Eumundi Papers

Goodness Gracious Organic Cafe, Yandina

2011-12-08T06:40:00.000+10:00

For nigh on two years, a slap up Saturday breakfast at Goodness Gracious has been our favourite way to top off an early morning amble round the markets - the perfect way to cut ourselves into that weekend groove. Down a little side street behind the pub, the good people of Goodness Gracious - Sandee Burnell and Steven Mahoney - have created cafe nirvana.

Yet have I had the decency to blog about them? No.

Clearly, they have become so much a part of our life that I take them for granted.

'Tis time to make amends.

So, how do you create cafe nirvana? Here follows a step-by-step guide, with photos.

1. Ambient Atmosphere
Comfy-cosy, laid-back, unpretentious and bursting with soul - Goodness Gracious has it all. It's the home you want to be at when you're not at home. Well it is, after all, in a house - a nana and pop post-war bungalow complete with yawning casement windows; shady backyard sprinkled with ferns, geraniums and other old school horticulture; and a pocket hankie-sized porch piled with cushions, vintage tableware and the papers. (Best spot in the house. You need to rock up early - pre 7:30 am - to snaffle it!)

2. Originality
Everything about this wonderful place is an expression of its imaginative owners: their interests and passions, their keen eye for detail, their sense of nostalgia and wry humour, their blatant joy in gathering the quirky and the kitsch.

Should that cute porch be occupied, there's still a fine choice of dining nooks and crannies - indoors and out. Settle back in this sunny sitting room. Browse the vintage wares whilst you await your order. Snap up some original gifts - yep, just about everything is for sale!

Real collectors are not just bowerbirds but curators - relentlessly sorting, grouping, arranging - drawing the eye to the beauty in the banal.

3. Good People and True
They certainly are. No "cafe attitudes" here. (Know what I mean?) Always happy to see you. Always buzzing. You can't help but love people who love what they do. Look at Steve pumping that machine. He can pour a hearty mug of coffee - a "bucket" even - without losing any integrity of flavour. What a triumph.

4. Food Excellence
Do the words 'gluten free' have you in reverse gear? Ready to plead guilty of intolerance towards food intolerance? Swallowed enough lumpen slabs of almond meal masquerading as cake? Fear not! The food here is scrumptious - and just happens to be gluten free. Every cake, tart and muffin is baked in-house - including the fruit bread (and it makes such heavenly, sticky rich toast).
And the menu? From the retro to the nouveau - from baked beans to quinoa porridge to berry pancakes to okonomiyaki (Japanese omelette) - Goodness Gracious put their clever, inimitable twist on it all.
The hash brown they have completely reinvented.

And finally - joyfully - a place that honours both the herbivore and the carnivore. Finally, a place that understands those who relish their vegies as much as their meat. And at Goodness Gracious they really know how to cook vegies to perfection, to bring out that deliciously jammy, toffee-taste explosion when natural sugars caramelise.
Slow roasted pumpkin and crispy bacon? Oh mercy!

And savoured round a vintage laminex table on a fine Yandina morning? Cafe nirvana.

Goodness Gracious Organic Cafe
3 Conn Street Yandina
5446 8444
Closed Sundays

Porter's Moss Green Walls: My Rainforest Study

2011-12-02T10:10:00.000+10:00

Feature walls feature in the Eumundi House - and thus, Eumundi Papers.
First there was the moody blue feature wall in the studio.
Then the mod mustard feature wall in the living area.
But when it came to a feature wall for a study perched loftily before the rainforest, it just had to be green:

As decorating mavericks will admit, it's not easy choosing green. The wrong shade can do alarming things to a room. Take emerald green. On a deep buttoned velvet armchair, a hand knitted Shetland wool blanket, a satin cocktail dress - the colour can be opulent, divine. Yet that same hue washed across an expanse of wall or carpet can suddenly turn brash, oppressive, or just plain ugly.

That said, walls of apple or lime can be cheery and uplifting, and work well in modern interiors. And for several days I did swatch wildly away with a palette of bright, rich greens - all from Porter's - an appetisingly named selection of Caprioska, Wasabi, Green Papaya and Banana Leaf. I nearly fell for Banana Leaf, a hard to resist chartreuse. But you see, such is the subjectivity of colour. I am of a lively nature. By day, I march out into the world to teach, motivate, provoke. Back home, I need a bit of shoosh. When I drop my satchel on the study floor, I need my walls to murmur, in a Barry White purr, "Sit yourself down baby. Relax. Let me massage your shoulders. Let me put on some Miles Davis".

Clearly, I needed to move towards the olive and lichen end of the spectrum.

Finally, after three coats of Porter's Moss Green in pigment rich Ultra Flat, I had a wall to inspire and soothe, a wall as verdant as the patchwork green rainforest that unfolds before my window.

And it took but a quick rummage through Phil's Citroen archives to turn up the perfect vintage 2CV poster. C'est vraiment magique, n'est-ce pas? Every time I look, and without the need for 3D specs, that adventurous little family in their intrepid little car seem to burst through the forest and out of the wall to invite me along for the ride.

But a room of one's own should be magical, should it not?

All Things Must Pass: An afternoon with George

2011-10-26T15:57:00.000+10:00

I did not want to wait weeks - maybe more - to see him closer to home. I did not want to run the risk of missing him entirely. There was nothing for it but to drive to Brisbane, to the Dendy at Portside. And the journey was oh so worth it ...

Notso much the journey to Brisbane, but the journey into Martin Scorcese's worldof George Harrison: All Things Must Pass. "It feels like I've been insomeone's life for four hours," said Phil as we exited, blinking, into theblazing Brisbane sun. Tossed rudely from Scorcese's tardis, we had not fullylanded. I was not sure I wanted to.

Dayslater, Scorcese's film still reels through my mind: Astrid Kirchherr, ascaptivating as her beautiful black and white images, her photo of a seventeen-year-oldGeorge with his old soul eyes beneath the cocky, teddyboy haircut. Ravi Shankar'sdazzling sitar, his aura of perfect calm, his reflection on music as a state ofpure love. Jacki Stewart's analogybetween music performance and the heightened state of awareness he felt behind the wheel ofan F1. Ringo’s touching reminiscences, his endearing blokiness as he wipes off an errant tear.

And most enduring of all, those entrancing images of George’s extraordinary garden- a wonderland of turrets and streams and ponds and topiaries - his beloved FriarPark.

Georgewas so often cliched as the enigmatic Beatle, the dark horse. To unravel complexity takes time, and the care and precision of a Scorcese. Slowly, tenderly even, Scorcese peels back layer after layer,revealing George as a relentlessly driven seeker of perfection - the perfect song,the perfect recording, the perfect garden - a perfection only glimpsed, perhaps, through chemicals or meditation. But finally, it seems, George was driven by love - pure, wholehearted, unconditional. "Scan not your friend through microscopic glass" was an aphorism he aimed to live by.

And his family, and his friends many and true, loved him so deeply and unconditionally in return.

Iam of the generation to whom the Beatles were an integral part of life, of theworld as we knew it, as integral as the sun and moon and bicycles and houses. Soubiquitous was their presence, over so many years, they became imbued with a weird familiarity -like family, yet of course, not. Halfway through this beautiful, moving film, I leaned toPhil and whispered: "Aren't you grateful to have been there, to have lived through those songs?"

Theysay you should never meet your heroes. But if I could meet George, I would want to thank him for Something, and My Sweet Lord, and While My Guitar Gently Weeps and …

Oh yes, and ask him: "Where did you get those excellent gnomes?"

Bircher Muesli + Barambah Yoghurt = Breakfast Bliss

2011-10-19T18:17:00.000+10:00

Here at the Eumundi House, we are creatures of breakfast habit. Sure, weekends may be launched with a celebratory sizzle of free range bacon and eggs, market croissants, or even, on special Saturdays, fruity wedges of fresh-baked brioche from Maison de Provence (Eric's 'Royaume' is just scrumptious). Monday to Friday though, it's all about oats. Oats, oats and more oats. Simple. Pure. Healthy. Delicious.
Steaming bowls of silky smooth porridge, drizzled with amber honey, keep us firing through chill winter mornings. But come summer, it's time for a cool, creamy alternative: homemade Bircher Muesli.

Bircher Muesli is idiot proof to prepare - well, providing you remember to soak the oats overnight - and reliably delicious, its yumminess depending only on the quality of ingredients. What's more, it's the perfect bespoke breakfast, so simple to tweak to your tastebuds' delight. This basic recipe ...

welcomes almost any combo of fruit and nuts, from walnuts to apricots. The apple can be red, or Granny Smith green. Oats can be soaked in milk, orange juice or water (go milk I say). For total breakfast decadence, top with fat juicy berries and shavings of dark bitter chocolate.

That said, at the Eumundi House this spring we're keeping things fairly trad:
Nuts = chopped almonds
Dried Fruit = raisins (the local IGA has quite nice ones in bulk - 'nice' meaning without the icky vegie oil that coats most packaged raisins)
Apple = any red-skinned variety in season (with skin left on for fibre, and a pretty scatter of colour)
Milk = as full-cream, local and/or organic - i.e. as straight from udder to bowl - as possible. Depending on availability, we use either Eumundi, Cooloolah, or the outstanding Barambah.
One cup of oats soaked in one cup of milk gives two satisfying servings.

Speaking of Barambah - gosh they deserve a plug. Their organic yoghurt is divine: tubs of dairy lusciousness. And those cows - those buxom, bovine beauties - are champions. Go visit them here, while I soak tomorrow's oats.

Mustard Feature Wall: Resene Retro Wallpaper

2011-10-13T10:36:00.000+10:00

Favourite (rumoured) Oscar Wilde quote: "I hate this wallpaper. One of us will have to leave." As Wilde's wittily petulant remark was uttered circa 1890, I imagine the offending wallcovering was something florid and frumpy: unlike this clean-edged, classy, chevron textured paper from Resene.

To clarify: I'm happy to be seated against wild, psychedelic, Florence Broadhurst style backdrops at the hairdressers, or restaurants, but at home I prefer my walls to be a bit less - well, rowdy.

Enter those design-savvy Kiwis at Resene, with a deliciously retro, super smart collection of textured papers, ready to be painted over with the feature colour of your choice. Feature walls: did they ever go out of style? If so, I'm glad they're back. Here at the Eumundi House there's four, which sounds a little greedy, but they are spread out: two upstairs, one downstairs, one in the studio. And all are deep and moody in colour, a counterfoil to the bright sub-tropical light that streams through louvred glass.

If you wait, and listen, a space reveals what colour it should be. Those freshly hung chevrons were emitting a palpable 70s vibe: "Mustard", they reverbed, "Paint us mustard". So for the deepest, most satisfying, colour-saturated shade, I turned - as always - to Porter's Paints. Porter's Paints are pots of pigment perfection.

And what, you may be asking, is that silvery, snakelike object in closeup? Why, it's an almost vintage Phil Ward design, circa 1985.

Yep - give him a tripod, a satellite dish, and he's off and wiring.

FAQs
Wallpaper: Uselessly, I have forgotten the pattern name. Resene do, however, have a brilliant New Zealand site, with an almost too good selection of colour, pattern and texture. (Here on the Sunshine Coast, head straight to the wonderful people at Paint City Coolum.)

Paint: Sombrero in eggshell acrylic from the incomparable Porter's Paints. (Ditto Paint City Coolum.)

Hanging wallpaper: Use the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy approach: Don't Panic!

Painting textured wallpaper: Use a long napped roller. Load with plenty of paint. Roll on in zigzag pattern first, to work into the grooves, then roll off from top to bottom.

Resene have all the DIY details you need, plus videos, on their site.

Vintage Nursery Rhyme Light

2011-10-04T07:02:00.000+10:00

I love light emitting diodes; not just for their low energy consumption, but for their sheer sparkle. Take one vintage nursery light, a dark night, a cluster of warm-white LEDs and oooooooooh baby: it's magic!

And so the illumination of the Eumundi House continues, with Phil's quirky assemblages, plus our stash of vintage finds, coming together to wash each room with a warm and cosy glow. Treasures like this whimsical, painted glass dome emerge from their boxes. Humpty Dumpty and Old King Cole and the Queen of Hearts and Mary and Tom have lain inert in their newspaper shroud for years; but now they've sprung back to life, to chase each other madly each evening at the flick of a switch.

And at the risk of more boring bragging - yes, this lovely light was yet another bargain (less than $20 I recall) from the fabulous Yandina Markets. Have you been there yet? Do you love a good rummage? Then I'll see you there next Saturday. If you get there early - i.e. before the dealers buy all the good stuff from each other - and keep an eagle eye, you will not leave empty-handed. Promise.

Now I must dash back upstairs and turn on the light. Night is falling, and I don't want to miss the cow jump over the moon.

(FAQ: Yes, any vintage light fitting can be retrofitted with LEDS.)

Dream Kitchen Lighting: Festooned LED Bulbs

2011-09-29T06:40:00.000+10:00

Naked light bulbs dangling from long, looped, cloth-bound wires are clearly à la mode in the world of interior lighting. Brazenly bare bulbs hang everywhere - in houses, shops, restaurants. Perhaps it's filament nostalgia, as lighting goes electronic. Or perhaps the perennial trend for industrial chic. Whatever: I too love the simple, unadorned beauty of the bulb. And thus was the dream kitchen illuminated.

Yes, that's right, it's not a 'real' light bulb. Phil has the Eumundi house running on some clever, 12 volt, fully programmable system. We needed a light bulb reminiscent object. Phil - as he does - began to ponder objects to transform.
But then a glamorous pendant presented itself on sale: a cluster of seven LED powered spheres, suspended from a chrome-encased transformer. Hmmmm, thought Phil, those lights could easily be separated from each other and the transformer. I could attach simple, brown ceiling roses to the walls on either side, then string the cords across on wires.*
But how best to string them?

Ikea to the rescue: 3 x Deka curtain wires @ $9.99 each, complete with tiny, nickel-plated bulldog clips for gripping the curtain - or in this case, light cords.
And there you have it: festooned bulbs. In the Eumundi house kitchen, every night's a fairground - just add dodgems and fairy floss. It's very purdy. After years with lighting via extension cords and standard lamps I'm a little bedazzled, but soooo getting used to it.

(* I think is where I should say: "Don't try this at home unless you are a licensed sparky.")

Art Cosy: 1960s Danish Style China Cabinet

2011-09-23T11:12:00.001+10:00

'Twas such a supremely satisfying Saturday, cosying up the Eumundi House with our new arrival: a 1960s Danish style china cabinet.

Handsome, isn't he - so slim, so elegant, so Scandinavian. From the day I spotted him in The Juicy Junk Shop, I knew he was meant to be mine. Proprietor Phil, however, wasn't quite ready to let him go. Secondhand dealers rarely relinquish a good display cabinet; they're way too useful for, well, displaying stuff. But from a long ago past in the business, I know this: true dealers usually sell everything. Eventually. So it always pays to politely express interest, leave your phone number, return home and wait. And last week, Phil rang.

I must add this was a bittersweet occasion, as Phil has reluctantly decided to close his Juicy Junk Shop - for the time being anyway. But rest assured that 'once a dealer, always a dealer', so hopefully we'll see Phil setting up shop again soon. In the meantime, we do wish him well - he's a thoroughly good bloke.

A note on furniture provenance: that classic Danish profile notwithstanding, our handsome cabinet is a true Brit, a product of the iconic UK furniture company G Plan. The company was founded in 1898 and remains a manufacturer of quality sofas; but its design heyday was definitely mid-century. The heritage tab of the G Plan website is worth a click, featuring a rather neat timeline with vintage ads. In the 1960s, G Plan was the mark of cool elegance for the trendy, turtleneck wearing homemaker. As the site notes:

"The newly created G Plan brand set the standard for the mass market by creating simple, well-designed, affordable furniture. Early advertising sold G Plan as a chance to break free from the 'clumsy old-fashioned 3-piece suite'. By choosing G Plan, customers could have an effortlessly contemporary look in their homes"

('Effortlessly contemporary' - was that what I was after? Guess so - I already had the matching G Plan sideboard - gulp - and coffee table.)

So after bundling Mr G Plan home for some tender washing, wiping and oiling with Howard's Orange Oil , it was time to compose a cheery little china tableau.

Above (top shelf first, heading left to right): vintage Dutch coffee cups (posted about lovingly here); Turi-design Finland Lotte coffee set ($25 bargain from Yandina Secondhand - now sadly closed); Midwinter Earth teapot ($10 job lot from the fab Noosa Tip Top Tip Shop); Terence Conran's edible Salad Ware (another bargain - this time from Daylesford Markets - posted about lovingly over here); my Phil 's 70s/80s (?) 2CV teapot from eBay; and bottom shelf, his vintage Citroën dinner set, purchased way back in the days of the red and white logo.

Yes, not mere objects but memories; there to turn the house into a home, and brighten my mood everytime I pass ...

Dream Bathroom: Vintage 70s Bath

2011-09-15T16:40:00.000+10:00

Have to say, there is little to beat a luxurious, leisurely soak in a 1970s vintage, avocado green bath - especially whilst looking out across the rolling, grass carpeted hills of Eumundi ...

Isn't she lovely? Avocado hued. Avocado shaped. Eggy. Curvaceous. So comfortingly womb-like. Although, when we first spotted her - we were strolling through New Farm Antique Centre in a desultory, non-bathroom-suite-shopping kind of way - the image that came to mind was more 'Wallace and Gromit sidecar'. Perhaps it was those sweeping chrome handles. Yes, handles. And they are handy: once those hot suds and meditative views of Mt Cooroy have relaxed one's limbs to a state of limpid languor, it takes some leverage to haul oneself out.

I must confess, this bath business is old news. I've been tardy with Eumundi House posts: the dream bathroom has been fully functioning for months. The excitement, though, has not worn off. I still grin as I enter. I still give myself a pinch. Sure, 'twould be lovely to reach my new favourite room via stairs rather than ladder, but really, the views and the hedonistic water sloshing are oh so worth it.

That said, in the loopy adventure that is homebulding, bathroom construction would have to be the most time-consuming, expensive and maddening chapter. We had thought ours was a simple plan: no cumbersome shower cubicles, no scum-collecting screens, no mould-breeding tiles. We would have a wet area with a central drain. We would have slick, easy care wall sheeting. We would cobble together a quirky yet classy assemblage of the handmade, the vintage and the new.

This has all come to pass, and successfully, but not without a lot of hard yakka, a lot of tricky problem-solving - and a seemingly endless chain of decisions.
Well done Phil. Well done us. And many thanks to Greg, Darryl, Uli and Oliver.

Details as follows:

Above: Stylish flower-pot toilet. Floor stock sellout at the swanky NCP Noosa showroom. Reduced from a slightly ridiculous $1,350 to $350. Wall cistern system by Geberit - lashed out on some Swiss quality. Budget balanced (kind of) with Ikea accessories - including clock medicine cabinet (repainted with Galmet Hammer Finish in Jade Green). Handcrafted cedar bathmat from Eumundi Cedar, Eumundi Markets.

Above: We're rather chuffed with our DIY vanity: Ikea desk legs $15 (repainted with Galmet Hammer Finish in Jade Green). Queensland Blue Gum bench top handcrafted by Phil (slab from Eumundi Bush Timber) - oiled finish. Lovely egg-shaped Ikea basins ($150 each) - sadly discontinued, it seems. Ikea bevelled-edge oval mirror, $49.95. Deco style glass and chrome shelves from a reasonably priced range by Caroma.

Had to have this Grohe 'rain shower' unit, obviously. Not just cute, it really does shower like rain.

Some FAQs

What are the walls? Everyone asks about the walls. Aquapanel by Laminex. Handsome, relatively easy to install (well, compared to tiles) and so easy to clean (compared to tiles).
What's the floor? Everyone asks about the floor. Our little splurge from Nuendorf's. Natural stone. Beautiful colours. Fancied a sort of terrazzo look. Phil thought a spot of mosaic tiling might be fun. It wasn't, but the result was well worth it.
Does the wet area work? Yes, but you do need professional waterproofing (thanks Oliver) and a large drain. In hindsight, ours could have been a tad bigger. Still works though. And no claustrophobia or shower cleaning for me.

Now it must be time for a soak ...

Maison de Provence: Cooroy

2011-08-08T12:58:00.000+10:00

Maison de Provence: café extraordinaire de Françoise et Eric Pernoud. Once upon a time, it was a little piece of Provence in Pomona. Then they closed, and a darkness came across the land. And now, joie de vivre of joie de vivre, they've reopened - bigger, better and more chic than ever - in Cooroy. These are indeed happy times.

Yes, there is curlicued wrought iron and wicker basketry and charming red-bereted waitresses a-plenty. But it's not mere window dressing - non, non, non - Maison de Provence is all about beautiful food, and a beautiful ambience in which to savour it: a très, très elegant universe amidst a down-to-earth hinterland town.
I love the rustic goodness of my country life, I do. I love the sounds and smells (really) of farmyards, mud-hopping in gumboots at the Yandina markets, and vistas of tin sheds. But sometimes, just sometimes, a gal needs to sit under a chandelier.

Back in Pomona days, I was touting Eric's mille feuille as 'best ever'. My award stands. Eric aspires to - and achieves - petit-four perfection. Gazing through the window to his patisserie engine room, gateaux voyeurs can witness his laser-like focus at work: each perfectly cut strawberry, each fragile sliver of chocolate placed just so - voilà.

Like that other lair of pastry wonderment - Fiona's Fancies - Maison de Provence is rather tucked away; a place to stumble upon after a wrong turn. But if you can find the IGA (on right), and take the first turn to the left, you're there: 9/13 Garnet Street. That's it, the place with all those merry, relaxed people spilling out over the deck.
(If there's a vanload of you, it might be best to book: 5472 077.)

For those wanting luncheon, there's a daily blackboard menu. Just a wee bit peckish? You can't go past the croque monsieur. Fresh baguette, salty ham, flavoursome gruyere cheese, grilled to just the right degree of melt and crispiness. Only the French can take a toasted sandwich to this level.

Maison de Provence is always humming along, but I do recommend the buzz of Saturday mornings. It's perhaps as close to cosmopolitan as you can get in a leafy back lane of an Australian country town. And besides, on Saturdays, Eric bakes brioche ...

Fiona's Fancies: Eumundi

2011-04-04T13:00:00.000+10:00

Flagrantly flouting the laws of Feng Shui, Fiona Williams fearlessly set up her bijoux boutique bakery - Fiona's Fancies - in the back corner of a Eumundi shopping block, at the end of an alley, under some stairs.
And yet this unpropitious position appears to have mattered not: Fiona has built it, and they have come - come for her heavenly, mouth-melting tarts; her crispy-crunch ginger biscuits; her toffee-drizzled, finger-sticky puddings ...

Fiona's fancies are dense and rich with luxurious (local where possible) produce: the creamiest dairy, the most luscious of fruits, the most intense and bitterest of chocolates: perfectly plated on watercolour gardens of fine bone china, and served with a St Kilda-worthy coffee.
Forgive the comparison - Fiona's does put me in a Melbourne state of mind. Perhaps it's the shadowy ambience of her cocoon-like space where, tucked inside the nut-brown panelled walls, safe from the blazing Eumundi summer sun, the lights are dimmed, the air is cooled, a cushioned bench awaits, and a sparkling showcase of delights beckons.

Clever Fiona. No detail escapes her artist's eye. Welcome to gateaux wonderland, with morsels fit for any fairy queen of tarts.

When not whipping up divine eat-in and take-away treats, Fiona loves to create bespoke, special occasion cakes. And trust me, a cake by Fiona would make any occasion special.
For orders, you can contact Fiona through her blog - or better still, pop in to the bakery and see her in action. She's always there, sleeves up, oven and imagination firing.
(Photos courtesy Rachel Barus)

Get Fresh at Cotton Tree

2010-11-17T07:06:00.000+10:00

Bullet-hard tomatoes shrink-wrapped to styrofoam trays not for you? Me neither. But while farmers markets may be your best option for dewy, full-flavoured, just-plucked produce (not to mention a good chinwag with a farmer), what happens when, mid-week, you're gagging for homemade soup and find yourself clean out of parsnips? Or broadbeans? Well, if you lived anywhere near Cotton Tree, you'd be scooting on down to Get Fresh. Sure, the name's not the most original, but apt it most undeniably is: this produce is not just fresh - it's alive and kicking.

Jamie Oliver once said you can tell the quality of produce by the care and attention with which it has been displayed. Well feast your eyes upon this gorgeous harvest tableaux:

Only an artist could compose such a glorious still life. Were he or she around in the 16th century, they'd have easily picked up a gig as chief food stylist to the Dutch Masters. If only I'd remembered to pack an easel, canvas and oil paints. A camera - pfffff - so ill-equipped to capture such blushing, veggie loveliness. Oh what buxom aubergines, what chubby cherubic mushrooms. What a garden of earthly delights!

Don't you just want to randomly bite everything? Or is that just me? I can be a wee bit obsessive about veggies. Bordering on lust. I'm the first to admit it.
And if you can pull your gaze from those graceful, leggy pasnips - take a look at these handsome, bloke-proportioned jars of jam. Sit a be-ribboned selection of these under the Christmas tree and you'll have one classy and delicious alternative to the socks and undies option.

But Get Fresh isn't just fruit and veg - you see, there's also a bakery section. And yes, it is all incredibly scrumptious. Absolutely top notch. So good, in fact, that it deserves its own post.
You'll be hearing from me.

Get Fresh sits prettily amongst the leisurely village ambience of King Street, Cotton Tree.
After some happy veggie perusing, you can indulge in a deeply satisfying hot chocolate next door, at Silva Spoon.
(And fellow veggie obsessives can find more leafy loveliness over here at Salad Ware.)

Kin Kin: The Joli Good Grocer

2010-11-04T13:11:00.000+10:00

I have grocer envy. The entire town of Eumundi should have grocer envy. Eumundi has many good things, but it does not have a grocer. Kin Kin does. And not just any grocer. Kin Kin has a Joli Good Grocer:

Don't you just love it when people do something with their whole heart and soul: when they take something as 'simple', something as prosaic as - well, a grocer's shop - and transport it to another level? And in this case, a level of picturesque, storybook charm. The letterbox red and jacaranda mauve paintwork, the gravelled courtyard, the pint-sized noticeboard, the window box garden spilling lacy tendrils, the lush potted herbs - oh mercy! It's so darned delightful I couldn't give a fig about the aberrant spelling - which of course, may not be aberrant at all. More than likely it's their name. Ms Joli: proprietor. Or Mr Joli. Or Mr & Mrs Joli. (Yes, I could have asked, but I'm not keen on pestering people. One reason I never took up investigative journalism ...)

Inside the JGG, as you may well expect, all is spotlessly clean and neat as a pin. There is nary a milk bottle nor bar of soap out of place. On the counter, a platter of freshly-baked muffins wait quietly beneath their gauzy canopy. Espresso is available. It will be brought to you in the courtyard on a tray.

What's that you say? You haven't been to Kin Kin? You haven't heard of Kin Kin? You need to remedy that. It's a rather special place, and some rather special people live there. Sound wizard Linsey Pollak, for one. Don't go expecting 'stuff', though. Apart from the JGG, there's little except the pub. (But a fascinating pub nonetheless. In many ways your venacular Queenslander, but with the most extraordinarily capacious proportions: as though designed for a race of giants, who mysteriously departed sometime in the late 1800s).

So why go to Kin Kin? You go for the most painterly, pastoral, romantic countryside you can imagine, hidden away in the folds of a magical valley. There is a presence in Kin Kin - good spirits, I think. You'll feel them if you sit long enough. And even if you don't, you might wake from a daydream to find that time has stood still, if only for a moment.

Tips:
1. Take the winding road-less-travelled from Pomona (watch those one way bridges).
2. Take a picnic.
3. Turn off the phone.

The Juicy Junk Shop: Pomona

2010-10-22T06:15:00.000+10:00

Having rashly promised another installment of my happy hinterland hunting trail, I thought I'd follow up the post on Cooran Traders with my 'newest' absolute favourite shop, the place I often leave empty of purse, and thus rarely empty of hand: The Juicy Junk Shop.

Juicy Junk Shop ticks a whole lot of boxes on my secondhand shop checklist. First there's the owner, who's a very nice bloke (his name is Phil, after all). He likes blues, so there's always a decent soundtrack to browse by: anything from Robert Johnson to Ben Harper, with Phil doing a bit of guitar accompaniment when things get quiet on the cash register.

I have to admit, Juicy Junk Shop does lack the creaking floorboards and all round rustic architectural charm of Cooran Traders. As you can see, J. J. S. is more of a shed. Well let's be honest it is your basic tin shed; but a tin shed cram-packed with all sorts of juicy stuff, and all sorts of juicy bargains. You just need to know how to look. You need to be a prowler.

Secondhand shoppers, you see, can be sorted into two camps: the strollers, and the prowlers. The strollers walk - well, stroll obviously - into a second hand shop, stroll through, and stroll out, usually empty handed. Then there's the prowlers.

On the surface, there's no discernible difference: it's all in the REM. No, not Michael Stipe, I'm talking Rapid Eye Movement. The prowlers may appear to be casually browsing, but all the while those beady hawk eyes are darting back and forth, up and down, under cupboards, across the floor, and even circuiting the ceiling. Their peripheral vision is constantly tracking. They stare deep into corners and possibly around them. Some may actually have eyes in the back of their head. If charted, their eye movements would be less a series of neatly intersecting dotted lines than a frenzied cross-hatching.

Sometimes though, it's nothing to do with technique, it's just a matter of timing. A matter of luck. And the other weekend, we got lucky, arriving just in the nick of time to score this handsome hunk, this big old daddy chest of drawers.

Veteran shop fittings like this old brute are getting harder and harder to find; let alone with such a fine full set of forged iron handles. And original paint, in the best sea green, worn and patinated to perfection. He just needed a wee scrub, and a lovely rub down with beeswax polish.

And he was such a bargain. Phil the Juicy Junk Shop man believes in turnover. He's my kind of shopkeeper.

Juicy Junk Shop is in the pretty little hinterland town of Pomona (home to the famous Majestic Silent Picture Theatre), ~~and opens Fridays and weekends~~. Tell Phil I sent you.

Postscript 23/9/11: I'm very sorry to note that the Juicy Junk Shop has closed. Hopefully we'll see Phil open up again somewhere soon. In the meantime, we wish him the very best.

Silva Spoon, Cotton Tree: Hot Chocolate de Luxe

2010-10-12T06:17:00.000+10:00

Have to say, I've become rather fond of Cotton Tree. I love the drive along the Maroochy River. I love the laidback, beach village vibe. I love the quirky little shopping precinct, where the hip, the funky and the elegant sit snugly side-by-side. I've gathered a bunch of reasons to go there, but would do so just for one: The Silva Spoon. The Silva Spoon, you see, makes truly exceptional hot chocolate: real Belgian chocolate, artfully blended and delicately frothed into big deep cups of liquid luxury, served with style and grace. This is chocolate to soothe, chocolate to comfort, chocolate to ... chocolate to seduce a Johnny Depp (why not? - worked for Juliette Binoche):

It's not just the hot chocolate that's de luxe - Silva Spoon is all class. Just one glance at the window full of jewell-coloured teapots will be enough to draw you deep inside its cocoa-coloured walls. Sink into the big brown couch. Pull up a wicker ottoman and grab a magazine. Perch on a tall brown stool at the window and people watch; or (my favourite) join the newspaper-browsing locals at the big brown communal table, where tealights wink and flicker and hot pink lillies spill forth from their vase.

Every visit, I browse the blackboard specials. Every visit, I fall for that wicked hot chilli chocolate. Palms wrapped around a bowl-sized cup , it's only one small sip to bliss. But of course there's more: this is a tearoom after all, with a wonderful selection of teas to drink in or take home. And coffee, naturally. And a counter full of beautiful, bewitching cakes - sometimes studded with fresh strawberries, sometimes drizzled with fresh passionfruit, sometimes garlanded with fresh baby roses. Oh my goodness .... it's all just perfectly lovely.
The Silva Spoon :: 2/3 King Street Cotton Tree
More Cotton Tree delights coming soon ...

Cooran Trading Post: The Joy of the Hunt

2010-10-07T06:20:00.000+10:00

When we first moved out of the city, I did begin to miss all my favourite secondhand haunts. For me, the dizzying range of vintage, antique and preloved paraphenalia available in the big smoke is one mighty good reason for living there. But once we'd settled into country life, and familiarised ourselves with the landscape, it wasn't long before I'd mapped out a hinterland hunting trail. Happily, it's a work in progress, as every now and then, around some familiar or unfamiliar bend, a new barn, or shop or market springs into view.
One of the first spots to make its mark on my trusty, internal satnav was the picturesque Cooran Trading Post, and it's remained a favourite ever since - just as much for the building as for the contents:

Look indeed - outside as much as in I say. This dear old workshop is vernacular architecture at its unpretentious, well-worn best. I can't help but love it. I'm a Queensland gal, you see. Born and bred. Memories of corrugated iron, faded red-brown weatherboards and rough-hewn wooden stumps are embedded in my DNA. This old shed and me, we understand each other.

Yes, it really is this picture postcard perfect around the hinterland. Cores of ancient volcanoes popping up between rolling paddocks of green. Carpets of lush grass. Luscious grass. The sort of grass where your feet sink in to your ankles. The sort of grass that makes you want to leap down on all fours and roll around like a puppy.
Okay enough of that. Time to head inside for a lovely, leisurely scrounge around.
I have a secondhand store checklist, of sorts, and Cooran Trading Post ticks all the boxes:

Clean and organised - yet with the feeling hidden treasure may be lurking
Nice owners
Realistic prices
Chance for some gentlemanly bargaining
Floorboards creak in a satisfying kind of way

Cooran Traders is conveniently open all weekend. My tip is to avoid the highway and take a cheery Sunday drive along the more charming road less travelled, through Cooroy and pretty Pomona. You can visit the Juicy Junk Shed on the way.
Which is a story for another day...

Red Dog, Eumundi: The Sugar Shack

2010-09-29T13:24:00.000+10:00

Well there's a crazy little shack, beyond the track

And everybody calls it the Sugar Shack

It's just a coffeehouse made out wood

Espresso coffee tastes might good

That's not the reason I got to get back

To that Sugar Shack - whoa

To that Sugar Shack

From the minute I heard the truly joyous news that Red Dog coffee traders had reopened in the tiny timber cottage at the top of town, my internal DJ has been spinning Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs' Sugar Shack. On high rotation.

You see, although it's just a coffee house, made out of wood, Kai and Angel's espresso coffee really does taste mighty good. What's more, they are lovely people who are passionate about what they do - which is all that matters in my book. Actually, there is one other thing ...

Aside from a smooth, robust cup, I do like to sip my coffee somewhere with a bit of soul, a bit of personality, a place that's not - well, wall-to-wall stainless. Red Dog's former digs had such a cosy European ambiance, a laid-back elegance of cobalt blue walls, squishy leather chesterfield and rows of antique coffee cups and grinders. Change, however, can be a good thing, an exciting thing. And if Kai and Angel's old place spoke winter, their new hangout shouts summer: Valencia orange paintwork, freshly-turfed and palm-studded courtyard, white umbrellas dotted about and windows flung open to the cutest little verandah.

Ah yes - morning papers, bright blue Eumundi sky, and Angel pouring you a heavenly cup of coffee. By the time you're out the gate you'll be Walking on Sunshine ...

Red Dog open 7:30 to 13:00, Monday to Saturday. (If your partner hasn't returned from the school run, I'd check there first). As well as serving perfect in-house coffee, you can buy all your take-home supplies from their choice selection of Toby's Estate beans.
By the way, see those herbs in the garden? Angel's growing them so "the locals can pick fresh herbs if they need them."
This is why I love this town.

Eleanor Percival: Just like Chagall, only pretty

2010-09-17T13:26:00.000+10:00

Yesterday I travelled down a long dirt road, twisting and turning up and down, far into the hills and deep into the forest. Finally, around one last, gravel-crunching bend I reached a familiar fork in the road, and a tiny pink house atop a post: the letterbox of Ms Eleanor Percival.

Through a rusty, paint-splattered gate the forest clears and before you sprawls a grassy plateau and there, there at the end of the track sits her little, moss green house and studio. It's a higgledy-piggledy, upstairs-downstairs house that echoes the quirks and corners of Eleanor's imagination.

Downstairs the sun streams through the windowed walls of her greenhouse bathroom, feeding the twisted tendril leaves of her precious plants, beaming rainbows across her rose pink tub. Upstairs her studio too is awash with light. Canvases at all stages of ripeness stacked against walls. Crushed tubes of paint and abandoned pencils scattered over tables and floor. Walls papered and pinned with torn-off inspiration, memories and afterthoughts.

Meanwhile in Eleanor's pink and plywood kitchen the log fire crackles and the kettle steams. There's time to sit like tiny Alice in a curly-legged, ruby velvet chair and sip tea while the clocks tick time. Step outside, and the cow-chewed pastures roll out before you like an endless carpet; but the forest lies awaiting behind, wrapping its leafy, stringybark arms around the house, and around Eleanor - hugging her tight, connecting her and feeding her dreams.

For Eleanor is a painter of dreams and wild imaginings. Her art refuses to fit the neat grids marked out by style and genre; it flows across the field of vision, dripping off the edges of realism and disappearing through the cracks of perception. "Fantasy Artist" does not do justice to Eleanor or her art. In her canvases you may well find a heart, a flower, a bird - but sometimes too a skull, a raven, a blade, and other dark and arcane things that you somehow know but can't articulate. Eleanor does that for you. Her canvases breathe life and death, beauty and horror, heaven and hell and everything in between.

Eleanor has no choice but to paint. Her art is who she is. Like Van Gogh, she swirls paint onto canvas with a passion that sometimes hurts. Like Chagall, she sees magic in the mundane. Her beautiful mind spills forth vortexes of people, animals and objects that mingle, marry, and fall apart. Cakes sit on heads, skulls nestle in hair, necklets of pagans leap around throats.

But Eleanor's strong bare feet are as grounded in the sweet soil as her head is in the clouds. She puts down her brush and comes down to earth and goes outside and farms. She plants canvases of garden as bewitching as her painting. She mows, she chops wood for her fire, she picks plants and bakes biscuits and brews herbal teas to cure thirst or fever or stress from too much world.

Sometimes she stays too long away from the world. Sometimes she forgets about people. Her wise, brave mother taught her how to paint, and to not fear her own company. And the animals are always there: the cows, the chickens, her beloved black Damara sheep. There's always someone to feed, or shelter, or rescue, or caress, or scold. Her farming is real. It's hard work. It's nature. It's sweet and beautiful and messy and ugly. It's all of life and death - like her canvases.

**********************************************

For a glimpse of Eleanor's extraordinary art, visit eleanorpercival.blogspot.com. More coming soon we hope!

Photo of Eleanor Percival courtesy of Miranda Moffatt: Moneypenny Productions

Lismore Pie Cart

2010-08-10T06:33:00.000+10:00

Lovely Lismore. It never fails to impress me. Nestled around the banks of Wilson's River and surrounded by the incredibly lush, northern New South Wales hinterland, this regional city has a whole lot of heart.
Lismore boasts a beautiful, tree-lined streetscape with heritage buildings intact, cared for and respectfully repurposed - and a CBD that's humming with energy. A university can make a town. And Lismore, home to Southern Cross University, and a centre for the creative and performing arts, is a-buzz with music shops, bookshops, craft shops, galleries, cafes ... Not to mention enough vintage outlets to clothe the entire student population in funky, sartorial splendour.
Yes, Lismore offers a photo opportunity on almost every corner. But from my last visit I bring you neither classic architecture, nor hip urban culture. I bring you something rather more prosaic: the iconic, and deservedly famous, Lismore Pie Cart:

Take a look at that bad boy. There he sits, smack bang in the middle of town, with his glossy, bottle green duco, big muscly mudguards and toothsome grill. And every day the locals flock in like hungry gulls, to have their rumbling bellies soothed by his trailer load of freshly-baked, sweet and savoury pies. Some swoop past for a quick takeaway. Others dine al fresco under the dappled shade of Lismore's leafy canopy of street trees.

What a scrummy selection! You know you're on to a winner when you see a mushy peas and gravy option on the menu. And while I'm not about to vouch for the absence of cholesterol in the pastry, I'm more than happy to vouch for the freshness and flavour. These top quality pies - together with the retro ambience, and super-efficient-yet-friendly service - turn a fast food fix into one first class dining experience.

I had to wait until well after the lunch rush hour to get this shot. Apart from one last peckish tradie, the crowds had finally parted, but those wonder women behind the counter were still hard at it: serving, prepping, cleaning up. They run a tight ship.

Bye-bye Lismore Pie Cart. See you next time, cause: "Nothing is finer than eating in your diner" - isn't that right Seinfeld?

Tarte Tatin & Terylene Tablecloths

2010-08-05T13:36:00.000+10:00

Bad case of alliteration there I'm afraid. Hopefully I'll make a full recovery. Trust me, there is a thread to this post, which will soon become clear. But first of all, may I present Le Tarte, in all its finger-sticky, rustic glory:

And how well did a slice of that go down with a steaming espresso coffee and a slurp of Eumundi cream. Mercy!
I don't know what's come over me lately, but foodwise I've gone all-Frenchy-all-chic. I find myself yearning to master (mistress?) the classics: coq au vin, (real) quiche lorraine, cassoulet ... Perhaps it was Julie and Julia (those French kitchens - oh my!). Perhaps it was French Women Don't Get Fat (No eye-rolling please. Really, it was such a good read. Nothing about diets. All about joie de vivre, quality over quantity - and lashings of common sense.) Or perhaps it was moving into the Dream Kitchen, which of course involved the dusting off, leafing through, and rearranging of the cookbook collection.
Whatever it was, it's left me all inspired to whip up simple, unpretentious, delicious and classy food. And I'm learning that's what real French cooking - real home cooking - is all about.
So far, on my "to cook" list, I've ticked off five triumphs - and one straight-into-Hamlet's-swill-bucket disaster. Not bad odds, really.

Things I've learnt about apple tarts (some from books, some from my dear departed mum):

Make 'em upside down in a cast-iron frying pan: foolproof, looks sensational, and saves washing up. Melt 40g butter and 100g raw caster sugar in pan until thick and syrupy. Add apples (peeled and cut into chunky quarters). Simmer gently for 15 mins until glossy and golden. Quick as lightning, cover with a thick circle of pastry. Tuck edges in between pan and apple. (Be brave. Cast iron fingers help.) Then straight into a hot oven. 20 minutes at 200C, 20 mins at 160. Once cooked, cover with a plate and flip the whole thing over. Lift off pan and - ta da! - you'll feel like Houdini. (Have audience gathered pre-flipping.)
Pastry needs lots of pure butter and good flour (100g butter to 150g flour), and some sugar (20-25g). Once butter's rubbed through with your fingertips, add two egg yolks to bind together.
Cut the egg yolks in with a knife. Cut rather than mix. Comes together brilliantly if there's enough butter.
Don't add water to pastry. Well, just a sprinkle if it's really dry. Or dampen your hands when you knead it.
Don't knead it! Well only for 2 seconds to pull it together.
Wrap in plastic or greaseproof paper and rest in fridge for 30 minutes before rolling out.

And that pretty-as-pie vintage 70s tablecloth? Yet another bargain from the fabulous Yandina Markets. Never used, still with its package creases and original label. And I ask you, when was the last time you saw "Made in Ireland" on a label?

Yeh, I know, it's hardly Irish linen. As my chum Leigh noted: "And when was the last time you saw 'terylene' on a label?"
To which I replied: "On a pair of men's slacks, circa 1969."

Smart Loo - with a view

2010-07-31T13:40:00.000+10:00

Okay, so what is it? No, it's not some funky water feature. No, it's not an indoor birdbath. It's ... our new smart loo!

Yep, it's a smart toilet. It does algorithms. No not really. But it is a very clever, compact and - perhaps more importantly - water saving design. The sink and cistern are one: the aerial view shows what happens when you flush. Fresh water comes out of the tap for you to merrily wash your hands. This every-so-slightly soapy water then travels through the sink hole and into the cistern below, refilling it for the next visitor. Brilliant!

Of course, here at Eumundi where we have our own water catchment - i.e. the roof and two beautiful, behemoth stainless steel tanks - turning on the tap doesn't weigh quite so heavily on the conscience. And so I have to admit that it was smart loo's cute compactness rather than eco-friendliness that drew us in. It's the studio loo you see, and needed to tuck itself neatly into a wee (sorry) corner under the stairs.

So while the bathroom remains a work-in-progress (getting tantalizingly close though), those full bladders have become a lot less inconvenient. On snap frozen winter nights, a quick slipper-footed dash across the deck sure beats a gumboots and torch expedition to the shed, where our faithful old toilet sits sulking and forgotten.
And besides, that studio loo has one helluva gorgeous view:

Gosh those louvres could do with a bit of a clean. Still, in the absence of a toilet door, a grimy window does give an illusion of privacy. Yes I know we're in the country, but you never know what those possums are uploading to Youtube. And don't even start me on Google Earth ...

More tech info over here:
Caroma Smartflush Integrated Basin

Ikea Sink Hack = Domestic Bliss

2010-07-25T13:42:00.000+10:00

When it came time to sort out the kitchen for the new house, it seemed there'd be no cause for squabbling - we both loved the chunky trad/modern good looks of Ikea's Varde freestanding kitchen. That said, there was a wee bit of tension brewing over sinks. While I was gushing over the pristine beauty of white porcelain, Phil was lobbying hard for the easy-clean practicality (and fewer wine glass fatalities) of stainless. Finally though, Phil had to admit that the Varde stainless steel sink unit was a little - well, ho hum. If only he could fit an elegant Domsjo porcelain sink into one those sturdy workbenches.

In the pursuit of domestic bliss, he decided to get hacking.

Step 1: Varde bench before - 3 drawers in a horizontal row. First decide on which side you want your sink. Right worked for us. Pull out two drawers and unscrew sliding mechanisms. Remove the centre panel of white melamine dividing the drawer cavity. Also remove the inner right side drawer mounting panel (see birch piece resting on drawers on the floor.) Cut another piece of birch (sourced from Ikea's bargain basement) to the same size.

Step 2: Reattach these two pieces of birch to the left side of the cabinet - one piece on the second shelf, one piece on the bottom. You'll also need to cut two more birch panels to frame the right side of the drawers. Screw these panels into place from beneath the shelf. (Phil also braced the panels at the top with a piece of aluminium angle.) Reattach sliding mechanisms. Insert drawers.

Step 3: Time for the sink. Cut two pieces of white melamine and attach as shown. These panels will support the sink on either side. They can be screwed in from underneath the drawer support rail, and dowelled into the back panel for extra strength. The two white metal brackets (resting on the middle shelf) come with the sink and can be used as a handy guide for measuring the spacing between the panels. (These brackets will be attached later to help support the sink.)

Step 4: Measure sink side and back, transfer measurements to bench top and cut out the cavity. Note: The back edge will need to be rebated so that the sink can sit far enough back without leaving a gap. So, after cutting out the cavity, lower the sink into place and mark guidelines for the rebate along the back edge. Remove sink and cut the rebate. (Take care to avoid slicing into the thin back panel of the cabinet.)

Step 5: Photo shows the underneath view of sink and the rebate. As you can see, the vertical rebate sections need to be cut fairly deeply into the chipboard backing. A chisel works fine if you're careful.

Now attach the white metal sink support strips. Note: In the photo the sink is shown elevated above the supports so that the rebate can be seen more clearly.

Step 6: Cut a panel from another piece of birch to fill in the space around the front of the sink. (The piece we found It isn't a perfect match, but should mellow/yellow out with time.)

Once the plumbing's all sorted, set the sink permanently into place with clear silicone.

Voila! Domestic bliss. Now whose turn is it to do the dishes?

Dream Kitchen Part 2: Ikea Varde Cabinets

2010-06-24T06:44:00.000+10:00

Pinch me someone, so I know it's not a dream. We are cookin' in the house! Sure, we're still trotting down to the shed fridge for milk. Sure, there's the odd extension cord snaking across the floor. Sure, there's a motley crew of standard lamps for lighting. But once we'd lit that stove, once we'd rustled up our first bowl of pasta and supped by candlelight, once the heavenly aroma of Phil's first in-house loaf of bread had wafted upstairs and down - well, that's when the house became our home. Do take a peek:
(Yes, I have become quite fond of the aerial shot. It does look pretty cool from up there.)

As kitchens go, I've always been more of a free-standing than built-ins kinda gal. Back in antiques shop days (ye gads, was that the 80s?) I couldn't get enough colonial pine dressers - and I had those shelves groaning with Victorian china and depression glass. These days I'm a tad more minimalist. That's not to say I wouldn't love some bespoke, handcrafted timber cabinets. But with the aim of finishing the house in this lifetime - and an increasingly shoestring budget - well, we've quite happily settled with Ikea.

Phil and I have had eyes on Ikea's Varde freestanding kitchen for some time. I do think it's rather handsome in a beefy, square-edged kind of way. And I love those sturdy, no-nonsense legs and stainless steel capped feet. It's a design that manages to look fresh and modern, yet comfortingly cosy and traditional. Ikea is, in many ways, a grand experiment in retail democracy, making good design accessible to all. But that's not to say it's dirt cheap. The selection above retails at around $AU5,000 (still peanuts compared to most kitchens, I know). Yet with a bit of sleight of hand, a bit of shopping around, and a bit of luck, we managed to pull it all together for around $1,500.
So may I humbly present my top 3 tips for Ikea bargain hunting:

1. Always check the bargain basement first: To do this, you need to enter the store from the exit - i.e. the checkouts on the bottom level. It's the Ikea version of running the gauntlet. Just wait for a break in the crowd and, scrupulously avoiding all eye contact with anyone in a polyester blue and yellow polo shirt, cut a headlong dash through the registers and back into the store. Saves so much time, and adds a brief - yet not unsatisfying - rush of adrenalin to an otherwise sedate shopping experience.
One happy day, we had our pick from a palette of Varde glass-fronted wall cabinets, complete with glass shelves and quality German Blum hinges, reduced from $250 to $50.

2. Ebay: There's tons (literally, that chipboard's weighty) of Ikea on Ebay - much of it still boxed and brand spanking new. There's either a lot of people terrified by alan keys and/or Swedish instruction leaflets, or else there's a lot of flatpacks - ahem - falling off the back of trucks (an alarming thought, particularly if you're riding behind on a Vespa).
From Ebay we scored those two big Varde benches, still boxed, for $400 each. Retail price $900 each.

3. Sales: Obvious, I know - but there's usually something on sale at Ikea. Stuff gets discontinued. You've just got to be lucky.
And we were, picking up the last two discontinued Varde cabinets (see either side of stove) for $150 each. About half price, if I remember correctly.

So happy hunting and good luck. Oh, and if you like that white porcelain sink, I need to tell you that it isn't standard. It's a clever Phil hack. How To coming soon.

Dream Kitchen Floor: Woodgrain Marmoleum

2010-06-12T13:47:00.000+10:00

Heady times here at Eumundi Grand Designs (yes, I'm waiting to hear from Kev's lawyers), with the Dream Kitchen briskly taking shape. Even hauled the stove in this week - and been cooking up a storm - so these photos are already rather stale. Yet still delicious enough to eat, don't you think? For me, floorcoverings work magic: they can turn a dismal building site into a warm and cosy nest overnight. And when the floorcovering in question is Marmoleum - woodgrain Marmoleum, I might add - well it's enough to make this here pussycat curl up in a corner and purr.

How lovely. Just like a giant-sized checked gingham tablecloth - only woodgrain. Makes me want to sprinkle it with daisies, and set up a picnic on the kitchen floor, with cushions and a thermos of steaming tea, and some egg and lettuce sandwiches.
As is customary in this marriage of design obsessives, Phil and I entered into some long drawn-out hemming and hawing over colours. But I'm so happy with the result - reminds me of a slab of chocolate, with big fat squares of 70% cocoa, 30% cocoa, and creamy milk white. Yum. And goes rather prettily with those Norwegian wood cabinets, don't you think? Okay, Ikea Birch veneer ...

If you haven't heard me banging on about Forbo Marmoleum before - well some might say you're lucky. But yes if you haven't, go check out Jas and Phil's fabulous studio floor design. You'll also find a few technical details, plus more of me raving. I've been a devoted fan of this beautiful, hardwearing, sustainably manufactured product for years, and would love it even without its impeccable environmental cred.

By the way, these are not tiles. Forbo does indeed make a stunning range of solid colour tiles - Marmoleum Dual. However, for those of us in Australia they're only available in 5 square metre lots (per colour), which makes for a fair bit of wastage. Besides, I had my heart set on woodgrain, so simply bought rolls and had it cut into squares - which, after the complexities of the studio floor, was more or less a breeze for the trusty David Hayden, one of the chirpiest floorlayers you'd ever have the pleasure to meet.

There you are. Evidence of in-house dining - or at least, coffee drinking. But what seems here a rather bare and lonely space now echoes with the sounds of running water (gasp) and the clatter of pots and pans. It boasts cookware and cupboards and a big shiny stove - and the heartwarming smells of dinner a-simmering.

Woodford Wood: A Deck For Dancing

2010-05-05T13:50:00.000+10:00

Way back in September, I was blogging - and dreaming - about the apochrophal day when I would saunter across the deck to pluck a sun-ripened banana for breakfast. Well folks, that day is about to arrive, for this has been our Labour Day long weekend project:

And the joy was unconfined. There were barely three boards down before I came over all skittish with excitement, succumbing to an uncontrollable urge to sashay back and forth in my bare feet and cut off jeans, one foot tentatively after the other.
Just like Jennifer Grey in that tree-trunk-across-the-river-scene in Dirty Dancing. Or so I like to think.

Having got that out of my system I decided to do something useful, and promptly found myself a job selecting and measuring boards, and marking off the positions for Phil's sawing and drilling. I quite like being a chippie's off-sider, with a big fat pencil tucked behind my ear, but I expect the novelty will wear off in the next day or two.

And this is the fine result of our weekend's work. Were it not for that pesky patch of rain at 2pm, we would have finished. It's been one helluva lot of deck to lay, and the last few nights have seen us collapse rather achey-breaky to bed. That said, it has to have been one of the most satisfying jobs so far - almost instant gratification - to watch it grow, board by board, into a beautiful space for outdoor living.

First deck breakfast tomorrow. (Bananas not yet ripe, unfortunately.)

A few words about our wood:
When it came to sourcing decking timber, our criteria were few and simple: Australian hardwood from sustainable, well-managed forests - and as close to home as possible. So I opened the yellow pages at Sawmills and ran my finger down. I stopped at Grant Timbers. I had a good feeling about their address: 7 Sawmill Road, Woodford.
I went online.
I read about the history of Grant Timbers.
I read about their management of the Bellthorpe forest.
I liked what I read.

And so the two chums set off for Woodford, to buy some wood.

Woodford is a pretty country town, and home to some very good things - not least, the world-famous Woodford Folk Festival - and Grant Timbers did not disappoint. Over at Sawmill Road, they're keeping it real. Grant's is a family-owned and operated company. Wood is what they do, and they don't mess around. Their timber-lined office is comfortingly rustic, yet incredibly efficient. They are excellent people to deal with. And best of all, they let us don yellow safety vests for a tour through the yards to see what we were getting.

We decided on mixed hardwood, which is much less expensive than ordering a large quantity of single species. But I have to say, the more boards we lay, the more beautiful they look. It really is beyond our expectations. Those gradations of colour - almost blond through intense yellow and orange to rich tawny red - make a stunning contrast against that expanse of grey colorbond steel.

Now that's what a call a deck for dancing: some sultry samba, some sexy salsa, a bit of boogie, and maybe, just maybe, a moonlit tango ...

Solar Power: Let the Sun Shine

2010-05-02T13:52:00.000+10:00

Oh little darlin'... Here Comes the Sun ... scorching down through the clear blue Eumundi skies, ripening our mandarins to sticky, chin-dripping sweetness, heating the water for scalding showers, and most thrilling of all, powering all our lights, tools and appliances - with plenty left over to sell back to mission control (Energex). Last quarter, when account time rolled around, we opened that familiar, cellophane-windowed envelope to find a bill for - wait for it - $5. Yep, $5.
Oh sun! Oh powerful and mighty orb - no wonder the Aztecs worshipped you.

As you can see, the shed has now become solar central - our own little clean green power station. Thank you Australian government, for all those incentive schemes. After rebates, this $12,000 plus system (nine photovoltaic panels, plus a rather schmick inverter) cost us around $2,000. Less than a big screen plasma, and in my book, way more bang for my buck. (We could have paid as little as $500 had we gone for the budget inverter, but the more expensive model means that, should we feel an uncontrollable urge for more power, we can easily add more panels.)

As for the solar hot water system, well we've had that installed for the past six or seven years, and it's worked a treat. Although fitted with an electric booster for cloudy periods, we've hardly ever needed to flick the switch (which is saying something, considering the recent bouts of Old Testament style deluge we've been experiencing.)

But now the house is finally ready for PLUMBING (me? excited? ... excuse me while I hyperventilate into this paper bag), and as the distance between shed and house was too great to pump water over without losing heat and pressure, we needed to buy a second system. Phil had considered moving the old one over to the house, but decided - thanks to yet more government handouts (RECs - renewable energy certificates) - that we could afford to invest in another unit.

After a bit of hemming and hawing, we decided on a split system. A gleaming array of sapphire blue solar panels sprawled across a rooftop can be a thing of beauty; a behemoth of a tank less so. Besides, it was only going to be another thing to hawl up on the roof of our very tall house with the inaccessible and very steep roof. It was going to be tricky enough lugging the panels up there. Phil started talking very long ladders. I put my not-so-dainty foot down, and we called in the boys from Noosa Crane Hire:

It was a fun morning for all concerned, even the ground crew (me, Phil, and that bloke in the orange safety shirt.) Despite the looming clouds, the rain just managed to hold off till our precious panels were nestled safely between the soaring wings of Phil's idiosynchratic roof.
And now it's just a matter of waiting for the plumber. Tum de tum tum .... sounding of fingers drumming on table...

Soapbox:
Having given a big shout out of appreciation to Kevvie and Co for the solar incentives (my mother always told me to "try politeness first"), can I just say: "Please sir, we want some more!" Loads more. This country should have solar panels everywhere. Let's get cracking for crying out loud. Those industrious, sensible, eminently practical Germans are way ahead of us. Germany. It's embarrassing. Do they actually have sunshine over there?

I'm sure you know your Dorothea Mackellar off by heart Kev: "I love a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains". I can just see you Kevvie, knee-high to a grasshopper, socks pulled up and your hair slicked down, reciting it in front of class at Eumundi State School. You're a clever man Kev, so think about it: sunburnt country, sweeping plains ... Shouldn't we be leading the world on this one?

Thanks, needed to get that off my chest.
End of rant.

Bangalow: my pocket-size Paris

2010-04-28T13:55:00.000+10:00

Last weekend, I was whisked away. Yes, whisked away from my humdrum existence by a dashing hero on horseback. Okay, let me qualify that. First, my existence is far from humdrum, but I (we) hadn't been away for ages and really needed a break from "the building site". Second, he was driving a Citroen, not a white charger. But he's still dashing enough for me.
And the fairytale destination? Bangalow - that prettiest of pretty little north coast New South Wales towns. Who needs Paris when there's this romantic little getaway so close to home? Why look - the pavements are scattered with rose petals.

Bangalow. It has always felt strangely like home. Something about the place. Sometimes wonder why I never settled there. Every time I visit, I leave a teensy bit of heart behind, just to remind me to come back. And when I do, I come back to the Bangalow Hotel, with its 1930s brick walls and frosted glass doors and Art Deco curves. The accommodation may not be 4-star, but who needs an ensuite in a pub with only four rooms? Once across the threshold I'm settled in as though I own the place - in a fat velvet armchair by a crackling fire in winter, or on the back deck under the Bangalow palms on a steamy summer's night.
The pub grub is damn fine, too. (For a start, they can make a perfect chip - sadly, something of a feat these days). In recent years, they've extended the old deck into a rather posh a-la-carte restaurant, but the locals and I tend to stick to the more democratically-priced original. Funnily enough, the food comes from the same kitchen.

After dinner, there's always time for a quiet nightcap on the upstairs balcony. These days I'm kind of partial to the rooms with street view. Since the highway by-pass, trucks no longer scream their way through the town. Nothing but the stars above, the birds at eye level in the trees, and the village nightlife below.

Next morning, it's just a quick dash across the rose petals to Utopia Cafe, the very chic and spacious restaurant next door for breakfast.
Hmmmm, let's see now ... bacon and eggs? In Bangalow they're justifiably proud of their famous Bangalow pork - it sits centre stage in the butcher's window, and features on almost every menu. But it's always a treat to spot something different, so I went straight for the banana with black sticky rice, coconut milk and palm sugar caramel. It was heavenly. I believe (and remember, this is a Queensland girl talking) it may have been the best banana I've had in my life. Can't believe I'm still banging on about it.

And all this with a charming view across the green fields to the weekly farmer's market (hence the rose petals). Bangalow is all about quality over quantity. And theirs is a real grower's market: the beekeeper with their honey; the coffee grower with their coffee; the salad grower with their greens - you get the picture. Locals strolling around and chatting and buying their food at a market that is for them first and tourists second.
I love Eumundi - but how I wish its markets could be run on a similarly "less is more" principle.

Surrounded as it is by some of the lushest dairy country in Australia, Bangalow bears all the hallmarks of a wealthy town. The tree-lined main street is flanked with the elegant solidity of 19th century brick architecture. Old bank buildings stand tall and proud. Substantial shop fronts are edged with patinated copper detailing, their windows beautifully arranged with all things alluring, unique and quirky. Oodles of class, yet little pretention. Happily, the doughty CWA ladies, and their display of handmade aprons and tea cosies, still maintain their stronghold in the centre of town.

On this visit, I seem to have been too dreamily preoccupied with wandering to take many pics. Apart from this shot of the extremely photo-worthy Red Ginger: a little jewel of a shop, impeccably fitted out as a traditional Chinese teahouse, and stocked with richly glazed ceramics, embroidered velvet slippers, vibrant enamelware, and all the accoutrements you'd need for delicious tea and yum cha.
(A somewhat wistful glimpse of an ancient and beautiful China - the pre plastic toys, polyester clothing and cheap electronica era).

Please stop me someone. Okay, before you do, a short list of some favourite Bangalow things:

Barebones Artspace: Inviting and uninhibiting little gallery established in 1994. Lots of interesting, quality and affordable local artworks.
Milton Cater Oriental Carpets: Hesitate to use the cliched "Alladin's Cave", but nothing else conjurs it up. Walls and floors thick with exquisite - and genuine - handmade rugs. (And sold - or rather, curated - by someone who really knows what he's talking about.)
Heath's Old Wares: Antiques and collectables barn behind the pub offering endless browsing pleasure. Packed to the rafters (really) with old tools, industria, kitchenalia, architectural antiques ... and behind the long counter, a very impressive, somewhat precarious-looking wall of treadle sewing machine drawers.
And of course, just about every cafe and restaurant in town.

Oh there's so much more to this wonderful place, but I really have to stop now.
I'm not leaving it another two years to go back. And next time I'm taking more photos.

Vintage Slow Cooker + Perfect Eumundi Lamb Shanks

2010-04-23T13:57:00.000+10:00

Or : How to receive a standing ovation for dinner whilst barely lifting a finger.

First, get thee to a second-hand store, market or garage sale, and pick yourself up a vintage slow cooker. I doubt you'll find one as cute as this (she said smugly), but you can always try.

Don't know what I love most - that fabulous 1970s orange and olive green, that wacky typeface (and the fact that they needed to state it was Electric), or those oh-so-Japanesey, totemo kawaii* flowers.
And check out the controls: off, low, high. Trust me, it really is that easy to use these things. No wonder they're making a comeback.
I believe there's been at least one slow cooker recipe book released. But even without benefit of book or instruction manual, my maiden voyage was - well - too easy!
Here's how it panned out:

Guests coming, and the evening promises to be just crisp enough for something hearty.
1. (3pm) Off to the incomparable Eumundi Meats to purchase some (pre-marinated**) lamb shanks.
2. Return home, place shanks in cooker with tinned tomatoes.
3. Turn cooker to high*** and replace lid.
4. Lounge around for four hours or so (okay, I did check them a couple of times - just to feel I was actually doing something).
5. (7pm) Five minutes or so before seating guests, steam up couscous (mmmmmmm ... lamb and couscous - honestly, is there any sweeter food couple?)

Now here's the best bit. Lift out the stylish, honey-glazed inner pot and it's straight to table to serve. The meat is heavenly - succulent and almost dripping from the bone. Dinner conversation fades away. Look proudly round the table. Look at those happy faces, tucking in. Yes Wendy, I think you deserve a second glass of that cheeky Clare Valley shiraz.

I must say I am completely won over. This has to be the ultimate in Slow Fast Food. Or should that be Fast Slow Food? I love cooking from scratch, I really do - but between Eumundi Meats and Electric Slow Cooker, my services could easily be made redundant.

* totemo kawaii = totally cute. And pretty much the limit of my Japanese (thank you Mari!)
** Yes, I have tried marinating my own lamb shanks. I have to admit the butcher does it better. But only until I find out his secret ...
***I have yet to try using "low" - that is, the "turn it on, go to work, and come home to the aroma of dinner cooking" setting. But with winter nights finally setting in here in the subtropics, there's bound to be experimentation aplenty.

And thanks to Oliver (clever chap did all his Christmas shopping at the New Farm Antique Centre) for a gift that just keeps on giving.

Vintage Typewriters: Three's a Collection

2010-04-20T13:59:00.000+10:00

... according to Andy Muirhead. And as this is now my fourth, it would seem I'm a collector.

No-one's more surprised than me. Despite loving old stuff since the 70s, despite having Jethro Tull's Living in the Past on high rotation from age 15 to 17, despite once eloping with an antiques dealer, despite becoming an antiques dealer - I'm more of a purger than a hoarder. For me, one's usually enough.
This collecting business is all down to Phil. He found a bargain (yes, another) at the Yandina Markets: a beautiful, jet black, glass-sided Imperial - an ex-newspaper model with a super long carriage - and presented me with it last birthday. Since then I've found it hard to leave anything in good condition under $25 behind.

Seems I'm just one of the crowd though. Typewriters are everywhere these days - often with three figure price tags. They're all over the net, where 60s-70s era portables (preferably orange or sky blue) are the must-have vintage item for crafty chicky-babes. And stylists can't get enough of them. Spotted one in a restautant window in Bangalow this weekend. Then last night, first episode of the new series Dr Who, and blow me down if there wasn't a typewriter at the control panel of the remodelled Tardis. Seems the latest Doctor (rather a retro boy himself) needs to type something to start her up.

Notwithstanding the inevitably inflated prices that come with such a resurge of popularity, all this typewriter love makes me happy because:

Like most things old and mechanical, typewriters are things of beauty and integrity: fine examples of ingenious, simple, elegant design. And bursting with character.
They offer blessed relief from the overburden of choice. Just one font, black or red, caps or lower case. Oh, and underline. That's it. Not an emoticon in sight. Funnily enough, we used to be perfectly capable of expressing ourselves without them.
Unplugged, and thus environmentally friendly. Also distraction free - no net surfing, just creating.
Slow. And slow is usually better.
"Clickety-clack, clickety-clack" sounds great. So does "Ca-ching!"

Yes, the inked ribbons are still available. There's no excuse. Go forth and collect. Save one or more of these robust, handsome beasts from landfill. Then, taking a pen and old-fashioned address book, make a shortlist of your real friends (the true ones, not all 150 on facebook). Brew a proper pot of tea. Sit by a sunny window. Let the warmth spread across your shoulders and onto your page. Tap merrily away. Seal your heartfelt missive in an envelope (with a kiss if appropriate). Stroll to the nearest letter box and post.

Interestingly, back in the pre-email era, when typewritten business correspondence was de riguer, a typed personal letter was considered rather rude. Most people expected their nearest and dearest to pick up a pen. But how chuffed would you be to receive a typewritten letter in the post these days? I'd be tickled pink.

Drop me a line please someone.

Studio Workbench: Before & After

2010-04-08T14:01:00.000+10:00

As a couple, Phil and I bond over scavenging. We pride ourselves in spotting potential, in appreciating good bones, in re-imagining, in being able to envision the "after" in the "before". In the words of Regurgitator: "We like your old stuff better than your new stuff". And here on the Sunshine Coast, whilst the pickings may not be as rich as the big city, I'm glad to report there are still some happy scrounging grounds for the DIY enthusiast.
One of which is the Noosa Tip Shop (AKA Briteside Recycling) where, abandoned out in the yard, covered in gunk, I spotted this little beauty (yes, I'm taking credit for this one):

Phil had been hunting the perfect studio workbench for some time - and this one measured up. The criteria: industrial design, sturdy, open framework, and space for tool drawers/storage. Time to hitch up the rescue trailer and bring this baby home.
Above: After coaxing out some hesitant bolts, the stunning (albeit grease-covered) timber top was lifted off, and the galvanised steel frame given a light sand and anti-rust touch up.

Then a coat of Galmet Hammered Metal Finish in Jade Green. Highly recommend this quality product. It's easily applied, gives great coverage, and leaves behind an appealing dimpled finish that hides surface imperfections - whilst imparting some industrial chic.
Finally, some sanding, filling and oiling of those handsome, chunky top boards. And here it is - in situ:

Look - the green perfectly matches that square of marmoleum. And how about that slide-out shelf? It came with those cute brass knobs. (Well, one of them. Phil just happened to have another to match). He's yet to construct drawers to fit underneath, but that bench is keen and waiting to take all the hammering, filing and soldering action he can dish out.

Total cost: $75. Yep $75. Bench $50. Paint $25. Plus a couple of days work, of course. But he seemed to be enjoying himself. He really did.

Industrial Downpipes: and a summer of downpours

2010-03-30T14:03:00.000+10:00

PVC pipe - it's as ubiquitous as it is icky. And let's not start on the toxicity. Thankfully though, there is an alternative: the macho yet sensuous spirals of galvanised industrial downpipe.

Which brings me to a rule of thumb for the thinking owner-builder. Divert your attention from the readily available (and usually ho-hum) range of domestic building supplies, and go browsing amongst their commercial (and usually sexier) counterparts.
That said, straying from off-the-shelf at Bunnings to other aisles less travelled often means a good deal of fiddling, adapting and modifying - or even fabricating from scratch. But then, that's been the story of this project from day one - and just the sort of problem-solving in which Phil excels (indeed, revels, despite his rumblings). In this case, there was a bit of head-scratching over brackets. He's such a perfectionist: must be Swiss DNA in there somewhere.

Then it was time for attaching it all to the building and the usual monkey business - scrambling up and down ladders and hanging off bits of framework - that I'd much rather he retired from. But in the end it all looked amazing - as always.

And now, after nearly five years (yes, five) of sitting bored and idle, our big fat stainless steel tanks are full to cascading - thanks to another summer of hammering downpours. And we're sitting pretty with over 75,000 litres of rainwater, and a bad case of eco-smugness.

Moody Blue Feature Wall: Porter's Paints

2010-02-08T08:10:00.000+10:00

Being a housepainter's daughter - not to mention signwriter's sister - I grew up surrounded by paint. Little wonder, then, how soothed and at home I feel with a brush in hand and a tin of luscious, creamy emulsion by my side. Ooooh - paint! It's such sensuous stuff. And best not to start me on colour. Put a colour chart in my hands and I'll be dreamily occupied for hours. Maybe days.
Over the years of my amateur housepainting career, I think I've busted a few popular colour myths - most notably:
Myth 1. Dark colours make a room look smaller: Piffle. Quite the opposite really - a small white room can feel boringly boxy, whereas a deep, rich hue gives depth.
Myth 2: Go for a lighter colour, as it always looks darker on the wall. Pfffff. Be brave. Go darker and earthier. Once the colour's on the wall and the light comes (hopefully) flooding in, you'll be left with rich and/or vibrant, rather than insipid or garish.

Which is how we ran with the studio, and we're pretty darned happy with the result.

Above: Feature wall (against which Grace is so stylishly poised) in Porter's Ultra Flat in Gun Metal Grey - a moody, slate grey-blue. If it's a colour hit you're after, I highly recommend Porter's Ultra Flat. Loaded with pigment, it dries to the most intense, velvety, colour-saturated finish. The photo really doesn't do it justice.
For the remaining walls, we used Porter's Eggshell Acrylic in Marble. The colour looks bright white in the photo, but in real life dries out off a rich off-white with an almost greenish - well, marble-like tinge. And Porter's Eggshell Acrylic gives an easy care finish with the lustre and texture of - well, eggshell!
I'm a big fan of Porter's. I figure I say thousands as a DIY painter, so why not use the best, most luxurious paint? Porter's is a hand-crafted, proudly Austrlian product. They produce they most stunning, intensely pigmented colours imagineable. The paint slides on like buttermilk. And it smells fresh as a field of daisies when you're done. Take a big, healthy breath - it's VOV free!

Mondrian Marmoleum: Studio Floor

2010-01-29T15:14:00.000+10:00

For those of you who've visited in person during the last few months I apologise, as this will be rather stale news. But for those who haven't, may I proudly present the studio floor: Ta Da! Marmoleum a la Mondrian:

Marmoleum - I love the stuff. Even were it not so incredibly hardwearing, economical, low-maintenance, tactile, hygienic, non-toxic - and yes, sustainable - I'd remain smitten by its utter beauty.
A commercial product by Forbo, Marmoleum is essentially linoleum - real linoleum. It is not - I repeat, not - to be confused with vinyl flooring. Marmoleum is a way more wholesome, VOC-free sandwich of linseed oil, limestone, wood flour, rosin, jute and natural pigments. You can take a bite if you're really keen. Or toss it in the compost - it's biodegradable. Lay it on your floor, though, and it may well outlast the pitter patter of your grandkids' feet.
But what really sets my heart a-pounding is Marmoleum's fabulous range of deliciously rich and vibrant colours. Believe me, I've spent hours of quality time with their samples folder. And because Marmoleum can be so easily cut, by hand or water jet, into strips, angles, curves - absolutely anything - the design possibilities truly are endless.
Head on over to Archidea and you'll see what I mean. Then download a brochure at Forbo.
And take a look down next time you're in a bank, museum, hospital, school, restaurant ... chances are it's Marmoleum.

Photos above and below of work in progress. Installation by the unflappable David Hadyn of Hadyn's Floor Coverings (Sunshine Coast), who was more than happy to rise to the challenge of cutting Phil's angles. He even whistled while he worked.

Vintage Kenwood Really Cuts Mustard

2009-09-23T07:57:00.000+10:00

With the threat/promise (take your pick) of a fast-approaching housewarming, I've been doing a spot of shed spring cleaning. Well, it's a good thirty paces from old residence to new, and a gal has to consider what to pack.
Stuff accumulates, and I'm determined to be ruthless - particularly in the world of appliances. Only the stars will make it past the threshold.
But in "The Dream Kitchen" - one of a series of charming, room-setting vignettes that my hyperactive imagination leafs through 24/7 - my 70s vintage Kenwood is never far from centre stage:

Isn't he a hunk? I remember the day I first spotted him in the window of a secondhand shop in Boonah. Fell for him like a ton of bricks, I did.
What's that? Of course he's a bloke - look at that chiselled, no-nonsense profile. And he's so heart-throbbingly hefty and strong. Why, he even smells of grease.
But, I'd have to say, it was that handsome, mustard and tan complexion that really stole my heart. Yep, you can keep your curvaceous, pretty-in-pink Kitchenaids. Ken's the one for me.
He's in amazing shape for his age: like most chaps his vintage, he was built to last. In fact, he'd probably take on a bowl of cement if you let him. And if that weren't enough, he comes with a full kit of impressive tools (just check out his monogrammed beater) and a slick vinyl dust jacket.

Sigh ... I can't wait till it's just the two of us in The Dream Kitchen, spending quality time together, testing out his "planetary action" (honest - that's what it's called).

So if anyone has any suggestions as to cakes we can whip up on our first dates, I'd love to hear from you. In the meantime, I'll just go give him another rub down...

Winter of 100 Soups 5: Eumundi-French Onion Soup

2009-09-19T08:04:00.000+10:00

House building, visitors, gardening, cooking, heaps of horsing around - but absolutely zip on the blog front. Sorry 'bout that.
Never mind, I'm back now - and I've brought soup! French - no, English - no, wait on, Swiss - no, stuff it, let's just proudly call it Eumundi Onion Soup. And let me tell you, this may be the best darned bowl of soup I've ever made.

So why the national identity crisis? Everyone knows it's a French classic, surely?
Well, it was until Jamie Oliver came along and beefed it up with every imagineable variety of onion he could lay his hands on, truckloads of British cheddar, and a submarine-sized slab of ciabatta submerged into the bowl. Let me tell you, I've watched this particular episode of Jamie at Home at least five times, and every time he whips that unbelievably rich and rustic dish of English Onion Soup from under the grill, I want to take a bite out of the TV set.

Sadly, I don't have Jamie's ridiculously picturesque English country garden from which to tug armfuls of organic soil-encrusted leeks, shallots, spring onions, brown onions, white onions, garlic ... (I am working on it). But happily, I do have the wonderful farmers at the Yandina markets, where one can effortlessly harvest a brimming basket load of squeaky fresh onions of all shapes, sizes and intensities (see above).

Sorry to seem a traitor to Eumundi, but it has to be said that Yandina market has far more farmers per square metre. Best of all though, at Yandina you can find the most delicious, outrageously pungent, hand-crafted Swiss cheese - cheese that would make any English cheddar look very, very tame: the infamous Snake Bite!! One of the extraordinarily fine products from the Aussie-Swiss boys at Fromart, Snake Bite is a cheese to make grown men weep (Phil: "How can anything that smells so bad taste so good?"). Be warned: this is not a cheese for first date snacks, or to nibble before important job interviews. It is, however, a cheese par excellence for cooking, guaranteed to lift even a humble toasted sanger to restaurant-worthy status.

(Feeling sad cause you don't live here? Understandable - but no need to miss out. Not only do Fromart sell at a number of markets, they mail order! Yay! Check their site for details)
Above: Fromart's big cheese Christian Nobel (photo from fromartdotcomdotau.)

And so, armed to the teeth with fresh local produce, here's how I set about making a crowd-pleasing potful of:

Eumundi (okay - Yandina) Swiss French Onion Soup

Melt a fat knob of butter and a couple of swigs of olive oil in your biggest, butchest soup pot. Then add a mountain of finely sliced onions, leeks, garlic et al, plus some sage, plus a generous seasoning of salt and pepper.
Stew extremely gently and slowly - for at least an hour. (J.O. suggests 50 minutes with lid ajar, then 20 minutes with lid off, and I followed this to the letter. Trust me, he knows what he's talking about. The soup will be nothing - nothin' - unless you take the time, and care, to let the onions become sweet, juicy, sticky and sensational.)
Add a couple of litres of beef or veggie stock (Tip: I highly recommend Massel - Aussie company, all natural, great product). At this point I also like to throw in a glassful of dry white wine or vermouth. Return to boiling point, then simmer on low for around 15-20 minutes.
That's pretty much it! Just ladle the soup into bowls, and top each with a chunky slab of toasted ciabatta style bread - half shoved into the soup is good. (Tip: Just to redeem myself, might I add that Gympie Farm sell a beautifully dense and crusty loaf at their Eumundi market stall)
Top with a layer of grated Snake Bite, or other X-rated cheese, a drizzle of worcestershire sauce, a couple of sage leaves and a sprinkle of olive oil.
Now place bowls under a hot grill until the cheese melts to a glorious, bubbling, golden-brown.

My oh my ... I'm off to make another batch now. I really must get some onions planted. If only I had a gardener like J.O.'s Brian Skilton. I'd love to see him out there with his wild, wiry mane and sun-creased face, his gangly, druid-like form hunched over the seedlings, whispering mysterious incantations as he tucks them tenderly into the Eumundi soil ....
(Left: Brian lurks behind J.O. in that enviable garden. Photo from Brian Skilton Facebook fan page - of which there are two, would you believe?)

Eumundi House: Bananas over Bifolds

2009-09-19T07:50:00.000+10:00

We planted our first banana plant within grabbing distance of the front verandah. At the time, I had a vision firmly in mind: me sauntering barefoot across the deck to pluck a golden, sun-ripened banana for breakfast.

As you can see, I'm still waiting for floorboards to saunter across (reclaimed ironbark would be nice), but the narnies are coming along very nicely. In fact, there's something of a banana glut here at Eumundi. Visitors have been cheerily carting off mammoth bunches of them, and the freezer's chock-a-block with tupperware containers.
(Tip: Bananas freeze extremely well, and, whizzed up with chunks of chilled pineapple and fresh mint, make a deliciously thick and creamy smoothie.)

Banana plants, however, can go rampant at an alarming rate, so I've had to do some serious thinning out. Must say though, for a bantam-weight gal like me, it makes for a rather satisfying afternoon - felling 6 metre "trees" in two minutes flat, with a handsaw.
Enough with the bananas; this post is really about these beautiful, elegant-in-an-industrial-kind-of-way bifold doors. Well, I'm allowed to brag about them. I didn't design them. Phil did (of course). Some details, for those interested:

Fabrication by Coz from Allstar Garage Doors and Gates, Noosaville (who also did our fabulous primary-coloured doors).
Welded aluminium construction, powder-coated in Precious Pearl. (Who thinks up these names?)
Louvres and louvre galleries from Breezeway (also in Precious Pearl).
Lower sections of doors to be fitted with glass louvres, but top sections with full glass panes. (There can be weight issues with glass in bifolds, and louvres are heavy. In any case, we decided the contrast would look better.)
Meticulous fitting of louvre galleries, hinges, locks, handles, tracks and rollers by - who else? - Phil. Here's how he's going so far:

The north face of the house is essentially a wall of doors, opening up onto the deck, the view, the breezes, the birds, the bananas ...
There are three openings, each with two pairs of doors. That's sixteen. It's a lot of fiddly work - even for a very patient man.
He's cheered on by morning tea, arvie tea, and sunset beers with cheese and crackers.
One opening down, two to go. Go Phil!

Studio lock up - tick. House lock up by end of October. Christmas dinner in the house. Everything finished by Easter. You heard it here first.
I'd better go and make him some banana muffins ...

Eumundi House: the art of getting plastered

2009-09-16T07:52:00.000+10:00

Here at Eumundi, things have gone beyond excitement. First, the studio got plastered; then, to celebrate, we got plastered; then, Hamlet got plastered.
Nah, I'm just kidding. Ham's only allowed one stubby a year - and that's on his birthday (which is in May, should you care to send him a card).

Okay, I'll stop messing about. It's just that, for the first time since embarking on this all-consuming (as we're now painfully aware), relationship testing, mildly insane escapade known as house construction, we finally have something resembling a Proper Building ... as opposed to a building site.

As plasterers go, I'm still patting myself on the back for finding Jesse. While possibly the fastest plasterer in the west (he and his brother sheeted up the studio in one day), Jesse is no cowboy. He gave a very reasonable quote. He was organised. He was reliable. He was thorough. He did a beautiful job. He actually - wait for it - swept up after himself ... not a Breaka bottle nor ciggie packet left in sight.

The results were truly transformative. After all these months - years - of looking at hard, blue steel framework, it was magical to see that skeletal form fleshed out in pale grey and alabaster white. Come inside - please do - and see for yourself:

In case you're wondering, Phil's beautifully undulating ceiling (above) will be lined with mini-orb, to match the soffits.

And now, almost every day, I wander into this miraculous space of air and light, and feel very, very happy to be here. I gaze through the louvres at those green velvet hills, and dream of an endless summer of parties, and friends and family sleeping like sardines on our studio floor.

Studio Doors: De Stijl my beating heart

2009-09-10T14:54:00.000+10:00

Since I took a couple of months off to project manage (read nag, whine, boss, slave drive ...) the house has been coming along a treat. All the studio doors and windows, complete with actual glass (oh, the heady excitement) are in, and finally the building - well, half of it anyway - has reached that long-yearned-for-but-almost-thought-we-wouldn't-get-there stage called lock-up.

In fact, the photo above is already well out of date, but I so liked the tunnel-like perspective of pumpkins, red door, blue door, Phil fitting handles, Ray's hardwood forest, and the blue-green peak of Mt Cooroy, that I thought it deserved top of blog billing.

I know I've posted about the doors before. When was it ... April? Back then I was waffling on about sources of inspiration: Eames, Scandinavian Modern, Play School, Split Enz ... okay, I'm getting a bit silly. But I guess, when you boil it down, it all goes back to those crazy Netherlanders, and the movement known as De Stijl.

In brief De Stijl is:

Dutch for "The Style"
A Dutch (obviously) art movement circa 1917
A movement big on: primary colours juxtaposed with black and white; straight lines and rectangles; "pure" abstraction; and a fair bit of smug and avant garde posturing ... whilst riding a bicycle.

De Stijl pop stars include artist Piet Mondrian (1872 -1944), and architect Gerrit Rietveld (1872 -1947) - designer of a ridiculously uncomfortable but great to look at chair, and the wonderful, way ahead of its time, cute-as-a-button Rietveld Schroder House - a piece of primary-coloured, minimalist, architectural poetry.

But back to the Hincks Ward house:

Originally the doors were to be fitted with clear glass louvres top and bottom, but so greedily did our grey metal walls soak up that vermillion red, cobalt blue, and free range egg yolk yellow, that we decided they could well handle more. And so it was off to the Bat phone to order powder-coated louvres:

They arrived in these neat little wooden crates ...

... which I'm about to up-cycle into herb boxes.

Fitting them has been one of the quickest, easiest and most amusing jobs so far.

And those colours make me happy every time I see them.

Yep, on the emotional roller-coaster that is house building, we're currently right up there at the very top - smiling, laughing, waving like idiots ...

Door Specs
Design: Phil Ward
Fabrication: Allstar Garage Doors and Gates, Noosaville (thanks Coz!)
Louvre frames: Breezeway
Painstaking fitting of louvres, frames and hardware: Yep, Phil again.
Colours: Dulux powder-coat in Signal Red, French Blue, and Yellow Gold

Salad Ware: Salad Days

2009-09-06T08:01:00.000+10:00

I love, love, love veggies; I feel sad for people who don't. I love eating them, of course, but I'm equally happy just looking at them. Hot pink radish hearts; voluptuous, glossy purple aubergines; sugar sweet, bite-sized cherry tomatoes; luscious, creamy-green avocados ... a decent farmer' market can send me reeling with sensory overload.

Such is my adoration for all things green and leafy that even pictures of veggies bliss me out. That'll be me standing in the produce merchants, dreamily contemplating the wall of seed packets. Better than a gallery if you ask me. And don't even start me on seed catalogues (especially one like greenharvest, with its page after sensuous page of organic, exotic, rare and heirloom gorgeousness).

Now as it happens, I'm also pretty partial to mid 20th century ceramics, and so there were barely suppressed squeals of delight on the day when, wandering through the Daylesford Markets, I eyeballed not one, but one dozen pieces of almost mint condition Salad Ware.
One glance at those deliciously quirky graphics and it was love at first sight. I'm particularly fond of those silly sprouts. Even the logo's cute:

Designed by a young Terence Conran for the Midwinter company in 1955, Salad Ware has become extremely collectable in recent years. Even when I stumbled across it - back in, oh, 2002 - I had a feeling I'd robbed the stallholder blind. But on checking some recent internet prices, well, let's just say my accountants are talking to Sotherby's about insurance.
Pity really, as it makes me afraid to eat off them. And life's far too short not to use the good china.

But back to edible veggies. Sorry, this post is just a thinly disguised excuse to show off my ridiculously verdant veggie patch:

Springtime in Eumundi - purdy and tasty. From top left: baby cos lettuce :: peas :: mixed asian greens :: mizuna :: Linda Woodrow's wonderful Permaculture Home Garden - my current bible :: beans :: weird black/green capsicum :: spring onions :: more Salad Ware :: more spring onions :: cherry tomatoes (world's most delicious weed).

Yeah, I've become a born-again veggie gardener. Kind of makes me wonder what I've been doing with my life; it sure seems to be one of the better ways to spend your time. So much to learn, so much to cook, so much to eat ...

On that note, I'm thinking this could be - excessive alliteration warning - the Summer of Seventy-Seven Salads. (Okay, so I only got up to five with Winter of 100 Soups, but there's always next winter.) Stay tuned ...

Hooked Rugs, La Deese, and the Joy of Orange

2009-07-22T15:12:00.000+10:00

Okay, hands up: Who thinks real men don't hook rugs? That many? Well I'm sorry, I beg to differ:

Way back in the 70s (colours rather give it away, don't they?) Phil was whiling away many a pleasant evening in the making of this beauty. I can see him now, sprawled across the living room floor, long blond hair a-flowing, hooking away to the stereophonic accompaniment of Led Zeppelin, or the Who, or Yes ...

It was, mind you, just a brief flirtation with yarn. A passing affair. It didn't mean anything. Metal is, and always will be, his medium, his mistress, his truly beloved. He remains captivated by her malleability, density, lustre. Enthralled by the joys of shaping, soldering, welding. Bewitched by the promise of alchemy. I'm surprised he didn't name one of his children Titanium, or Niobium, or Monel ...

So back to the rug. What is it exactly? Any guesses? Whenever I gaze upon it, it transforms into some gigantic abstract insect, wings humming for take-off. But no, that fiery ovoid is not some weird compound eye, but a headlight. Citroen DS, of course. See the reflections on the bonnet?

The design was taken from a photograph, which he enlarged and hand drew on to canvas using the old-school - but ever reliable - grid method. Having never hooked a rug myself, I made some enquiries about technique:
Me: "Must have been tedious cutting the wool into all those exact same lengths."
Him: "I made up a little tool."
Me: "Of course you did ..."

And so, all these years later, it hangs in our shed, patiently awaiting its place in the house.
I've become very fond of it. And in the evenings, bathed in the valencia orange glow of that fantastic plastic 70s lamp (Pomona markets - bargain), it .... well it just makes me happy - orange has that effect.

For more of Phil's amazing (non-woolly) body of work, visit philwarddesigndotcom.
For more about real men doing all things crafty, visit Paul at dudecraftdotcom.
For more about the goddess of Citroens, there are endless stunning images everywhere on the web. Go forth and google.

Vintage Teacup Ballet

2009-07-14T15:08:00.000+10:00

This is not Tea Cup Ballet. Tea Cup Ballet (1935), by talented Aussie gal Olive Cotton (1911-2003), is a work of art: a beautifully evocative, black and white photograph that transports domestic crockery to the misty landscape of dreams. I've always loved it.

Anyway, there I was last weekend, busily snapping pics of my vintage (C1960s) demitasse coffee cups (if we want to be pedantic). Not to pay homage to Olive - no, no. (I'm the first to admit to having zero technical nous: Those snazzy functions on my Canon G10 are wasted on someone who simply leaves it on auto, points, and shoots.) You see, having decided to Zen the shed a little, I was simply taking some shots to put on Ebay.

But then - as happens when you're concentrating on the object you're photographing, or drawing, or writing about - the more I observed, the more I began to re-appreciate (see that lovely drip of greenish blue on the rim, where the glaze has trickled down?) I thought of Tea Cup Ballet, and Olive, and how I share her love of domestica.
Observe, appreciate, observe, appreciate ...

"Hmmm," I thought, "Perhaps I won't sell them after all. I'll write about them, and go play around on Picnik, or Big Huge Labs or Picassa, and make a mosaic or two to post on eumundipapersdotcom. And when I'm tired of all that, I'll tuck them back in their matching 1960s Danish-style sideboard. And come summer, when we have guests over, I can serve dainty affogatos in them." Yes, there's a thought: Affogatos. Ooooooh, I wish it were summer already.

Notes:

Olive Cotton worked in the studio of the rather more famous (justifiably or not - you decide) Aussie shutterbug, Max Dupain (1911-1992), best known for his iconic image of The Sunbather (1937). Read the Wikis and check out the images - if you haven't already.
Affogatos are iced coffee for grownups. Place a scoop or two of best quality ice cream in your cutest cup, glass or small bowl. Serve with a tiny jug of excellent, and strong, black coffee. Simply pour the coffee onto the ice cream, and eat with a spoon. Best way to chill out and wake up simultaneously.

Winter of 100 Soups 4: Pea & Ham

2009-07-10T15:15:00.000+10:00

Yes, I know, it's been a long time between soups. And there's 96 more to go - eeek! Nevermind, we're safely back on track with this crowd-pleasing classic: Pea and Ham. Mmmm ... delicious, nutritious, and oh so comforting. Heartwarming childhood memories with every loving spoonful. It's also the easiest-peasiest (sorry) soup you could ever wish to make. Guaranteed.

There must be hundreds of versions of pea and ham soup out there, but to my mind, this really is a case of the simpler the better. All you need for 4-6 big bowls of steaming, homestyle goodness are:

Pea and Ham Soup
500g green (or yellow, but I really love green) split peas
2-3 bacon bones, or a chunky little hock (Please lobby your butcher for free-range pork.)
1-2 brown onions
a couple of bay leaves
water
Yep, that's it.

Step 1. Thoroughly wash peas in a flood of water, then wash again and again until the water runs clear.
Step 2. Dice onions, then toss in a heavy-based soup pot, with some olive oil, until soft. Add bacon bones/hock for the last minute or two - just long enough to release some rich, smoky flavour into the onions.
Step 3. Add washed and drained peas, plus a couple of bay leaves. Then cover with water and bring slowly, slowly to a simmer.
Step 4. Continue to gently simmer for at least 2 hours. Remember - this is the Zen of soup, so stay in the zone. Keep a tender eye on it. Stir from time to time to prevent sticking or - horror - burning. Should it get too dry, simply add more water and stir. The peas will gradually soften, and blend into a beautiful, eau-de-nil tinted, creamy broth.
Step 5. Remove bones/hock. With all that long, slow cooking, the meat should be falling off in succulent, tender pieces. Gently shred the meat and return to the soup.
Step 6. Serve with crusty bread, red wine, crocheted granny rugs, and a crackling fire.

Tips:

Nope, there's no need to soak peas overnight: Too much forward planning - a pain in the neck and a waste of time. Careful, attentive, long, slow cooking is all you need.
Some recipes substitute stock for water. "Pffffff," I say. This soup is stock, with peas added.
Carrots and/or celery are often included with the onion. Still too much effort for too little result in my book. Some garlic is rather nice though ...
Thyme goes well with the bay leaves if you have some.
Free-range pork: For the sake of your health - not to mention the happiness of the pigs (intelligent, affectionate creatures who deserve to run around in the fresh air and sunlight - just ask Hamlet) please, please lobby your butcher for free-range pork. It's out there - and your demand will increase supply. Read more here at Jamie Oliver - very enlightening. (Locals please note: Eumundi Meats now stocks local, free-range, nitrate free bacon - so please open those wallets and support them).
Okay, if you've read this far you must be waiting for:

The Swedish Twist
My mate Lizard (a woman with a slightly unhealthy infatuation for Ikea meatballs) brought me back a little folder of recipes from Sweden, amongst which I found an intriguing version of pea and ham soup:

Those fun-loving Swedes apparently add "a bottle of beer" with the water. But what size bottle, I ask? As I type, I'm experimenting with half a tallie of Coopers (South Australian husband - besides, it's good stuff).
Oh yes, and they prefer yellow peas. Makes sense, considering the flag
The recipe also suggests serving with mustard. Also makes sense, considering the ham - but how? A big, fat dollop floating in the middle?

Hang on - my neighbours are Swedish. I'll just duck next door and quiz them. In the meantime, any feedback from Swedes or others would be much appreciated.

Atherton Adventures: windfarms, waterfalls, and yes, more cows

2009-07-04T15:18:00.000+10:00

I'd seen wind farms before, but the sublime Windy Hill, some 3 km near Ravenshoe, made my heart sing. The landscape itself was enough to have me in raptures ("magically pastoral: rolling, emerald green hills dotted with fat, handsome cows", to quote myself), and those soaring, majestic spires, blades whispering in the wind, only seemed to enhance its breathtaking, natural beauty.

Yes, I did say "whispering". Considering some of the negative press about wind turbines and noise, I was surprised to hear little more than a gentle shooshing - even when standing smack bang beneath one. But then, the pleasure/pain factor of sound, like all the senses, is highly subjective. Some people (my mum was one) are kept tossing and turning by the sound of waves beaking on sand - to me it's the most soothing lullaby imaginable.

Meanwhile, back to the cows: There they all are, meandering up hill and down dale, contentedly chewing their juicy cuds, blissfully unaware what all the fuss is about. "Turbines? What - moooo - excuse me, turbines?"

Just in case I haven't made this perfectly clear, I'm rather keen on cows. There's nothing like a random sprinkling of bovines to add tranquility to a landscape. But it's the cheese that really wins me over ... and the yoghurt, of course. Not a day goes by that I don't give thanks to the great god of dairy that I'm not lactose intolerant.
Not surprisingly, all that verdant Atherton Tablelands pasture produces some top quality produce. It's a tough call, but my award for taste sensation of the trip goes to Mungalli Creek Biodynamic Dairy for their Davidson's Plum Yoghurt. (Note to self: return home and plant mini-forest of Davidson's - i.e. native - plums ASAP).

Here I am outside the Mungali Creek Out of the Whey (they said it, not me) Teahouse, looking every bit as contented as one of the herd. Well, that's because I've just polished off a rich and fruity slice of their ridiculously delicious ricotta cheesecake. They also do incredible things with quark. It's a wonderful place - just the cutest and most unpretentious farmhouse down the end of a long and winding road, where you can kick back on the verandah, soak up the expansive vistas of Mt Bartle Frere (Queensland's highest), and graze happily away.

And finally, a shot of my favourite waterfall (Australia's widest). Up on the Tablelands, there's a waterfall gushing forth round every bend, yet for me there was something special about this place. In the sharp, early morning light, with no other humans in sight, its raw, primordial beauty was extraordinarily powerful. How humbling, and strangely comforting to find, not 20 km from all that tamed, European-style countryside, a pristine slice of Gondwanaland.

Ravenshoe: Art Deco Cafe & the Perfect Pub

2009-06-28T15:22:00.000+10:00

At 6.00 p.m. on a particularly crisp evening in Ravenshoe, there was nothing for it but to snuggle down beside a crackling fire in the glorious Tully Falls Hotel, sip on a couple of Coronas, and patiently await what would be the most tender and succulent roast beef we've had the pleasure to meet.Let me tell you: Ravenshoe rocks! Actually, so does the whole darn Atherton Tablelands. The landscape is so magically pastoral: rolling, emerald green hills dotted with fat, handsome cows. And the waterfalls! Arriving, as we did, via the stark, minimalist savannah of Croydon, the sudden immersion into lush rainforest becomes something of a sensory overload.
But back to the pub. I love staying in country pubs. I'm happy to put up with wandering through a maze of creaky, ghost-ridden corridors at 3 a.m. to visit the loo. Why anyone would want to pay twice as much to stay in the joyless sterility of a motel room is beyond me. That said, you need to be a tad discerning. My criteria are as follows (yep, here comes a list):
1: Clean sheets on a bed that doesn't sag (Tip: inspect room first - they really won't mind).
2: A decent blast of scalding hot water from the shower.
3. A room that opens out to the verandah (usually par for the course - 100 years ago, pubs were designed intelligently).
4. Authenticity and charm.
Point 4 is, of course, highly subjective. There's a fine line between charm and, say, the hot water tap coming off in your hand just as you're about to rinse off the shampoo.
The Tully Falls Hotel, however, has undeniable charm - in bucket loads - and fabulous food. (Not only that, it's Queensland's Highest pub, apparently.)In fact, the only reason we didn't breakfast in its film-set-worthy, silky-oak lined dining room, is that we wanted to hot-foot it down to the Popular Cafe, with its: too-cute-for-words, original Art Deco interior, charming owners, scrumptious home-cooked brekkie and great coffee (how could it not be, coming from that stunning vintage espresso machine).Chrome-domed, eagle-adorned coffee machinery aside, the magnificent polished counter also boast its original soda siphons.Phil dreams up a new Tardis design whilst awaiting his bacon and eggs.Bye bye Ravenshoe. Thanks for a wonderful stay - we'll definitely be back!Stay tuned tomorrow for more Atherton Tablelands goodness.

On the Road: Croydon, Kangaroos and Car-eating Cows

2009-06-24T15:26:00.000+10:00

Howdy all! We're not long home after a work-related North Queensland road-trip-come-holiday: Eumundi to Croydon to Cairns and back. 4,500 km in one week.Yep, those figures have been verified. I realise it might seem like a nightmare to some of you, but Phil and I tend to get off on this sort of malarkey. And besides, it seemed much longer than a week. Time goes pleasantly pear-shaped once you side-step the Groundhog Day humdrum of 9 to 5. Every day brings its simple pleasures - and the occasional hairy moment. I mean, take a look at the size of those car-eating cows.

The inland road to Croydon, an old gold mining town way up in the Gulf (of Carpentaria), is not the scenic route. It's also not for those who don't understand:
1. The genteel etiquette of sharing a single-lane highway with road trains: Get off the f@$*ing road and out of their f@$^ing way before they flatten you and your car into a wafer-thin section of sheet metal.
2. The couple of hours post dawn, and the couple of hours around dusk, are a kangaroo's favourite time for playing chicken with oncoming traffic. And the last 300 km to Croydon may have the highest national average of roo delinquency. They're bloody everywhere.
3. This is not the gourmet trail. Truckstops are here to serve truckies, coalminers and roadworkers. Do not, repeat, do not attempt to order any form of espresso. Just politely ask for "a coffee, thanks", with or without milk. Head directly to your laminex table. Then quietly drink your mug of instant caffeine, with perhaps a side dish of toasted sandwiches (safe option) - or even a little crumbed or deep-fried item from the hotbox if you're feeling lucky. Exit promptly. You'll have at least another 200 km to the next stop - plenty of time to savour that lingering, grease-plus-dishwater aftertaste.

Despite all the piss-taking I love - in fact, need - to get out there from time to time. I love having life paired back to the bare essentials. I love the sense of space, the feeling of freedom, the far off horizons and the endless skies - which remained perfectly blue for the whole week. Actually, forget what I said about this not being the scenic route. Think National Gallery. Think Australian Impressionism. Think stark light, wispy blue gums and a rock-strewn landscape rising out of nowhere. About two hours from Croydon, you're smack bang in the middle of the canvas.

Just needs an Arthur Streeton signature in the bottom right hand corner. And an OTT gilt frame.
Check out map below for the road thus travelled. And stay tuned tomorrow for Croydon to Ravenshoe, featuring: Australia's highest pub, widest waterfall, one pretty-darned-cute Art Deco cafe, and some deeelicious Davidson's Plum biodynamic yoghurt.

View Larger Map

Winter of 100 Soups 3: Chilli and Red Lentil

2009-05-25T15:28:00.000+10:00

Long ago (sometime last winter), on a cold and dispiritingly drizzly Sunday drive to Maleny, we spotted this promising-sounding soup chalked up on the menu board of a local cafe.

In we went.

So perfectly did it hit the spot, and so startling were its mood-altering after-effects, that I was soon antsy to head home and rattle some pots and pans in an attempt to replicate its spicy, nourishing goodness.

And so below, without further ado, is my version of that memorable soup, which - may be I be so bold as to suggest - packs even more of a punch than the original.

Tomato, Chilli and Red Lentil Soup

350 gm or so of red lentils (no not brown, red)
large clove or two of garlic (as locally grown as possible - see Tips)
large brown onion
2 x 400g cans of peeled roma tomatoes
1-2 threateningly red birdseye chillis (don't wimp out)
seasonings: sea salt, freshly ground black pepper, and some Noosa Chilli or Tabasco sauce (see Tips)
trailer-load of fresh coriander
fried shallots (for garnish and crunch: indispensable)

Step 1: Place lentils in a sieve and wash and wash with lots of cold water. Then wash some more (they can be a tad dusty). Toss into saucepan and cover with an equal volume of cold water. Do not - repeat do not - add salt. Simmer, without a lid, until cooked to a sloppy, gruel-like consistency. Hang around: Be vigilant against burning and/or boiling over.

Step 2: Finely dice onion and garlic and fry gently in olive oil in a heavy based pot until soft and golden. Then stir through 1-2 finely chopped chillis. Be gutsy - this soup needs heat.

Step 3: Add tomatoes (pureed makes life easier), sea salt, freshly ground pepper, and, for a bit of extra heat-plus-flavour, a splash or two of Noosa Chilli or Tabasco Sauce. Let simmer for around 15 minutes on very low, with the lid on. Don't reduce too much, it just needs to cook through and develop a rich, tomatoey goodness.

Step 4: Add your cooked lentil gruel to your rich tomato sauce. You mightn't need to add it all: Go roughly 50-50, but err on the side of tomato. Lentils are pretty bland, but they add a satisfying body and texture. You do, however, need the colour and richness of the tomato to shine through.

Step 5: Taste and adjust seasonings. Then just before serving - just before, mind - stir through your trailer-load (okay, about a cup or so) of chopped coriander (finely chopped roots included). Ladle into bowls and garnish with a generous shovel of fried shallots and yet more coriander. What was that? You don't like coriander? Pffffff .....

Tips

Noosa Chilli X-Rated Oak-Aged Chilli Sauce is available at the Eumundi Markets, or online from their site. Tabasco's fine but this is seriously good.
Okay ... cough ... I'm ready to confess that I used to buy cheap, imported garlic. I mean, Aussie garlic is around $30 a kilo. Then, one fine day, I met a food auditor who had worked in China. We spoke at length about heavy metal (and I don't mean Led Zep) and dodgy certificates. $30 a kilo began to sound rather a bargain. It took, however, some painfully obvious marketing by the nice folks at Cooroy Fruit Bowl to talk me out of false economising forever. See that photo? There were three enormous cloves in this bag. Only $2.95. Less than a cup of coffee. Lasts 1-2 weeks, even with heavy-users like us. And the flavour is incredible.
Tomatoes: With food miles in mind, I'm tending towards Aussie canned tomatoes as well. I've got to hand it to the Italians though, they are way ahead with canned organic produce. And their labels have always been dead sexy: All those colour-saturated graphics of buxom, brunette peasant girls balancing vegie-laden baskets seductively on their hips. Come to think of it, if I were an Italian mamma, I'd have rows of glass jars of my own, plump, home-grown, home-preserved tomatoes. Now there's a thought ...

Winter of 100 Soups: Pumpkin (Versions 1&2)

2009-05-20T15:33:00.000+10:00

"This," I announced to Oliver, "will be the winter of 100 soups."

"Ummmmm ... Is winter long enough for 100 soups? Isn't that more than a soup a day?"

He's right of course, (unless you live in Scandinavia), but I was just being poetic. Besides, it's something to aspire to.

With the first chill breath of winter (ignore your travel agent, people: nights get cold in subtropical Queensland - very, very cold.) my thoughts turn to soup-making. A decent homemade soup, served at just the right moment, can cure flu, fatigue, crankiness, boredom, strained relationships, existential angst ...

And so, with a glut of organic pumpkins thanks to a hyperactively fertilizing pig, soup number one had to be: Pumpkin Soup (in 2 versions).

1. Pumpkin Coconut Curry Soup

Step 1: Chop pumpkin into large chunks. Massage with olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt, and roast in a hot oven until cooked through.

Step 2: In a heavy based pot gently fry 1-2 chopped brown onions until soft and golden. Then add your favourite curry spices (see Tips below). After stirring spices into the onion, sweat a minute or two (the onion, not you), then stir through a can of coconut milk.

Step 3: Pour all of this into a blender and give it a whizz. Now add roasted pumpkin a few chunks at at time and keep right on blending. (Naturally you can do all this in the pot if you have a fancy-pants Bamix-style mixer).

Step 4: Season with salt and white pepper (white seems to work better with curry). Warm through, stirring tenderly. Don't boil! This is the therapeutic bit, the Zen of soup, so go slow. Serve with crusty bread to tumultuous applause.

2. Pumpkin and Rosemary Soup (a more Mediterranean vibe)

Similar to above, just add copious amounts of fresh rosemary, smashed cloves of garlic (no need to peel) and chunks of onion all over the pumpkin pre-roasting. When all is cooked to a squidgy, caramelised goodness, blend with a litre of chicken stock (or milk/cream if you want a creamy soup). Heat through slowly and meditatively, as for all soups. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Serve with crusty bread. Feign modesty during standing ovation.

Tips

I use Jap or Kabucha pumpkin because: we grow them (how's that for low food miles?), they're delicious, and they're easy to peel.
Roasting the pumpkin rather than steaming makes all the difference.
Speaking of food miles, Australian olive oils have the best green grassy flavour, and these days cost the same as decent Italian ones.
Same with sea salt. Give Olsson's (Australian, family-owned) a go.
Generic curry powder works fine, as long as it's a quality blend - and you can always ramp it up with whatever you fancy. I love cumin - so I chuck in a tablespoon extra of that. I'm also partial to garam masala, so I chuck in some of that too. Experiment.
I'm a big fan of Ayam organic coconut milk. When you open the can it's like someone just macheteed open a fresh coconut. Some bronze-skinned, muscle-bound, Hugh Jackman-esque ... And I love the tin. And it's Oz-certified.
Extreme slow-fooders can make their own coconut milk, and/or their own stock. I'll stick with the Ayam milk, but I have made stock. I felt quite smug. And the flavour was unbelievable.

Soffits: Little Details, Big Results

2009-05-18T15:36:00.000+10:00

About six months ago, when it came time to do the soffits - the last hard yards on the road to making the house all snug and weather-proof - the roofers were nowhere to be seen. We phoned them. A lot. We tried cajoling, then pestering, and finally, some hardcore harassment. They stopped returning our calls. Can't say I really blame them. Obviously, they were well and truly over our Very High Roof and its sail-like vertiginous curves.

And so, yet again, it would all be up to Phil. Trouble was, how could one man, equipped with your standard pair of arms, attach unweildy sheets of iron upside down onto eaves whilst perched several metres above ground?

Undeterred, and with his usual air of quiet determination, he set his problem-solving nouse to devising a soffiting construction system of bit-sized, manageable sections.

At this point (of course) the usual delays set in: a big electronics project up in woop-woop, followed by - surprise, surprise - a few more mini-monsoons. But finally, last Monday morning, it all came together. The sun came out, scaffolding was hired and erected, and Phil set to work like the trooper he is.

I stood by helpfully - a combo of gopher, motivational coach and tea lady. And I believe there's also an opening for a masseuse: all that Michaelangelo-style, upside-down malarkey's pretty hard on the old back, neck and shoulders.

Aside from the (important) fact that we're now almost weather-proof, it's looking great. We're really glad we decided on using mini-orb - makes a great contrast beside the larger corrugations of the walls. Now all we need is one more week of sunshine to finish the whole thing off. One more week. Let's just check the weather report ... Monday: showers; Tuesday: increasing rain; Wednesday: heavy rain ...

Rosella Jam: Pretty 'n Pink

2009-04-21T15:39:00.000+10:00

On a top 10 list of puurdiest edible plants, rosellas would have to be right up there (possibly vying for pole position with aubergines): Lemon yellow blossoms fluttering from wiry crimson stalks studded with rows of ruby buds - very chic.

Best of all though, they're ridiculously tough ... and prolific - so much so they'd easily make my top ten list of delicious weeds (along with pumpkins ... and cherry tomatoes of course).

Then there's the jam. Rosellas make the best jam full stop. It's rich and tart and unlike anything you've ever tasted. And the colour is outrageous - a magenta pink-red that's pure Bollywood.

You rarely - if ever - see it in shops. Rosella jam is a dinky-di, backyard, homemade, nana-style preserve. Should you ever happen upon it at, say, a CWA cake stall - pounce. It's gold.

As jam making goes, rosellas can be quite labour intensive - but hey, that's part and parcel of the pleasure of homemade: Slow down. Sit outside. Pour yourself a cuppa, or a beer. Relax. Be in the moment.

That's how I spent my Saturday.

Pick a bowlful of buds. (secateurs recommended - they're tough little numbers). Grab a seat under a tree and start separating petals (they peel of quite neatly) from the cute green pods inside.

Now comes the clever bit (as in mumma nature being clever). The pectin comes pre-packaged in the pods. Place these (pods) in a saucepan, cover with water and bring to the boil. Simmer for around 40 minutes, or until the liquid becomes thick and gelatinous. Strain through a sieve or some muslin.

Place the petals in a heavy-based pot, add the strained pod liquid, and simmer for 20 minutes until the petals start to soften (you may need to add a little extra water to avoid burning - and keep stirring).

Now add sugar. At this point it gets a bit tricky. Usually any jam recipe pre-1980 uses way too much sugar - i.e. one cup of sugar for one cup of fruit. That said, rosellas are like rhubarb: They really need sugar to bring out the flavour, but ... you don't want to lose their unique tartness. In this batch, I used about 4 of sugar to 6 of fruit and it seemed about right. It really depends on your tastebuds, and the ripeness of the fruit.

Yes, that colour is for real. Do not adjust your monitor. Simmer for another 20 minutes or so. Careful not to overcook or the jam will lose its glorious technicolour brilliance. Test if ready by putting a spoonful on an icy cold saucer from the fridge. If it thickens and sets you're done.

Spoon into sterilised jars. Sit back and feel smug.

Wait - there's more:

Should this be the first you've heard of rosellas - or at least, the non-feathered variety - well, you're probably relieved to have discovered I'm not making parrot jam.

To learn more, just head on over to the folks at Green Harvest. Their on-line fruit and veg catalogue sure gets my pulse racing, and they post organic seeds, and other gardener's delights, to anywhere in Australia.

Granny Square Renaissance

2009-04-18T08:41:00.000+10:00

Look what I've made!

What's that you say? Liar, liar, bras on fire?

Okay, I'll 'fess up. I snapped it up for $5.50 at Vinnies. Yes, $5.50. Perhaps vintage crocheted Afghans (or granny square rugs, as they're fondly known) will be one of the last affordables for the budding collector.

I love it to bits, and not just for the hours of work that must have gone into it. For me, granny squares are nostalgia plus. They give me that warm and fuzzy feeling, inside and out.

I've had a love affair with handcrafts from the day mum sat me on her knee and showed me how to knit. Everyone made stuff at our place - brothers included - all sorts of stuff. And as a schoolgirl way back in the craft renaissance of the late 20th century, I was more than up for a bit of crochet. Granny squares are bewitchingly addictive little things. They're easy, quick, portable, and, like a kaleidoscope, morph themselves into endless variations of pattern and colour with every turn. There's something so soothingly mathematical about their construction (and this from someone who hates maths).

So I'm chuffed that in these heady, post-feminist days, when girls really can do anything, that the homely granny square has made yet another comeback. In craftblogland they're everywhere. Why, over at Meet Me at Mike's, the industrious Pip is hell-bent on churning out a granny a day. (She's also posted a helpful tutorial, should you be inspired to join the fun and games.)

However, when looking for vintage granny inspiration, I'd say there's no better place to start than Golden Hands: the complete knitting, dressmaking and needlecraft guide (c1972), where I found this quaintly-named Killarney Cloak. (Love the dog - evidently, in the 70s, nothing said Ireland like a setter.)

I feel compelled to get crocheting - but would I ever finish it? ... Would I ever wear it? ... Is it really funky, or just plain frumpy? Sometimes, with retro knitwear, it's a very fine line.

Homebake: Anzac Biscuits

2009-04-16T15:43:00.000+10:00

Over the Easter long weekend I decided to whip up some Anzac bikkies. Yeah, go figure.

Anyway, if I do say so myself, they were particularly scrumptious. Crispy and sticky and chewy all at the same time. What a biscuit. Makes you proud to be an Australian ... with or without the associated stories of heroism and mateship.

A plate of home-baked Anzacs is a definite crowd pleaser. Sometimes, in a fit of generosity, I make a batch for the students. The Swiss love 'em. I reckon it's because they're like portable Bircher Muesli. Chuck a few in the rucksack and you're all set for a brisk morning hike up the Matterhorn.

Without wishing to teach any grandmothers out there how to suck eggs (delightful expression), here's my adapted version of the recipe from:

The Australian Women's Weekly Original Cookbook (1970)

Mix together:

1 cup unbleached flour

1 cup sugar (I use less - about 3/4 cup)

1 cup rolled oats

3/4 cup dessicated coconut (I use more - about 1 cup)

In a saucepan, melt together:

125g butter

1 tablespoon golden syrup (I use more - about 2)

When melted, add I 1/2 teaspoons of bicarbonate of soda dissolved in 2 tablespoons of hot water. The butter and syrup mix will froth up in a satisfying kind of way. Pour into the dry ingredients. Mix together and roll into balls. If the mix is too dry, just add a bit more warm water. Place on buttered tray and flatten with a fork - a nice homely touch. (I have the best memories of my mum doing this).

Bake for about 20 minutes.

Fend off men and small children until cool.

If anyone has any Anzac tips, or alternative versions, I'd love to hear them!

Eames or Play School: Take Your Pick

2009-04-15T15:46:00.000+10:00

Drum Roll.......... At last - the moment we've all been waiting for! Okay, slight exagerration, the moment Phil and I have been waiting for. Yep, the doors have arrived. Well, not all of them - the vermillion red and cobalt blue are still at the powder coaters.

But there's the egg yolk yellow ones, peeking out. Uh huh, primary colours. Reactions so far have been mixed - from the positive:

Emerson: "Great idea. I've been thinking the place could do with some colour." (This from the man whose entire wardrobe is black, bless him).
To the tentative:

Liz: "So it's going to be a Play School house?" (Well no, Liz. Our influences were a bit more Scandi/Eames than Big Ted/Jemima. Although, having said that, there are going to be a couple of - ahem - round windows ...).

Everyone's two cents worth aside, we're feeling pretty darned happy about how they've turned out. Here's Phil doing an in-situ demo of those gorgeously chunky, bright yellow french doors, leading out to the studio. Look at him - that's one happy man. And so he should be - nice design work, hon.

And a big thank you and pats on the back all round to the blokes at Allstar Garage Doors and Gates, Noosaville for taking the job on. It took awhile, but you've done a cracking job with the welding and, in the end, they were well worth waiting for (and I guess we did say we weren't in a hurry).

Say bye for now Big Ted.

Pumpkin Delinquency

2009-04-12T15:47:00.000+10:00

I can't say I hadn't been warned about pumpkins. In The Permaculture Home Garden (my organic bible, never leaves my bedside) Linda Woodrow pulls no punches, exposing them as the recalcitrant, unruly and untrustworthy veggies that they are. They'll stick their tendrils in anywhere, and in this hothouse weather, can stage a clandestine coup of the garden while you're caught napping. As a result, we usually plant them well out of the way, down below Ham's pen, which has the added bonus of catching the run off from his copious production of top quality, err, fertilizer.

Then I read in some free gardening mag that you can simply prune the vines to size, thus neatly containing them in their own bed as an underplanting to, say, corn. Yeah right. In this jungle weather, you'd need to be out there every day, armed to the teeth with secateurs - machetes, even - bravely hacking away. I rest my case:

The neighbours are in there somewhere. Nicky! ... Patrick! ... Can you hear me? Are you okay?

And then, having finally plucked up enough mojo to teach a pugnacious plant some manners, you grimly approach with blade raised - only to find this chubby little beauty skulking beneath the leaves. In a flash, all is forgiven. You do a quick head count before retiring inside, out of the rain, to cosy up with some recipe books. Now let's see - pumpkin soup, pumpkin scones, pumpkin fruit cake ...

FYI: Pictured is a Japanese (affectionately known as "Jap") pumpkin or Kabocha. Everyone grows them up here - delicious and virtually indestructible.

And hey, what the heck, it's time for a gratuitous pig shot. Pumpkins are, after all, his all-time favourite vegetable. Well, next to watermelons ... and corn ...

And he can smell 'em a mile off.

Eumundi Grand Designs & All Things Bespoke

2009-04-07T15:49:00.000+10:00

It's about now that an imaginary Kevin McCloud turns to camera and looks very, very concerned:

"Bespoke* windows and doors are all very well in terms of aesthetics," he warns (in his inimitable, let's-get-serious-chaps delivery), "yet it's where I've seen so many projects flounder in terms of the inevitable, and more often than not, interminable delays they can cause to a building schedule."

"Not to mention the stress and strain this can add to an already overstretched relationship," he adds ruefully. As the camera moves in for a close-up of Kev's studiously furrowed brow, he confides, in conspiratorial tone: "And I fear Wendy and Phil may be no exception."

Yes, we appreciate your concern Uncle Kev but we're doing fine and dandy thanks.

Oh alright, I admit we do have the odd - cough - discussion about house progress, or lack thereof. Actually, we had one the other day. Here's how it goes:
Phil sits quietly and listens (or appears to listen), whilst I walk around in ever-decreasing circles, waving my hands and ranting. Then we have a nice cup of tea. Or one of us goes off to fetch beer and corn chips.

Seriously though, the reason why the house is taking years, rather than months to build can be boiled down to three factors:

1. Phil believes he is the only person in the world who can do the job properly (read perfectly) - and anyway, tradies never return your calls, let alone turn up.

2. Sadly, he's right.

3. A pesky distraction called "earning a living", usually in the form of huge electronics projects for museums and exhibitions (see philwarddesign.com).
Actually, add to that
4. The torrential, coming down in buckets, creek-bursting downpours that have been pelting the now ironically-named Sunshine Coast for - well, seemingly forever.
Oh my, what a surprise! It's raining now...

Having got all that off my chest, I must admit that there is some progress to report. In fact, most of the door and window frames have arrived, and even been installed. And here they are in all their beefy, industrial-proportioned glory:

Oh how neat and trim and almost finished it's looking. Be still my beating heart! I am soooo antsy to move in. Trouble is, there's no actual doors yet, just frames. Not to mention glass. And it rains every five minutes.
Sigh...

Although I'd have to say Kev, when it's all said and done, bespoke windows really are worth the "inevitable" delays - albeit 5 months and counting).

*Bespoke (adj.): made-to-order, custom made (originally applied to clothing).

Modern Primitive: Wickedly Good

2009-03-23T15:51:00.000+10:00

The question I always ask myself before escorting (some say frog-marching) visitors up the stairs to Modern Primitive is, "Have I talked it up too much?" Later, I find myself nervously holding my breath as they take their first bite of entree (e.g. spanner crab and gruyere thermidore on sourdough toast with harissa dressing). Eyes begin to widen in amazement and delight. And then the murmuring starts: "The flavours ... these flavours are incredible ..." Vindication. Yet again, this award-winning restaurant has lived up to its glowing reputation.

In the two years they've been open for business in Eumundi, owners Steve and Jo have left locals feeling rather smug that one of the best restaurants on the Sunshine Coast - make that Australia - can be found in their cosy little hinterland town. Okay, here is where I really start to talk it up:

1. Wickedly inventive menu. Take the rabbit, pistachio, bacon, marsala and cornichon terrine with goat curd and blueberry vinaigrette. A typical reaction on first reading is: "What the ...?" But the further you read, the more your imagination and taste buds awaken. You begin to drool. Thankfully someone had the foresight to laminate the cards.

2. First class produce: locally-sourced, homemade, and/or organic. Steve is as passionate as he is uncompromising. The man makes his own butter for heaven's sake. And his own bread, and ice cream ... If he doesn't have time to make it, it simply isn't on the menu.

3. Divine meals. There is some sort of alchemy happening out there in the kitchen - these dishes are far more than the sum of their parts. The other evening, we all fell for the duck. It was layer upon delicious layer of flavour, intensifying with each mouthful. A pomegranate vinaigrette had given a sticky sweet caramelisation to the crispy skin, below which the rich, perfectly cooked meat fell gently apart. Add the smoothness of creamy fetta, counterpointed by the crunch of cashews, shallots, and just the right amount of heat from the chilli and - hello taste bud heaven!

My fork dropped. Emboldened by a second glass of cab sav, I headed to the kitchen. "You're a genius," I announced. "No, I'm not ," Steve snorted, dismissing me with an airy wave of his knife. Meanwhile, back at the table, Phil was fielding a phone call: "I'm eating the best food in the universe. Go away!" (or words to that effect).

4. Blissful atmosphere. Out on the deck with the lights twinkling through the palms, the music tuned to chill, the summer rain falling softly on the roof, and under the spell of Jo's warm, relaxed, and yet perfectly attentive serice, you can't help but kick off your shoes and feel completely at home.

Steve, Jo - I have one thing to say to you. Never, never leave.

Modern Primitive:

Old Bakery Building, 101 Memorial Drive Eumundi. 5442 7946

Open for dinner Tuesday - Saturday from 6 pm. (lunch also possible - but phone ahead) BYO

Check out their uber-cool site but be warned, menu changes frequently due to availability of produce, and Steve's hyperactive imagination.
Postscript: Sadly, since the time of writing, Modern Primitive has closed its doors in Eumundi. But we're looking forward to eating more of Steve's amazing food - somewhere, sometime soon.
(And it was one helluva farewell party!)

Pining for Vinyl

2009-03-06T16:53:00.000+10:00

To the left is Phil's Beomaster 6000 - a now vintage Bang and Olufsen, circa 1982. Sadly, the turntable is broken. Actually, it's been broken for a couple years, and may remain so for some time yet. Inspector Gadget has only so many hours in the day after all. Believe me, I'd clone him tomorrow if I could.
In the meantime though, I'm left pining for vinyl, and have been since the 19th of June 2007, when I scribbled the following entry in my diary:

In Lismore there's a cool record shop selling only vinyl, everything lovingly cleaned and in plastic sleeves, that makes you want to buy up all your old music again and listen to it slowly, on a turntable, and to hear it the way it's supposed to sound.
We were taking the long way home after a holidayette (read weekend) at Girraween Environmental Lodge. God that was a cold winter. It had been cold enough on the Sunshine Coast, and yet we'd decided to up the ante and spend a couple of days in the Granite Belt. But it was all part of a cunning, mini-hibernation plan: a cosy cabin, a crackling wood fire and a plump sofa; nothing outside but trees, a particularly bitey wind, and the odd wallaby; and best of all, no decisions required - at least, none more taxing than which cheese to eat with which local wine ... and which video to watch.

And there, waiting at the bottom of the thoughtfully provided basket of of DVDs, was Almost Famous, Cameron Crowe's autobiographical masterpiece for the children of seventies - or indeed (to quote groupie Sapphire) for "anyone who has ever loved a band, or some silly little piece of music, so much that it hurts". A film I'd foolishly overlooked until just this moment, it was about to join my top ten of all time.

Favourite scene number one (for me and just about everyone else, it seems): As William's sister Anita leaves home, she turns to whisper in his ear, "Look under the bed ... It will set you free. Listen to Tommy with a candle burning and you'll see your entire future." Cut to Anita's room, where a wide-eyed William uncovers her box of cherished albums, and slowly, one by one, flips through those magical, heartbreakingly familiar covers. Waves of nostalgia wash over me. I recognise that look of revelation and wonder in his eyes. For William, a portal has been opened on another, far better and more wondrous world.

Suddenly, quite suddenly, I want all my old records back.

The next day, on the long road home, I see the cool music shop.

Lismore, of course, is far from the only place selling vinyl. These days it seems almost every market stall and second-hand shop reserves a spot for records - often thoroughly dusted and catalogued, as opposed to cobwebbed and tossed in a pile. Despite its anticipated demise in the early 90s, the big black disc has hung on bravely, thanks mainly to all those audiophiles, rappers and DJs who wouldn't settle for anything less. And now, of course, there's the nostalgia factor, the collectability factor, and, for those poor deprived children of the digital generation, the romance of discovering a by-gone era.

For me though, it comes down to the Zen factor. It's why, despite my fondness for internet radio (no voices - lovely), and the joy of compiling quirky party playlists on I-tunes, I yearn for those familiar, almost forgotten rituals: the kneeling before the altar/turntable; the gazing at the beauty of the artwork; the reading of the liner notes; the gentle placing of the needle on the groove, and finally, the sinking down into deep pillows of aural bliss ...

Home.

Kathy & Hamlet: The Poet & Her Muse

2009-02-21T09:56:00.000+10:00

Pictured left is a poet, holding her muse.

Our friend Kathy is a woman of many talents, not the least of which is her laser wit and wicked, typically British sense of humour. For me, however, her true genius lies in her ability to pen the most extraordinarily lyrical poems. I don't know much about poetry ... as they say, but after reading Kathy's words, I often feel the need to sit oh-so-still for awhile, and let the sounds and imagery wash gently over me, before finally sinking in.

Sadly though - and like too many artists out there - her talent is in inverse proportion to her humility, so you won't find her work on bookshelves, or in the literary supplement of the papers. And yet, thanks to the goading of her IT-boffin partner Josh, she does have a blog: The Mouse's Tale. (See also under sidebar in "blogs I follow")

I give it a five snout rating* - for quality, if not quantity.

Do take a peek sometime, and leave a comment if moved to do so. Who knows, it may embolden her to write more, and then we'll all be happy.

And her muse? Well, it started with a suggestion tossed casually onto her Facebook page. Without hesitation, like the doughty Brit that she is, she took the pig by the tusks and dashed off the most touching poem, that somehow, with an almost breathtaking economy of language, summed up the one-of-a-kind relationship between a certain pig, his owners, and the little piece of rainforest they've come to call home.

And here it is, by kind permission of the author:

The Present
We travelled a long way to find you
From the tropics to the gentler climes.
So small you were! A stuffed toy
Jumping off the shelf in your urge to be noticed
And that snout
Never still.
We brought you squealing
To your new home
Where you lay in lushness
Stunned out of existential horrors
Into a deep trough of luxury -
A pig in mud!
Things changed around you
Shadows on a house
Lengthened, trees crept upwards
Downwards, the hill fell into a creek bed.
And your shadow lengthened
Knee-high the chickens
We scurried with our plans
Which you kindly kept an eye on
You exist
And your absence would be
A creek draining
The trees falling
A lack in the lushness.
Unthinkable. You grew with all the growth
Our plans became paradise...
"Oh yes, and Hamlet, of course."

Beautiful. As I said to Kathy, I've been busy memorising poignant couplets to recite to him. It may have a calming effect during those not infrequent, attention-getting tantrums.

And for those who know only his portliness, and doubt that he once was "a stuffed toy jumping off the shelf ", I give you:

(*And a final thanks to K for the concept of snout ratings. Graphics currently being workshopped.)

Eumundi Markets: Add Some Yum to Your Saturday

2009-02-16T10:01:00.000+10:00

Croissants - the essential ingredient for a relaxing Saturday breakfast. And fresh from the oven of Didier Richeux, our trusty Eumundi patissier, they're simply scrumptious. So scrumptious, in fact, that it's even worth braving Saturday market rush hour to grab some.So what makes a good croissant? I would say a perfectly crisp, flakey and golden brown outside, and a pillowy, buttery, pull-apart heaven on the inside. This miraculous pastry manages to be light, yet substantial. It takes the French. And that, of course, is just the plain variety. Then there's the divinely rich almond, filled to bursting with the ambrosia that is marzipan, and thickly dusted with icing sugar and almond flakes. And lastly, what I like to call "Phil's downfall" - the pain au chocolat, laced with layers of wickedly bitter chocolate.
Should you feel a slight pang of guilt as you walk away with your bag of not-entirely-health-conscious indulgence, consider the golden rule (no doubt invented by the French), i.e. it's quality, not quantity, that counts. Generally speaking, the French are a slender, healthy people - despite their apparent fondness for dairy products and goose fat. Of course, the fact that they invented the concept of joie-de-vivre - a quality in which Didier himself is not lacking - may also help to explain their relatively low incidence of heart disease.Didier has been proudly selling his fine produce at Yum, his premises in Eumundi, for the past five years. Tourist trade aside, he has a loyal local clientele who regularly drop by - not just for the food, but also for the jokes (not great), the rambling anecdotes, and a dose of Didier's homespun philosophy.
As for his CV as patissier/glacier/chocolatier (as the trade is respectfully known in France), let's just say it's impressive, and includes some very prestigious establishments and clients. Sadly, I've been forbidden to name drop (and they say the French are arrogant). Didier is, however, more than happy to reveal that he once ran his own pastry cooking school in Uzés, near Nîmes. And he's justly proud of the numerous awards he's won for his delicious ice cream - his true passion. It's full of real fruit, and is truly made fresh on the premises. On a hot Eumundi afternoon, a cone of Didier's creamy frozen confection (passionfruit highly recommneded) is the perfect antidote to the summertime blues.And now to the final stages of the perfect Saturday breakfast (or Sunday, if you have enough willpower to wait till then). Place your croissants, still in their bag, in a very low oven to keep warm. Make a decently strong pot of coffee. Pour into small, deep bowls with a generous quantity of hot milk. Now take a croissant, pull gently apart and then "one, two, three dunk!" Then devour. Repeat. No it's far from bad manners. It's French - no, make that Eumundi/French - style. Life is short. Enjoy! Bon appetit!
Didier can be found at Eumundi Markets every Wednesday and Saturday, (find him on Memorial Drive, just up from the servo), and is more than happy to discuss pastry, ice cream, the meaning of life, or anything else of interest.[This article originally appeared in Greaternoosa Living magazine, January issue. Words and photos by me. Thanks to Corina Best for the snappy title!]

Objects of Creation

2009-02-02T10:31:00.000+10:00

February in the sub-tropics, and the sane amongst us are well and truly over humidity and surprise downpours, and already looking forward to those perfect, 23 degree-ish, blue sky days of autumn.

There are, however, many reasons to be cheerful. For a start, it's not Adelaide, where it's been 42 in the shade for the past couple of weeks. Some people have been keeping themselves amused by cooking eggs on various unplugged metal surfaces. Others are simply keeling over.

So no, it ain't that bad up here. And those sudden bursts of pelting rain every half hour or so really do cool things off a treat.

Another reason to be cheerful (wasn't that an Ian Dury song from the 80s?*) is the garden. The plants are deliriously happy about the sauna-like conditions, and growing like nobody's business. All the gingers and heliconias are bursting into a riot of colour, and you actually can watch the grass grow (okay, that's a negative). Just look at the photo left, and below - instant rainforest. Well, more like five years - but impressive nonetheless.

Such bizarre plants these, with those weird, alien shapes and rubbery textures ... but the best part is you just pop 'em in the dirt and stand back.

Another great thing about all this mad profusion of vegetation is the fun of tucking whimsical pieces of scrap amongst the undergrowth. Tip a junked outboard motor on its side and presto - alien praying mantis. Nice one Phil. And you can never have enough lengths of rusty concrete reinforcing - add wok for bird feeder, use as climbing frame for dragon fruit etc etc ...

In its youth, the barbie was a forge ... and the fish pond simply an old concrete planter that used to be white, but so much more attractive after a few lashings of Porter's Instant Rust. The bird bath (below) is the top off an old boiler found in a Ballarat scrapyard. Oh yes, and then there's the weathervane ...

Yep, it's a sperm - a hand-beaten, hollow form, patinated copper sperm. Phil made it some 14 years ago, when he had a house and studio in trendy downtown Unley (S.A.). Not long after installing it, he had a visit from the director of the neighbouring beauty therapy college:

"We've been having a discussion about that thing on the roof," she said, "Is it what we think it is?"

Phil: "It's an object of creation"

"Okay, that's what we thought it was."

And now, many years later, it swings proudly above the palm trees in Eumundi. It is rather cute, although as a piece of meteorological equipment it's next to useless, spending most of its time spinning aimlessly.

"Typical sperm," says Phil.

[*1979 - Reasons to be Cheerful: Part 3. Let's have a listen, shall we?]

Moleskines & Penguins: Paper Pleasures

2009-01-12T17:37:00.000+10:00

Look through the window! There, in Berkelouw's - Moleskines, the most sensual notebooks in the world, a whole rack of them. I might just pop inside for a few minutes, and admire them up close. Run my fingers over their soft, supple spines ... Actually, I might pick up some more of the pocket-sized ones. I'm sure I need another pack ...

There are a lot of people out there with a (some might say obsessive) thing for stationery - who revel in the sensory delights of a freshly sharpened HB pencil, and the crisp, virginal smell of pristine paper. And I'm proud to be one of them. Moleskines, however, take stationery luurv to a whole new level. For their many adoring fans, these are the Audrey Hepburn of notebooks - timeless, chic, paired-down elegance.

I first formed an emotional attachment to Moleskines a few years back, after spotting them in a shop in Brisbane, and later spent some considerable energy on their behalf, canvassing for a spot in local bookstores. But alas, in those dark pre-Berkelouw days, I could find no-one willing to give them a gig. (Apart from Georgia in Cooroy that is. I miss Georgia, and her dark sense of humour, and the fat labrador you had to trip over on your way to the non-fiction section ...). Now, thankfully, the Berkelouw brothers have brought us Moleskines on our very doorsteps, not to mention Penguins.

Should you dream of living the life of the writers of those famous cream and orange paperbacks - that is, the sitting in a dimly lit corner drinking coffee staring out the window pensively whilst languidly scrawling in a notebook lifestyle - then Moleskines really are for you. As a quick visit to the moleskinsaholics site will reveal, they've long been the companion of choice for writers from Hemingway to Chatwin. Berkelouw's will happily provide the coffee, and the table in the philosophy section up the back has a sufficiently bohemian ambience.

Is it ironic - hypocritical, even - to write a love lettter to paper and pen on a blog, all the while tapping at the bright, shiny interface of a MacBook Pro? I think not. I'm comfy with being a part-time Luddite - technologically savvy when it suits me, complete ignoramus when it doesn't. And at the end of the day, I feel warm and cosy inside to think of the human race evolving, inventing, discovering brave new creative worlds in cyber space, but without yet losing our love of the earthy, tactile pleasures of paper, pencil and ink - and the sound of one hand scribbling.

'Allo, 'Allo Tearooms, Flaxton: Such Tempting Tarts

2009-01-05T10:45:00.000+10:00

What sort of self-respecting Frenchman would call his establishment the 'Allo, 'Allo Tearooms? Well, I'm here to tell you - Thierry would.

As the owner of an ever-expanding business empire set amidst a picturesque property at Flaxton, Thierry is a man astute enough to spot a decent-sized niche in the market. First there was the restaurant (Le Relais Bressan, reviewed here), to which he soon added a clasic car showroom, then a gift shop, then a garden centre (Le Jardin), then a B&B, and now - the 'Allo 'Allo tearooms. One would hope his tongue was planted very firmly in cheek.

For babes too young to remember, the original 'Allo, 'Allo was a hit British comedy series centred around Rene, a hapless cafe owner in occupied France. Unashamedly kitsch, this show had it all: berets, accordians, fake moustaches, bumbling Nazis, equally incompetent Resistance fighters, double entendres, dodgy jokes, and dodgy-beyond-belief accents.

So yes, an 'Allo, 'Allo tearooms run by a Frenchman does sound something of a dodgy joke itself. Thierry, however, has redeemed himself. He has once again pulled it off. And why? Because the food is simply sensational. Just ask Rene - he's eaten there:

At the Flaxton tearooms, all the action centres around a bulging glass showcase, set centre stage, and filled with the most outrageously tempting display of tarts you're likely to see outside France. Stand back, I'm about to let fly with a few double entendres myself: these decadent, voluptuous tarts are so devilishly fruity, so silky smooth, so luscious, so delectable. Just look at them - how could you ever hope to resist anything so brazen, so wicked?

Look at those cheeky, gravity-defying meringues! And those sticky, saucy fig tarts! I soon polished off one of those - after being momentarily annoyed that there was no blood orange slice, which is what I had last time. Blood oranges, Thierry patiently explained, were not in season. Thierry only uses what is fresh and in season. He has standards.

Here's Thierry's son (sorry about the blurry shot - but he's so sweet it had to go in). He's making me a perfect espresso. Yes, perfect. (And to those so-called baristas who persist in serving up cups of lukewarm, coffee-tinged milk - get thee to Flaxton, and take a few tips from someone half your age. Sorry, I really needed to get that off my chest.)

And so, fully satisfied and smiling, we dashed outside into the blustering wind and rain, bundled into the 2CV, and headed back down the range to Eumundi. A bientot, Thierry! We'll see you sooner that later - the Deux Cheveaux drives to your place on autopilot.

Now if Phil could only get that Tardis going, we could get there even quicker.

'Allo, 'Allo Tearooms: 344 Flaxton Drive Flaxton - 54457157.

Closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays (and through September, when the family head off to France for some well-deserved R&R).

Berkelouw's Cafe: Quality Time with Nana

2009-01-02T10:57:00.000+10:00

Sunday, 4.30 pm: an unusually deserted Berkelouw's Cafe. A man sits quietly, attention keenly focussed on his Nana.

Nana slice, that is.

The cake cabinet at Berkelouw's is always rich with promise for cake connoisseurs such as Phil. On any given day, a man can be tempted by baked treats bursting with the yummy goodness of apple, fig, chocolate, pistachios. But the one he turns to again and again is the humble, yet reliably delicious Nana.

The Nana is a buttery (and generously proportioned) shortcrust pastry slice layered with coconut and a rich berry jam. And she goes down very well with a flat white, or short black, or any of the other great cups of coffee served at this much loved addition to Eumundi's cafe culture. Here's a close-up of Nana's charms:

Look at the crema on that coffee. That's enough to tell me it's a decent cup. Of course, recommending coffee is like recommending cafes in general - it's all highly subjective. And even in the best of places, it can depend on who's behind the wheel of the milk frother. Berkelouw's, though, has yet to let me down. Most importantly (and like the bookstore) it's actually there to serve the locals, so that any day of the week, early or late, we have a place to call our own.

Which brings me to the other morning, when there was nothing in the fridge for brekkie. By the time I'd burned rubber to the cafe (7.30 am) the heady scent of freshly-baked berry muffins was wafting through the french windows. They were huge - and melted very satisfyingly in the mouth as I high-tailed it off to work.

On less panicked occasions, I've also enjoyed a couple of scrumptious sit-down breakfasts of eggs, and crunchy ciabatta, and succulent field mushies. As always, it's about respect for top quality produce - and a whole lotta love in the preparation.

Berkelouw's Bookstore and Cafe

Open 7 days a week: 8-5.00
Postscript: The cafe has changed ownership since the time of this review.

... And a little bit of Provence in Pomona

2008-12-24T17:01:00.031+10:00

Postscript: Since the time of writing, Maison de Provence have relocated to Cooroy. The location may be different, but the quality is still first class - and the ambiance even more chic (if that's possible!)

Phil's the real sweet tooth at our place, and as a registered chocoholic, finds it testing to walk past a good bakery. Which leads us to Pomona, just twenty minutes north of Eumundi, where you'll find Maison de Provence, and a pastry chef who really knows his shortcrust from his filo.

It's only a couple of years since Eric and Francoise set up their French tea room/homeware shop, transforming an old drapery into - well, a little bit of Provence in Pomona. The place is as charming as Eric and Francoise themselves, full of warmth, joie-de-vivre and style. There's a choice of nooks and crannies with comfy sofas, stools overlooking the street and a leafy, sun-filled courtyard out the back. Whichever you choose, everywhere is infused with light and greenery and fresh air, and the feeling that you need be in no great hurry to be anywhere else. But I do like the window seat, where you can enjoy being, for the time it takes to drink your latte, a part of the quirky, miniaturised Art Deco streetscape that is Pomona's high street - or rather, Memorial Drive.

And now we need to talk about the mille feuille - no, today we're not going to call it a vanilla slice because it's a real mille feuille, a "thousand leaves" of pastry perfection. Eric's is simply the best I've tasted. It's light and luscious and creamy textured ... and with a mysterious hint of something deliciously toffee-like to the custard. I think we'd best head off to Pomona again, and get to the bottom of it.

And if that's not enough reason for a drive to Pomona (it is), there's the petits fours (see those chocolate ones - that's real, decently bitter chocolate), the brioche (I didn't take some home for breakfast and lived to regret it), the great coffee, the elegant service and the almost impossibly delightful owners.

Postscript: Since the time of writing, Maison de Provence have closed their Pomona doors - oh no! But have since reopened in Cooroy - Yay!
~~Maison de Provence~~

~~2 Memorial Drive Pomona.~~

~~Tuesday to Friday 8.30-5~~

~~Saturday 8.30-3.30~~

Closed Sundays. Francoise has recently had triplets. Yes, triplets.

They deserve a break.

Noosa Beach Classic: The Hill

2008-11-21T17:22:00.021+10:00

The Noosa Beach Classic Hill Climb: the perfect day out for both nature lover and revhead ...

Most days I pose as an environmentalist of sorts - I do stuff like keep chooks, say "no" to plastic bags, and plant a hell of a lot of trees. That said, I'm not averse to roaring engines, or the squeal of tyres on tarmac as someone takes a corner a tad too fast. I'm glad Oliver talked me into going. As he says, it's different (i.e. better) to most race meetings in that:

1. You're not sitting in the scorching sun

2. You're not even sitting (unless you so choose) - you're walking up a hill and through the bush, getting some decent exercise whilst inhaling the heady mix of eucalyptus and racing fuel.

3. There's decent food. This is Noosa - I'm talking Merlo coffee and gelato.

4. It's not too crowded - plenty of room to spread out and find your perfect vantage point.

There was a fabulous lineup of cars - Austin Healey, Ferrari, Lotus ... and of course, the 1955 Citroen Light 15 driven by our favourite semi-retired hoons, Lance and Alec. The weather was hot, with just enough cloud cover to take the edge off. Dads and grand-dads were there with the kids. Someone had a close shave with the edge of a cliff. A great day - next year we might go again, with a picnic basket, blankie and the papers.

The photo above is crap, and proof that it's time to upgrade the camera to one with a faster shutter speed than the time it takes to make a cup of tea, but hopefully it gives the general idea of trees, hills, tight corners and classic cars. Besides, there's more than enough high quality action shots at the Noosa Beach Classic site. I did, however, take some reasonable pics of what was, for me, the day's most desirable car - this stunning, sky blue Aston Martin. Sure, the number plate's a bit of a w.... but I wouldn't mind slipping on a Bond girl outfit and sliding behind the wheel.

Deux Chevaux Invasion at Le Relais Bressan

2008-11-09T17:46:00.032+10:00

Life's so action-packed recently there's barely been time to post about it. Take last weekend, when we celebrated the 60th anniversary of the Deux Chevaux with a run to our favourite French restaurant - Le Relais Bressan at Flaxton, on the Blackall Range. It's a place that's permanently on the Valentine's Day shortlist (or any other time we're in the mood for romance and escargot). This time, however, we were sharing Thierry and his fabulous food with some forty other Citroen-heads.

Phil and I have such a long history with Citroens (his much longer than mine, having fallen for a toy DS at the tender age of nine) that it's impossible to imagine our lives without them. A 2CV run is nothing new, but I have to say we were impressed by the turn out:

Phil had spent the past couple of weeks fitting comfy new seats (fresh from Paris), tyres and muffler, followed by copious washing, polishing and evicting of spiders. The little car hadn't looked this good in years. And the weather was perfect.

Above centre is just some of Thierry's amusing chook - or rather poule - collection, of which the (cough) giant rooster in the drive is the piece de resistance. Somehow he gets away with stuff like this, possibly because everything - from the chickens to the fleur-de-lys curtains to the copper pots on the walls, are all a part of who he is, and not some gratuitous pastiche of Frenchness.

So what did we eat? Well ... a delicious camembert tart for entree; followed by fish (I love the tradition of placing bowls of steamed vegies in the centre of the table, for everyone to share); and finally, poached pear with homemade, real vanilla ice cream and a sensational dark chocolate sauce. And excellent coffee.

Thierry has yet to disappoint. He serves traditional French food made with quality ingredients and attention to detail. He is a charming host. He has a great wine list - including some very well priced French wines (you can also BYO). He expects people to relax over their meal. There are fresh roses on every table. I'll stop now. Okay, except to say that all this will set you back $27.50 per person for the set menu meal listed above. No, this is not a joke. And if you prefer more choice, you can choose to dine a la carte.

Le Relais Bresson a truly fabulous destination for Sunday lunch. (But you really, really need to book!)

A Little Bit of Prahran in Cooran

2008-10-31T17:59:00.023+10:00

The Black Madonna Art Lounge is like a little piece of Prahran (or Brunswick, or St Kilda) dropped gently down into the green rolling hills of Cooran. It's original and funky and makes you feel right at home - just like the owner. And yes, her name is Madonna, but she's more of a redhead.

Last Sunday morning when we all rolled in, she was grooving around her espresso machine to My Cherie Amour (she'd been to see Stevie Wonder the night before, and was still in the zone). Madonna's gallery may be cosily proportioned but it's packed with energy and attitude and a riot of colourful 20th century collectables, set to a 60s vinyl soundtrack. Once we'd played with everything, and posed in all the retro armchairs, we settled around the big laminex table on the back verandah to celebrate Ellen's significant birthday.

Madonna served us coffee and heart-shaped chocolate petit-fours, served with berries and fresh cream (possibly from the cows in the paddock downstairs - at least, I like to think so). Part of the fun is waiting to see what your cup and saucer will look like. Red and white polka dots anyone? Wedgewood blue? 1950s green glass? Somehow it makes the coffee taste better. The sun shone and everyone was in a fine mood, and Ellen opened presents and Dawny and I annoyed everyone near us by singing along to Stevie. What a fine way to spend a Sunday.

The Black Madonna Art Lounge and Workshop can be found in an old timber mill at 30 King Street Cooran. Madonna opens the doors and turns on the coffee machine Thursday to Sunday: 10am to 3pm. She also holds workshops and special events.

Her place is not hard to find - this town is so small there isn't even a pub. No, I'm not kidding. There is, however, an excellent second-hand barn, where Loani bought a handful of retro knitting needles to add to her collection.
Cooran is some 30km north of Eumundi, and if you head west to Kenilworth, makes for a great round trip. And you can lunch at the pub, which is what we did, but that's a story for another day.

Postscript:
Since this article was posted, Madonna's gallery has sadly closed. No doubt she's off somewhere creating something wonderful. As soon as I find out, you'll be first to know!

Rooms with views

2008-09-12T10:59:00.028+10:00

Yawn ... The novelty is wearing off walls. Worn off as far as Phil's concerned. That said, they're pretty much finished, apart from a couple of front sheets on the studio, and a few more screws here and there. We're now awaiting the return of the elusive roofer to finish the soffits. (Yes, roofer - my foot was stamped firmly down at the thought of Phil hanging by his ankles with a drill.)

Above: street view of east wall. Phil's yet to cut out the round window on the second level, above the front door. Sigh... I can't wait to fall asleep gazing at the stars.

Above: Roadside view of - well, as much as possible. When people insist on planting so many trees around the house it's hard getting a decent photo. (And good grief, will you look at those weeds. Stand up whoever's responsible.) Still, it does give some idea of the wing-like effect of the roof.

And finally: View of the rainforest from the bath (that squarish hole in the floor). Yes, it is a small bath. It's Japanese - small yet deep, so all the better for soaking in. But will it fit a long-legged Aussie man, you ask? Good question - we'd best pop down to the showroom and put him in for a try out, shall we? (Fully clothed, of course.)

Knock, knock ... Oh, do come in!

2008-08-12T17:53:00.023+10:00

Yes, it's a front door. At this stage, however, it has all the integrity of a Hollywood film set: it's hanging by a clamp. Do I care? No. Every day after work, I drive in to something closely resembling a home. The novelty has yet to wear off.

Above: Inside house, looking north-east. And look, there's Phil, drilling something. Now try to imagine (as I do almost daily) a row of beautiful bi-fold french doors, with louvres.

And the latest pic, hot from the camera: The Dream Team, poised fearlessly on their scaffolding,
as they attack the challenging western face with a vengeance.
Not a bad day's work, wouldn't you agree?

The Dream Team

2008-08-03T19:58:00.015+10:00

Phil and Darryl: I like to call them The Dream Team ...

Like a pair of young blokes half their age ...

They sheet up walls like there's no tomorrow...

I'm almost speechless ...

I said "almost".

Power of Two

2008-07-21T23:49:00.000+10:00

Went to work this morning and came home to a back wall - well almost. In an exemplary display of team-work, Phil and Darryl* had been drilling up a storm. You truly are a dazzler, Darryl.

At this rate, lock up by Christmas may just be doable. I can feel the excitement mounting - yet again. Oh the roller coaster of emotions for we foolhardy souls who choose to build our own home.

By the way, the keen-eyed may have noticed a darker grey section of wall to the left of the ladder. Yes, it's all part of the plan, the back wall of the house is two tone.

And there are windows yet to be cut out with Phil's nifty new "nibbler".

(*For those who know him, I should clarify that this is not Darryl the Wonder Accountant. Although his services are equally estimable - particularly at this time of year)

Teamwork - the power of two

2008-07-21T17:12:00.019+10:00

Went to work this morning and came home to a back wall - well almost. In an exemplary display of team-work, Phil and Darryl* had been drilling up a storm. You truly are a dazzler, Darryl.

At this rate, lock up by Christmas may just be doable. I can feel the excitement mounting - yet again. Oh the roller coaster of emotions for we foolhardy souls who choose to build our own home.

By the way, the keen-eyed may have noticed a darker grey section of wall to the left of the ladder. Yes, it's all part of the plan, the back wall of the house is two tone.

And there are windows yet to be cut out with Phil's nifty new "nibbler".

(*For those who know him, I should clarify that this is not Darryl the Wonder Accountant. Although his services are equally estimable - particularly at this time of year)

Walls - it's all happening!

2008-05-04T13:21:00.013+10:00

Fresh back from our road trip, Phil found himself snowed under with electronics projects. Seemingly, there would be no time for house building.

Enter Nagging Wife, stage left.

And soon he was out there like the trooper he is, cutting and drilling colourbond sheeting.

Our current plan is to wall up the studio, and then move into there whilst the house is being completed. Well, the bed at least - I can't wait to wake up to that glorious view.

Now let's see, what shall I pack?

Above: The Perfectionist checks his levels just one more time...

Above: Looking might pleased with himself.

Above: And so he should be!

The observant amongst you will have noted that we now have gutters. Unfortunately, they're not yet connected. But hey, I've had more than enough excitement for the time being.

Ode to Adelaide Markets

2008-04-06T16:04:00.024+10:00

Oh Adelaide Central Markets, how I love thee ...

Saturday morning. The buzz of people, the heady smell of brewing coffee and freshly baked bread, the visual feast of all that beautiful produce. Aisles and aisles.

Better than a gallery. And you can eat the installations.

Neatly stacked salami (including the notorious "firestarter") ... Windows of preserved fruits ...

Ridiculously curvaceous apple pies ... Phil taste tests UAS (Unidentified Asian snack) and subsequently wishes he'd gone for the pie) ...

Mushies ... Miles of olives ...

Bread and cheese to die for ...

Three reasons why we visit Adelaide: family, friends ... and food!

Wendy

Great. Meanwhile, I'm left at home to be babysat by the neighbour. Thanks for nothing.

Hamlet

Up on the Roof

2008-02-24T14:35:00.004+10:00

At last, the moment we've been tearfully (well me, anyway) waiting and hoping for (drum roll please Hamlet) ............................ The Roof!

Somewhere at the tail end (please let it be the end) of the wettest wet season in - I don't know, 150 years - the roofers came and materialised Phil's wild flight of fantasy. I'm being facetious - I should say his very clever, yet untested, roof design.

And much to Phil's relief, it worked.

Above: Roofer drills furiously as clouds loom overhead

Above: Looking towards Mt Eerwah from the neighbours' drive. I do love that soaring, twisting studio section (right).

Above: Close-up of front of house, before ridge-capping and gutters were attached. The bathroom is under that low centre section. (Note the complex, tiered scaffolding system, which presented its own set of challenges.)

Big cheers to the boys from Brian's Roofing, who remained unfazed by those vertiginous sweeps and dips - not to mention the (intentionally) non-perpendicular beams.

And cheers to Kylie, Oliver, Amy and Danny, who were the first happy campers (literally) to sleep under it!

Stay tuned for walls ...

A Taste of Andy

2007-12-19T14:44:00.002+10:00

"Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?"

Had a big day out last Saturday to visit the fabulous Warhol exhibition at the equally fabulous GoMA. Having been something of an Andy fan since the age of 16, I was definitely looking forward to it, but it exceeded all expectations. Spent over three hours and wondered where the time went. Absolutely fascinating.

Some favourites:

The Shoes, from when he was the "best drawer of shoes in New York" c1955. In fact, I could have happily taken all the early sketches home with me. He could be quite whimsical when he wanted to.

The Mick Jagger screenprints (not particularly keen on Jagger, yet was completely captivated by them).

The wall of framed, black and white photos of Andy across the years, against a backdrop of self-portrait wallpaper - with a life-size video of him painting something on the floor with a squeeze mop projected on the adjacent wall. Nice bit of curating.

Electric Chair. So confronting - particularly when juxtaposed against the Cow wallpaper (how Andy wanted it, apparently).

The Screen Tests. How long can someone gaze at a youthful Dennis Hopper gazing back at the camera? Or a close up of two mouths kissing? Disturbingly long, actually.

I could go on ...

We walked across the bridge in brilliant Brisbane sunlight feeling full of inspiration.

Andy found everything interesting, which is an inspiration in itself.

This isn't just a taste of Andy, it's a banquet. Don't miss it.

Wendy

Cow wallpaper? Big deal. Pig wallpaper - now that's what I'd call art!

Hamlet

Pink!

2007-12-02T15:36:00.003+10:00

Pink - ooooh, purdy! They may only be bracing boards, but they're close enough to walls for me. Watching the meccano set finally take shape as a house is rather exciting.

Above: South-east corner. That's the future front door to the right of the ladder.

Above: Inside looking through the front door. This is the north-east corner. The longest side of the house, and the side with most windows, faces north to maximise climate control.

Above: Inside looking west, and through to the studio ... and oh look, there's Phil, who has informed me that he's already over bracing.

Rainforest Extensions

2007-08-19T15:51:00.004+10:00

I really must apologise. Hamlet's been so slack with the posting lately - three months have passed and he hasn't posted a thing. Unbelievable. Guess I'll have to take over while he loafs around in the dirt, belly up, like the lazy porker he is. I blame myself though. It's what you get for letting a pig start his own blog.

Meanwhile Phil and I have been working up a sweat planting 150 trees - stage one of the rainforest extension program. (Or grass eradication program, depending on how you look at it.)

And as you can see above, Phil's also finished the roof beams. Da Vinci comparisons have been drawn. Mostly by Phil. But I have to hand it to him - it's looking truly amazing.

Wendy

Oy! Did someone refer to me as lazy. I'd have been more than happy to help with the digging. But did anyone ask me? No.

Hamlet

Twisted Roof?

2007-05-08T00:03:00.000+10:00

The Pork Report:
by Hamlet, your porcine correspondent
Will you take a look at the view from my lower paddock! What the .... !!?

I'm apparently one helluva smart pig (too smart for my own good, they keep telling me), but I can't for the life of me work out how he's going to put a roof on that thing.

The other day he had a couple of sheets of roofing iron delivered, and has been banging on about doing "tests to see how it twists". I have no idea what he's talking about.

Hamlet

A Stylish Porker A-Frame

2007-04-08T00:06:00.000+10:00

After yet another lengthy hiatus (big words for a pig, I know), he's finally back building house ... my house that is.

At least he's got his priorities right. Yes, I realise Her Indoors has been waiting forever (or so she keeps reminding him) for her house to be finished but hey - it was an emergency. You see, I've grown rather ...er... tubby of late, to the point that my old place had become a little ... well ... snug.

My new residence is a quite stylish A-frame, although on closer inspection I'm not so sure about the entrance - seems a bit steep for my dainty trotters to handle. I think he needs to do a few modifications, but I'm not sure how to tell him without hurting his feelings.

Yep, definitely needs a set of steps, not to mention a back exit ...

The Joys of Roofing

2007-03-04T10:10:00.003+10:00

The Pork Report:
by Hamlet, your porcine corresondent

Oh joy oh joy - he's back outside again - and hard at it. They tell me I'm a born grumbler, but life can get boring for an only pig like me. It's heaps more fun to have a bit of company while you're grazing.

And of course, Her Indoors is all over him now the wall framing's finished and the roof beams are finally going up.

Have to say though, it looks needlessly complex to me. All those twists and angles. Stuffed if I know why he didn't just go with a simple, flat roof constructon like he did on my sty. He could have knocked it up in an afternoon ...
Hamlet

Where's the Big Bloke?

2006-11-25T05:54:00.000+10:00

Yes, I'm sure you've all been asking the same question I've been asking myself: "What the #$&*'s going on with the house?!"

Well, apparently the Big Bloke has some "really important" project for the Science Centre, which has been keeping him indoors and preoccupied for weeks. It has to be finished by 1st December, and then things will be back to normal.

And can I just say it won't be a moment too soon - I'm fed up with it! I hardly ever see him these days, except for five minutes at brekkie time when he tosses me my barley. Even then I can tell his mind's elsewhere, lost in electronics world ...

I can't wait to have him out here with me again, spending all day together in the fresh air, grunting at each other - him drilling, me digging rocks. Roll on December.

Oh yeah, in the meantime here's one of my baby photos to keep you entertained. Cute wasn't I? Still am of course ...

Ham

Mezzanine Floor - Going Up!

2006-09-09T09:23:00.003+10:00

The Pork Report
by Hamlet, your porcine correspondent
Yeh I know, it's been ages since I've posted. Her Indoors has been too preoccupied with her precious thesis to help me with the blog. Have you any idea how difficult it is to use a QWERTY keyboard with trotters? Anyway, she's finally submitted it (thank God), so at least she can get back to a more normal, healthy lifestyle - out in the sun adoring me, rubbing my belly, feeding me snacks - just the way things should be.

Meanwhile the Big Bloke's been making heaps of progress on the house. He spends a lot of time up on that mezzanine floor with his new drill. Now he has something decent to work with the air's been a lot less blue around here. Which is a good thing. I'm a sensitive pig, you know.

Yeh, mezzanine - very flash. And think what a lovely view of me in my pen they'll have from up there ...
Hamlet

A Pig & HIs Bird

2006-08-08T10:59:00.000+10:00

Enough with the heavy metal, I thought you might like to see this photo of me and my bird. She's taken quite a fancy to me (and why wouldn't she - I'm such a handsome brute). Wherever I go lately she's either sitting on my fence or flitting around after me. As you can see though, what she really likes best is riding around on my back. I could be offended but hey - keeps the pests away.

Ham

Minimalist Architecture: a Comparative View

2006-07-16T13:01:00.027+10:00

The Port Report:

by Hamlet, your porcine correspondent

I do like the Neighbour's Wife - she's a very personable woman. The other day she emailed these great shots she'd taken from her place. She obviously has an appreciation of cutting edge architecture. And why wouldn't she - just look at those clean, modern lines; the economical use of space; the honest use of materials.

I'm talking about my place of course, the one to the top far right, tucked right under those shady trees. I mean, sure, the big place is interesting too - but hey, when you look at them side by side like this, there's no comparison. Look, here's a closeup:

A pigsty - now that's what I call architecture.

Phil's Logistical Nightmare

2006-07-09T11:31:00.003+10:00

The Pork Report:
by Hamlet, your porcine correspondent
As a pig, I'm no slouch in the intellect department, I can tell you. Apparently, we're listed at number four on some "animal intelligence scale" that Her Indoors found online. But smart as I am, I've got to hand it to the Big Bloke - the man's a genius. Just take a look at that maze of metal.

I heard him muttering the other day that it was a "logistical nightmare" trying to get all the pieces to fit - but fair play to him, he keeps at it.

I also heard him say that the bath recess - up there on the second storey - was particularly tricky. Hmmm ....... a bath with a view - sounds nice. A like a good, deep mudbath.
Doubt if they'll let me try it out though.
Hamlet

Ideal Working Conditions

2006-06-18T14:01:00.000+10:00

My apologies for the lack of posts last weekend. Apparently the big bloke's been a bit "held up by all the rain" - at least, that's what I heard him telling the neighbour.

Now, if you ask me, all this rain makes for ideal working conditions. As you can see, with the soil nicely softened up, I can really get down and dirty - just the way I like it. So while he's inside taking it easy, I'm outside working my snout off doing what I do best (apart from eating, that is).

Yep, around these parts I'm AKA "Mr Plough"!

Studio with a View

2006-06-05T05:45:00.004+10:00

The Port Report
by Hamlet, your porcine correspondent

Another week and the Big Bloke's been hard at it. He's even found time to extend my pen - what a legend!

And as you can see, he's finished the second floor joists for the "studio with delightful views of Mt Cooroy". Pfffffffff... where does he get off having better views then me - not to mention a "studio".

I saw Him and Her up there the other day, standing on a piece of plywood, taking in the scenery. I'd like to go up there myself and check it out, but am yet to be invited. I'm sure I could climb a ladder if I put my mind to it. I'm surprisingly nimble on these trotter stilettos, considering my - ahem - portly figure.
Hamlet

Impressive Tools

2006-05-29T10:46:00.000+10:00

The Pork Report:
by Hamlet, your porcine correspondent:

I've got to admit, at times I'm pretty jealous of the Big Bloke. He gets to play with all these great tools, and all I have is a snout and a pair of tusks. That said, I get a lot done with what nature's provided - you should see the size of the rocks I've dug up.

Now where was I ... ah yes, impressive tools. This weekend, he hired a nifty hand-operated forklift to winch up these monstrous steel beams. Made it look like a piece of cake.
Hmmmm cake. Anyone got some?
Hamlet

Big Beams & Brute Strength

2006-05-22T10:41:00.000+10:00

The Port Report:
by Hamlet, your porcine correspondent
Last weekend, the Young Bloke came up to give the Big Bloke a lift with the structural steel beams. There was a fair bit of macho heaving and sweating and grunting - that beam was a monster. I have to admit it was pretty impressive, although, just between us, I was a bit miffed that Phil didn't let me out of the pen to help. If it's brute strength he wanted, I'm full to bursting with it. Surely he knows that by now.

Probably scared I'd show him up.
Hamlet

Weird Angles on the Horizon

2006-05-16T15:52:00.002+10:00

The Pork Report:
by Hamlet, your porcine correspondent

As a pig called Hamlet I cop quite a bit of flack about my name, as you may well imagine. Take the neighbour. Soon as he's in earshot of my pen, he likes nothing better than to holler out, "There's something rotten in the state of Eumundi!" Thinks he's God's gift to humour, I tell you ...

But enough about me. As you can see, the Big Bloke, as I call him, is really cracking along with the house framing. All sorts of weird angles are appearing on the Eumundi skyline. It's all quite exciting, although I'm a bit concerned about possible encroachments on the delightful 360 degree views I've been enjoying from my pen.
Still, a pig's not happy unless he has something to grumble about.
Hamlet

Phil's Meccano Set

2006-05-02T17:50:00.003+10:00

There he is, hard at it, playing with his oversized Meccano set.

You've got to admit though, it's a pretty impressive erection (sorry).

The fun has well and truly started.
Watch this space for updates.