The City of Food, Culture and Writing

One of the pleasures of being in Melbourne for me is helping my daughter Kate and her family at the farmers' markets where they sell their beautiful organic produce. This picture of the Daylesford Organics stall was taken last Saturday morning at the Collingwood Children's Farm market.

This market is held on the second Saturday of every month. The fourth Saturday Bren and Kate take their produce to the Slow Food market at the nearby Abbotsford Convent.

Apart from the food and coffee there's plenty to love about the city. Last Saturday evening I went to the Gala Night of Storytelling that marked the opening of The Wheeler Centre for Books, Writing and Ideas. In its own words the Centre is the centrepiece of Melbourne's UNESCO City of Literature initiative. I reckon it's going to be worth moving to Melbourne for.

The storytelling night was held at the Melbourne Town Hall and sold out weeks ago. Twelve writers talked about the power of stories, especially family stories. They were funny, profound, thought provoking, entertaining and moving. Paul Kelly ended the night with a story and a song about how many years ago his aunt's life had been changed by sleeping in. That made me tearful because my father has lately been talking about how a series of chance occurrences led him to meet my mother and how that made all the difference to his life.

Then on Monday night I went along to the first of the Wheeler Centre's Debut Mondays, where every second Monday Melbournians will get the chance to hear new writers read from their work. The four writers were fabulous children's author Andrew McDonald (pictured below); Bob Franklin, whose short stories were extremely well received; Sofie Laguna reading from her first adult novel; and Madeleine Hamilton whose book about pin up girls from the forties and fifties reminded me of seeing hordes of people on the beach to watch Miss Beachgirl contests when I was a kid. How quaint all that seems now.

Then last night I returned yet again to the Wheeler, this time for a party hosted by Scribe to announce the winner of their terrific new prize, the CAL Scribe Fiction Prize for writers over the age of 35. (Cheers for us oldies!) The shortlisted authors were Meg Mundell, Jane Sullivan and Maris Morton. The winner was Maris Morton who is in her seventies, with this being her first published work. She made a touching speech about how vindicated she felt as a writer. I'm sure everyone present wished her well and hoped she goes on to write plenty more.

Phew! What a week I've had. I'll be pleased to be back in quiet Mole Creek though, to get some actual writing done, including working on a talk I'll be giving at The Sandybeach Centre on Wednesday March 17th.

I'll also be reading an extract from my book at a Debut Monday at the Wheeler Centre on March 15th. My fellow debutants on the night will be poet Ezra Bix, and writers, Christine Darcas and Damon Young. Never heard of them? That's the point. Here's your opportunity. Debut Mondays are free and include a glass of wine. Come along down and say hi.

Marakoopa Coffee

I've been dying to try out Marakoopa Coffee, Lars and Sarah Cooper's new coffee cart. They set it up in late December in the garden of their house, which is on Marakoopa Road on the way to the famous caves of the same name.

The location is ideal because the caves, which are fascinating and should be on every tourist's itinerary, attract hundreds of thirsty visitors, and Lars and Sarah's garden is a beautifully maintained oasis in the midst of mountains, bush and farmland.

As a Melbournian born and bred I'm a bit of a coffee snob, so although I knew the food would be good and the setting perfect I was a little nervous about the coffee.

We finally made it over there yesterday with our Canadian guests. It was a lot of fun. You stand up at the van to place your order of tea or coffee and try to resist the goodies that Sarah bakes herself.

You then carry these off to one of the umbrella-sheltered tables that dot the garden, breathing in the fresh air and savouring the view.

But the coffee, the all-important coffee?

Our international verdict was that it's excellent. The Coopers buy their beans from a small, specialised, Launceston coffee roaster, and even our table of coffee snobs enjoyed every drop.

Farmdoc and I plan to cycle there next time. That way we'll have earned our muffins and brownies.

Fire, Fire

No photos for this post. Don't feel like it. Farmdoc is off fighting a fire not far from here. I'm worried about him and I'm worried about the fire.

Sharon, our share farmer, and I have just been on the phone discussing what we'll do with our livestock if the fire comes through here. As for our possessions, we both decided we'll walk out the door with almost nothing: for me it's my laptop and my new iPod Touch on which I am playing Scrabble with a stranger in New York. My opponent's in bed now. At least she's stopped making moves and it's late there, and I guess she's female, though why I say that I don't know.

It's not that I don't love all my old pottery, and the kitchen paraphernalia that used to belong to Farmdoc's grandmother, and all the other bits and pieces I've garnered over the years that tell so many stories. My father's rowing cups from before the Second World War, paintings, books, books and more books, my collection of enamel candlestick holders...it's just that I can't be bothered with any of it right now.

I'm just babbling. Call it nerves.

The other thing I'm doing at the moment, when I'm not compulsively typing, is cleaning. Farmdoc will be pleased. I NEVER clean. So far I've scrubbed the back porch wall and mopped the porch floor. Now I think I'm going to go off to sweep and mop the floors inside the house, and for some reason I feel like making jelly. Jelly? Who knows why? Childhood comfort food maybe.

There's very little smoke here so the fire can't be headed in this direction, can it? Though I know a wind change can make a huge difference. Last night's fires were deliberately lit. This one probably was too.

I don't want to ring anyone to talk about it because I don't want to worry them. And besides, there's nothing to worry about, is there?

The Tasmanian Fire Service website currently informs me about the fire at Liena Road, Mole Creek:

TFS and Forestry Tasmania crews are currently on-site, working to contain and bring the fire under control.

OK, which flavour jelly shall I make?

Where There's Smoke

There's fire. This is the view from our house right now. Smoky and growing smokier.


There are several fires burning in Tasmania at the moment. This smoke is probably coming from two fires burning in forest close to Cradle Mountain about fifteen to twenty kilometres from us.

The Tasmanian Fire Service website classifies these fires as: 'A fire has started - there is no immediate danger.'

There have been phone calls flying backwards and forwards but so far there isn't any fire close enough for Farmdoc to be called out with the Fire Brigade so we sit tight and watch the smoke grow denser.

It's a little scary though and I've begun wondering what I'd want to take with me if we needed to evacuate. If a fire came through here the fire brigade wouldn't try to fight it because they couldn't be sure they'd have a safe route out. And no building is worth risking our lives for.

Rams For Sale

If you want Border Leicester rams you'd better be quick. We had six for sale but there's a shortage, ours are extremely well priced, and this year there's strong demand. We ran this advertisement in this week's Tasmanian Country and already all our boys have just about gone.

Border Leicesters are very pretty sheep, I reckon. They're the type of sheep that starred in the film, Babe. This is one who came for afternoon tea.

And these two offered a lawn mowing service.

People ask me how I can eat our own sheep. The truth is I find it hard to eat any meat whose provenance I don't know. I know where and how these sheep have lived, how they've been treated and how humanely they'll be killed.

This one's out for a stroll with Sharon, our share farmer.

Reviewed

My book has been out for nearly three months now and, though I've had some terrific reviews, I'd given up on seeing one in the Melbourne Age.

I was disappointed at first. Alzheimer's: a Love Story is such a Melbourne story, I think. One of the best parts of writing it was learning about a Melbourne that has now vanished. I loved hearing my father's story of running out of petrol during the rationing period soon after the Second World War, and how he had to push the car through the city, up Lonsdale Street where his factory was, to the Russell Street Police Station, where he was given enough petrol to get him home.

And the story of the time before Father's Day one year when the Myer store ran out of Gloweave shirts. Dad parked his car right outside the store's main entrance and he and Baillieu Myer themselves carried the cartons of shirts up to the sales floor.

There were many more stories that brought the past of this city alive.

Anyway, I told myself I didn't care that my hometown newspaper wasn't interested in reviewing my book. I've done very well, I told myself. Don't be greedy.

Then on Saturday there it was: a half page review accompanied by a coloured photograph of me. To be honest, my first response was not excitement but anxiety: surely in such along review there was bound to be at least one negative comment. And I knew that no matter how many nice things were said it was the criticism that would stick in my mind and whisper in my ear at night.

I was in Melbourne as it happened the morning the review came out. As soon as I had the paper in my hot little hand I rang Farmdoc to read the review to him. I approached each sentence with trepidation: uh oh, here it comes.

In the end I spoiled the moment for myself with unnecessary anxiety because there was not one negative word. On the contrary, the review compares me with Joan Didion (blush) and ends by saying 'It is eloquently written, beautifully observed and painfully honest, yet never sentimental or self-indulgent.' Yay!

If you click on the photo above you can enlarge it and read the review for yourself. Otherwise, in the next few days my clever daughter Meg will post it on my website and you can read it there, along with all the other kind things people have said about me and my book. Thanks for the photo, Farmdoc.

Sour Cherry Jam

I have just made my best batch of sour cherry jam ever! Some years I have overcooked it so it tasted like toffee and sat in lumps on the toast; last year I undercooked it so it ran down your fingers when you tried to eat it.

A couple of days ago we picked several ice cream containers full of cherries. That's the best part of the process: working in the shade of gnarled old trees, admiring the contrast of red against brown and green.

Then I waited until I had the time to complete the project. Yesterday afternoon I decided that the time and the cherries were both ripe. I have a stiff neck at the moment, perhaps because I am reading Hilary Mantel's Booker Prize winning book, Wolf Hall, and though I'm enjoying it a lot, it is a very heavy book. To avoid any neck strain I sat myself up on a high stool and decided I would only make a few jars. Maybe because I never seem to get it right or maybe because it's not the sweetest jam I make, I'm really my best customer for it anyway.

First I had to pit the fruit. I couldn't get any volunteers to help with the work so I plugged my iPod into my ears and listened to podcasts while I got the wood stove nice and hot. I use an unbent paper clip because I find it much more effective than my store-bought cherry pipper.

Because whole cherries tend to fall off the toast I cut all the fruit into small pieces before putting them into a pot to soften on a slow heat. At this time I added the juice and grated rind of one and a half lemons. Why that number? Because that's what I had and because last year I had a lot of trouble getting the jam to set, and I think it's because one lemon isn't quite enough. I was also very patient softening the cherries because although I hate to see them lose their shape, they do make better jam if they are really soft. This took about half an hour.

Then I measured the quantity I had in the pot, including the juice, and asked Farmdoc to work out how much three-quarters of that amount would be (because I am innumerate), and that's how much sugar I added. I stirred the cherries until the sugar dissolved and then cooked it over high heat. While this was happening I put the small white saucer that I call my jam plate into the freezer. This was pretty hot work because I managed to get the stove's temperature up quite high and I had to stand over it and stir the fruit pretty constantly.

When the bubbles subsided somewhat and the jam began to thicken a little, I took it off the stove and put a spoonful of jam on the cold plate and put it back in the freezer. After a couple of minutes I pushed the blob with my finger and when it didn't wrinkle, I returned the pot to the stove to cook some more. I actually had to do this a couple of times, each time removing the pot while I waited to see if the jam was cooked. I think this is where I usually go wrong. I was nervous about overcooking it and caramelising the sugar, but I was also anxious to make sure it was jam and not syrup. Once I felt it was done I poured it into my sterilised jars and covered them tightly.

This morning I couldn't wait to try some on my breakfast Weetbix. It was perfect! Yay!