One Computer Two

Farmdoc's computer died last week. It was five years old - about quarter of a century in computer years. Fortunately he'd learned from a false alarm about 18 months ago, so he'd backed up just about everything. But still there are ongoing problems, in part because things have changed so much in the computer world over the last five years.

Yesterday our friend Craig, who in a previous life was an IT guy, turned up to save the day, armed with equipment, know-how, sympathy, and a box of assorted home grown potatoes. Each variety came in its own labelled brown paper bag -  

Spunta, Seymour Gold, Innovator, Royal Blue, Kipfler, King Edward, Salad Rose

and that special variety - Unsure what these are.

Farmdoc and I adore potatoes - cooked any way you can think of - but more than its value as comfort food, we appreciate the gift as a comforting gesture. I can't wait to bake, mash, chip and cube. Have I left anything out? What's your favourite way of cooking spuds?

Thanks, Craig and Sue, vegetable gardeners extraordinaire. We're glad you won the battle with your property's hungry wildlife population.

Journeymen

I'd never heard of travelling journeymen until a day or two ago when our friends at Habitat Nursery in Liffey told us they have three German journeymen staying and working with them.

Journeymen are young tradesmen and women who, having finished an apprenticeship, set off on a journey to hone their skills and learn from masters in other parts of the world.

They have an ancient history, which seems to date from medieval times when workers travelled around Europe building the great cathedrals.

In Germany today there are apparently around six societies covering over 900 travelling journeymen and women from a number of trades.

They are governed by strict rules. They undertake to travel for at least three years and one day, and during that time not to venture within 50 kilometers of their home town. They are not permitted to use mobile phones. They must also wear a distinctive costume, which includes vest and hat and collarless white shirt, even while they work. They travel light, carrying all their possessions in bundles that are tied up in kerchiefs and suspended from long sticks, like characters out of a child's picture book. Each of them has a document, which they must have stamped by the mayor of every town where they seek work and they are only permitted to stay in one place for three months.

Their uniforms are based on ship builders uniforms with wide sailor legs. The vests' eight buttons represent the eight hours they work each day; the jackets have six buttons, one for each day of the week they work. The three buttons on each arm of their jacket represent the number of years they have undertaken to travel. The hats are a symbol of freedom because once only free men were permitted to wear hats.

The young men we met are helping to build an addition to our friends' house. They are paid wages that include board and lodging. Despite their medieval garb and ancient rules they listen to Triple J on the radio while they work, have a modern, open manner, and were happy to explain their lifestyle to us. The aim, one of them told us around a typical Aussie barbecue, is to make the foreign seem less strange and more homelike, and to incorporate the foreign into home.

On the other foot...

Farmdoc and I live in a house with a polished concrete floor. This is excellent for the passive solar values of the building: in summer, when the eaves keep the sun out, we are cool, and in winter the floor traps the warmth. An unfortunate side effect, however, is that when we drop something it smashes.

We discovered this early. The first thing to go, the week we moved in, was a small pottery butter dish, which broke neatly into two pieces. We were able to glue these back together and the dish remains in use until today, with only a pale scar as a reminder of its brush with death.

Another early victim was not so repairable. It was a heavy cast iron wok, which had been perfect on our wood stove, but which lost its handles in the crash. We couldn't use it any more but we couldn't let it go either. We passed it to our artist friend Annie Zon, who works with discarded materials, in the hope that she could make something of it.

She did. Her solution was simple. She found an old pot plant stand and placed our wok on it. Voila: one bird bath, which sits outside our living room window and is enjoyed equally by us and the birds.

When Farmdoc broke a platter recently he kept himself from being too upset about it by passing it on to Annie. He thought she and her fellow artist Janet could reincarnate our china shards into one of their mosaic pieces. We'd be able to admire the work in their garden when we visited.

Annie had other ideas:


Our platter has returned home as a pair of pottery and china feet.

One foot is encased in a ballet slipper, while the other has bare toes and proudly bears its brand name on its heel:

The platter was precious to us but now I'm glad it broke, because it was able to become something we will treasure much more: a piece of art made by a dear and talented friend. Now we only have to work out how not to drop it.

Shepherds' Lunch

Since we've been sheep and goat farmers we've stopped buying meat. We used to swap lamb for beef with a local farmer, but these days we don't even do that. We know our animals graze on grass, that we don't overstock and that they live good lives. They have the run of several large paddocks - and sometimes, as in the case of the lost goats, they range far and wide.

The main reason we keep animals is weed control. Goats relish the weed species we have here - blackberry and sycamore especially. And thanks to the sheep we have no ragwort.

When the time comes we kill them ourselves as quickly and humanely as possible. We do our own butchering too. I can't say I love that part, but if we're going to eat meat at least we shouldn't be in denial about it.

Today for lunch I made a shepherd's pie, using minced goat meat and our own potatoes.

I think the secret is in long slow cooking of the mince. Yesterday I chopped an onion and some garlic into a splash of olive oil, and then added the meat, a handful of chopped herbs, some water and a dollop each of Worcestershire sauce and tomato sauce. I thickened it with a little flour and then simmered it for hours. This morning I mashed some potato and spread it on top and cooked it some more. Deelicious!

Add some share farmers, some guests who'd travelled an hour to be with us, sunny autumn weather after a day of rain, and you have the recipe for a perfect shepherds' lunch.

last weekend

Last weekend I went away with two writer friends. We left the city Friday evening and returned Sunday evening, so we were only away for about 48 hours, but though the time went quickly we felt as though we’d been away longer.

We slept in both mornings, walked on the beach, ate constantly, drank, talked, read, workshopped and yes…even wrote.

We all came home with work done and, even more important than that, a clearer idea of where to go from here.

It’s funny with writing. It’s an entirely solitary occupation: you sit for hours with just the thoughts in your head. It’s the only way to do it. But I couldn’t get by without my workshop mates. I wouldn’t want to.

Thanks J and C. Can’t wait to do it again.

Dreams

When I was fifteen and on holidays with my parents I overheard a young woman talking on the public telephone in the lobby of our hotel. She was being extremely affectionate with the person on the other end of the line, who I was sure was her best friend, even though it could have been anyone – husband, boyfriend, mother, sibling.

I was shy and awkward and I wanted more than anything to have someone I could call darling and sweetheart on the phone.

That’s 45 years ago now, but I can still recall the longing I felt that day. It came to my mind yesterday when someone called me on my mobile.

‘Hello my darling one, can I call you back?’ I answered, almost without thinking.

‘Yeah, sure,’ she said.

As I rang off I was pierced so strongly by the memory of that longing that it brought tears to my eyes. Only this time it was with realisation: I now live my life surrounded by people I call sweetheart and darling, gorgeous and honeybum, people I love and care the world for.

I wish I could reach back to my fifteen-year-old self and tell her, ‘Don’t be sad. Not all at once, but bit by bit, you’ll get exactly what you want. And it’ll be just as you dreamed it would.’