see “Worst Service” below), it was great to be offered a choice of seats, have my aperitif on the table within minutes – a shot of Aperol and a dish of smoked almonds – and then the comfort of risotto. It was saffron risotto with peas and Moreton Bay bugs. When I consulted the wine list, I saw that there was Chardonnay by the Snake and Herring crew from Western Australia. It was a little reminder of home to pick me up after my Cookie let-down. It was excellent risotto – the rice grains with just enough bite and the saffron giving the flavour of the bugs a shove in the right direction. I finished the evening with a strong black coffee. A nicely-rounded meal. I felt better when I had finished and really, really awake.

 

And the winner is:

I’m glad I got to Chin Chin early. Even the places up at the bar filled up quickly and by the time I had finished my meal, there was a queue to get in. I was in my 80s element as the sound system cranked out tunes by Duran Duran, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Spandau Ballet. I think the 80s might finally have made the jump from cheesy to hip but just in case there was any doubt, the Chin Chin décor, a mix of anime art and fluorescent tubes upped the hip quotient considerably.

It wasn’t on the cocktail list, but I got my first Negroni of the trip at Chin Chin. I like it when the bar-staff say ‘yes’ and then you see then consult a book or website – they are trying and that is worth everything. My Negronis were a little on the fruity side (a little heavy on the vermouth) but did the trick getting my appetite up to speed. The service was attentive – I was asked if I had eaten at Chin Chin before, told how the menu worked, given recommendations. I chose the crab and pork cakes with the salted duck egg and tamarind sauce and the smashed green papaya salad with chargrilled red chilli, prawn floss, peanuts and black beans cooked in chilli oil. Despite the crowds, the food turned up before I had finished my first drink.

 

The crab and pork cakes were dense and meaty with the floral quality of Thai herbs to lift their fragrance. Designed to be eaten like san choi bau, you wrap a cake in a lettuce leaf, smear on some sauce and squeeze lemon over the top. This is a little tricky when you are also balancing on a bar-stool (one elbow movement too far and you’d be on the floor) but I managed. For me, the addition of tamarind, one of the my favourite fruits because it does sweet and sour, mainly sour, all by itself, was the genius of the dish.

 

Nothing however could have prepared me for the genius of the salad though. Perfect, perfect distribution of chili – from the searing fresh chili, whole fruits and snippets, to the dark oil that bound the papaya and prawn floss flavours together. The black beans and peanuts provided the alkaline contrast to the acidity of the papaya. Another Negroni, then the offer of dessert which I couldn’t manage, and I fought my way through the queue at the door, wishing I’d been able to come in company so that I could have tried more, but knowing that if I had come in company, I’d probably still have been stuck in the queue.

Best service. Nominees - Movida, Chin Chin, Buda Historic Home and Garden

 

Movida would have won this hands down, with Chin Chin getting an honourable mention, but for my experience at Buda Historic Home and Garden in Castlemaine. With time to spare before my train back to Melbourne, I decided to walk up to the house and have a look. It was further than I thought and it was a hot and glary day with very little shade for me to hide under.

 

When I presented my red-faced sweaty self at the ticket desk, the woman in charge ushered me to a shady spot in the garden ‘where you can get some breeze’. I was sheltered from the sun by a copper-beech and surrounded by roses. She went and got me a bottle of cold water to drink and talked me through the map of the house and gardens while I cooled down. Later on, her colleague offered me a lift back to the railway station. The kindness of strangers can make even a simple bottle of cold water a great food experience.

 

Worst service. One nominee. (which is a good thing when you think about it) No winners, only losers. - Cookie.

I was at Cookie only long enough to get one blurry snap of their menu.

I walked a long way across the CBD to get to Cookie – because it had been recommended to me. I walked up the stairs because the lift was broken. I asked for a seat. The man by the door indicated a seat at the bar and I felt that my luck was holding. I slumped onto the bar-stool and just begun to consider the menu when a voice behind me said:

 

“You can’t sit there.”

It was a waiter or the restaurant manager. White shirt, black waist-coat, youthful, and a bit sneering.

“But that man said I could.”

“Which man?”

“That man by the door.”

“You shouldn’t have talked to that man. I’m the one who decides and I have reserved this place for someone else.”

I’ve worked with enough young adults over the years to recognise the tone of disdain when it sneaks into a conversation. If he had rolled his eyes, I would not have been surprised. Was he contemptuous of my lack of youth and beauty (certainly the Cookie clientele was very young and beautiful), or the fact that I was dining alone and wouldn't generate as much revenue as a couple or a group? His narrowed gaze suggested that there was something about me that displeased him and he wanted me gone.

“So, is there somewhere else I can sit?” Not that I especially wanted to stay at this point but I was tired and hungry and willing to compromise.

“You can try further down the bar. There might be something.” He waved vaguely at the noisiest, most dense part of the crowd. For the ‘man who decides’ he was being very imprecise.

I was too disgusted and too tired to argue. I left. Left Cookie. Left the Cookie Monster. I got myself to La Citta and had an excellent meal. The Cookie menu had looked interesting but how good the quality of the food was, I will never know as I wouldn’t try it again or recommend it to anyone. Luckily, there was enough of the good and great service in both Melbourne and Castlemaine to more than make up for one posturing prat who wouldn’t know good management practice if someone thumped him on his coiffed head with “The Dummies Guide to Running a Restaurant.”

 

Cookie - the way it crumbles.

 

In summary, go to Melbourne! Go to Castlemaine! Try Chin Chin, Movida, La Citta and all the others.

 

But delete Cookie.