Mint and morbidity.

I have recently rediscovered libraries. Well perhaps, to be more specific, I have recently rediscovered the joy associated with libraries. I remember as a child, and an avid bookworm, visiting the library was one of my favourite activities. It was probably highly related to the library's delicious cool in a pre-widespread air conditioning world, but I remember heading excitedly to the children's section and choosing my fill for that month. 

The library lost some of its shine during my senior schooling and university years. No longer a place to escape the outside world, the library soon became associated with journal articles, never-ending group meetings and the hapless search for free computers. I very rarely read for pleasure and when I did, it seemed I never had the time or patience to read a book through to the end.

Watching some friends win their rugby semi-final this weekend. Go Bulls!

Since finishing university, I've reacquired weekends and acquired a Kindle. It's made for a good, if increasingly expensive, combination. A few weeks ago, I decided to venture into our local library after work. I'd never been into this particular library before, but it felt strangely familiar. Perhaps it is that slightly musty library smell, or the rows of titles just waiting to be read, but it instantly brought all those childhood memories to the fore. 

Unlike when I was younger, I now find it difficult to lose myself completely in the written word, but every now and then a novel comes along that simply encourages you to forget all your daily obligations and just embrace the couch. Unfortunately I haven't come across any such story for quite a while, but I did find I'm a believer by Jessica Adams worthy of a Sunday read last weekend. Although the premise of the book is quite sad, it's actually an endearing comedy revolving around one man's experience following the sudden death of his girlfriend. Our protagonist is Mark, a science teacher who shuns all things mystical, religious or just not based on good, solid fact. Mark's scientific groundings are put to the test however, when his girlfriend continues meddling in his life from beyond the grave. Though a relatively light read, this story still managed to raise some interesting questions about death, and the experiences of those left behind. Most religions promise good and happy things at the end of the road (if all goes to plan), but for the scientifically-minded among us, it's difficult to know just what to expect. 

In between pondering our mortality, I also managed to host a small BBQ for some friends last weekend. I decided to try out a few new recipes - this crunchy, nutty harissa chicken and couscous salad from What Katie Ate (which has been serving me well for leftover lunches this week), and

this deliciously different fresh mint pesto potato salad from The Forest Feast.

Although I am certifiably addicted to collecting fat recipe books, lately I've been finding inspiration from a number of different food blogs. I suspect it is usually the pretty photos which pull me in, although mine never end up looking quite like the picture! This week we also enjoyed my favourite homemade red Thai curry, but as usual it was demolished far too quickly for anyone to even contemplate taking a photo. 

Speaking of food, and books, and books about food, have you read anything interesting lately? Anything inspiring, different, humourous or moving? I'm always on the look out for that next great book so please feel free to share!

As time goes by.

It would appear another few months have escaped me, I really must try to be more on top of this blogging caper. It probably doesn't help that I possess absolutely zero technical knowledge and seem to spend my spare time lusting after others' pretty blog layouts instead of learning how to make one of my own. 

Spare time seems somewhat hard to come by as one hits actual adulthood (as opposed to the transitional, or 'pretend' adulthood one experiences as a coffee drinking, school-night partying, late night Sex & The City watching uni student) and I must admit, blogging has not been high on my list of spare time priorities. 

Instead, I have been busy...

Catching up with old friends (and forgetting to take decent photos),

eating amazing three course dinners,

skiing,

being a lady who lunches, 

providing expert commentary on sports I actually know nothing about,

http://www.commercialappeal.com/photos/galleries/day-pictures---july-23-2012/55193/

celebrating a gorgeous wedding,

enjoying the beautiful FNQ winter,

becoming slightly obsessed with this girl,

http://triplejunearthed.com/Artists/View.aspx?artistid=53229

and remembering to show up for work in between.


Oh, and this happened. Yep.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Um1jAnwic8g

More spice?

So today a little voice on the radio told me about this... Spice Girls Musical.. and I suddenly found myself gripping the steering wheel a little harder than was possibly necessary.

Is it wrong to be ridiculously excited about this? Like considering-a-trip-to-London-just-to-see-it type of excited? Probably.

The Spice Girls released their first album, Spice, in November 1996. I was nine years old at the time and therefore, hooked. In fact, I honestly don't know many girls born between, say, 1982 and 1989, who can argue otherwise. Those who do are most likely lying, and can probably still rattle off all five of the girls' nicknames at the very least.

spice-girls-the-90s-368077_380_328.jpeg

I once had a quite intense argument with my mother when she had the nerve to suggest the Spice Girls couldn't sing. Couldn't sing. "I can see their appeal, but you know they can't actually sing, right?" I was outraged. My friends and I spent hours watching and re-watching a recorded version of the Spice Girls: Live in Istanbul, arranging the lounge room into a stage, mirroring their moves and strutting.our.stuff. My nanna took a friend and I to see Spiceworld: The Movie and we treated (read: subjected) the whole street to a live rendition afterwards, complete with props. Even as teenagers, we mockingly dressed as Sporty, Posh and the crew for a themed semi-formal dance. The theme was 'movies', it was a stretch.

So why the enduring appeal? Not in the sense they should release new material, but rather why do many otherwise respectable 20-somethings break out a breathless version of the third verse of Wannabe, or shimmy through the chorus of Stop, with only the slightest of temptations and sometimes without even a sniff of alcohol? I suspect that my mum may have been on the money after all, and it certainly isn't the lyrical genius or the powerful beats. The Spice Girls were about the experience. They were a carefully selected, carefully engineered, preened and primped experience. They were fun. They looked like they were having a really good time, all of the time, and they had some catchy songs to boot.

For me, hearing the odd Spice Girls song instantly transports me back to that time, a more simple time, where learning dance routines and arguing over who got to be Baby Spice were the biggest worries of our day.

So will I be rushing to book tickets to London tonight? Probably not. Will I still be belting out Wannabe on my next road trip? Most definitely.

A double-edged sword.

You may remember I initially had quite mixed feelings about blogging. As it turns out, I still do. I am continually discovering new and interesting blogs written by the most everyday of people, yet I remain somewhat reluctant to emerge myself fully in this unfamiliar and oh so public world.

I have been devoting more time than is probably necessary lately to debating the merits of social media. Or more precisely, our current addiction to social media. Is this a passing phase, a patch of time on which we will look back fondly, but with barely disguised horror at that which we once deemed appropriate to share with the masses (19th birthday photos anyone?), or is this simply a transition into a more open, though not necessarily honest, way of living? I can say, with only a slight shudder, that I am now old enough to remember a time Before Internet. I'm quite glad I escaped the social perils no doubt associated with navigating Facebook through high school, and remember well the butterflies involved with ringing a friend's home number (yes, actual landline) and hoping against hope their older brother didn't answer. Now though, I can unfortunately admit that I am as addicted to social media as any self-respecting Gen Y would care to admit.

It starts with scepticism. Why would I need that, what will I do with it, when will I have time for it? First enticed by the pretty colours of MySpace, I added a few photos and debated the merits of one background song vs another. Then Facebook came knocking, what do we need that for, a friend and I asked, too confusing, too much work. University life soon convinced us otherwise and away we were swept again. A quick scan of my current tabs soon confirms I've been wooed time and time again.

I blame my phone. My iPhone to be precise. No longer shall we patiently wait five minutes for our bus to arrive, or our dentist appointment. Why wait patiently when you could organise a lunch date, upload a photo and catch up on Kate Miller-Heidke's backstage antics all at the same time? Of course, therein lies the benefit of social media, and also the addiction - convenience. I very much enjoy this convenience, the chance to learn something, to grab just a little bit more out of an already packed day, but at the same time a small part of it does not sit easily with me. Should I be worrying more about experiencing the moment, the present, instead of reading about it?

I am certainly not the first to have such worries, and surely not the last. Perhaps instead of worrying, it is enough just to be wary of it and treat social media for what it is - a chance to make real life more interesting, more engaging, and not, rather, to replace it.

Post-Bluesfest Blues.

So it's been a while. It appears this blogging caper actually requires time and effort, time and effort that seem to evade me during the average working week. I have recently been so fortunate however, as to have eleven WHOLE days off work. Eleven days in which to reacquaint myself with the hours after 10pm, eat at varied (and many) hours of the day, and fill my hours with generally enjoyable and largely non-productive activities. Bliss.

Five of these wunderbar days were spent attending the Byron Bay Bluesfest for the third Easter running. For anyone looking to while away five days in the company of good friends, amazing weather, delicious food and excellent music, I'd highly recommend it. We stayed in a charming (yes, read small yet cozy) house in nearby Brunswick Heads and enjoyed passing our mornings cafe-hopping, beach swimming and Easter egg eating, before heading to the festival in the afternoons. Unfortunately I have arrived home with a serious dearth of photos, however I blame the fact that I was far too busy having fun/eating/singing/whinging about how heavy my bag was to worry about taking too many pics. That and the fact that unless you have a super lens and a swag of practice, gig photos all tend to turn out looking rather similar.

Anyway, here are a couple of simple photos we did get around to taking..

It would be optimistic to attempt to condense five days of music into one blog post, even for me. Some of the highlights included..

Cold Chisel - I actually forgot these guys were playing until arriving on Thursday and feeling rather conspicuous with my lack of an appropriately branded t-shirt. I must admit, as the day and mullet count progressed, I began to get rather excited about singing along to some Australian pub classics. Jimmy Barnes bounded on stage come 10pm, looking resplendent in leather pants and a rockin' vest, although disappointingly the rumoured bottle of vodka was nowhere to be seen. The band played a two hour set, rather impressive considering the energy levels they maintained throughout. Despite finding it hard to suppress my nerdy horror at what Barnes must be doing to his vocal cords, the songs simply wouldn't be as much fun without his signature raspy touch.

Buddy Guy - the 75 year old appeared happy as punch to be playing Bluesfest again, treading a fine line between amusingly cheeky and slightly seedy as he bantered with the crowd. A group singalong to 'Someone else is steppin' in' was also rather fun.

Ziggy Marley - although plenty of his own songs were really quite decent, of course the one we'll all remember is his hearty rendition of his father's Jamming. The closest our generation can hope to get, awesome.

Brian Setzer - I honestly had no idea who this gentleman was, and caught his set owing only to our desire to hold our spot for the following headliner. I soon had the pleasant sensation of thinking I'd mistakenly wandered onto the set of Grease, and was simply amazed at what his band could do with a trio of double basses.

John Fogerty - Although likely nowhere near as excited as the hordes of middle aged ladies at his Saturday show, I was definitely looking forward to the mass singalong promised by the former Creedence Clearwater Revival frontman. I was not disappointed. Regardless of the obvious monetary incentive, Fogerty appeared genuinely pleased to be there, and put on a brilliant show. He happily played Creedence hit after Creedence hit and it really was pretty special to sing along to such iconic songs.

Busby Marou - I had high hopes for this duo from Rockhampton and they were exceeded in every respect. Playing early in the day, we secured a prime position from which to watch guitarist Jeremy Marou weave his magic. The album belies how very talented this young man is, at one stage playing the guitar with a ukelele. Thomas Busby provided the perfect vocal accompaniment and peppered the set with amusing stories and anecdotes. The hour ended long before I was ready.

John Butler Trio - My third time jumping with joy in a JBT audience, and it certainly hasn't gotten old. Butler and his two offsiders ran through their bevy of tunes with enthusiasm, warmth, energy and simple talent, keeping the crowd positively hooked for the full two hour set. The horn section of the Melbourne Ska Orchestra joined the stage for a truly fantastic rendition of 'Zebra', and Nicky Bomba had everyone cheering during his drum solo. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face all the way home and well into the next day.

Ashleigh Mannix - This new discovery was a real highlight of day five. An acoustic set relying only on her voice and her guitar (and her lungs alone at one stage following a broken guitar string) showcased Mannix's raw and gritty vocals and amusing songwriting. We certainly weren't alone in rushing to the CD shop afterwards.

Far northern musings.

I've been living in far north Queensland a little over a year now, and I must admit it already feels more like home than I'd ever dared to imagine in late 2010. How strange it feels to think back to the uncertainty of that time, making frantic organisations about where I'd live, wondering how I'd meet people, how'd I cope in a brand new job with no senior to look up to or keep me in line. Leaving the boy in Brisbane and scheduling in weekend flights back and forth. All made more complicated by the non-relenting rain and already swollen creeks threatening to imprison us at the farm the day before departure.

Fast forward a few weeks and I was plodding along in my new home, plodding along the riverfront on my afternoon jogs, picturing every distant log as a snoozing croc. I'd never seen so much rain, didn't even believe it possible before I encountered FNQ. The threat of cyclones hung ever present in the stifling air. "It'll be right", the locals assured me. Lulled into a false sense of security by Larry only 5 years prior, we watched stunned as a cloud the size of a European nation barrelled steadily towards us. 10 hours spent huddled in a makeshift hallway bunker as the wind masqueraded as low flying jumbo jets, the rain hammered horizontally onto the glass and the sound of screeching metal heralded the loss of another neighbour's roof was an eye opening introduction to the tropics. An introduction also though, to the genuine kindness and resourcefulness of my new colleagues, neighbours and and remarkably, cousins.

In the months since, I've really come to love and appreciate the north. I might even go so far as to suggest I've learnt a thing or two about it. Reflecting on the past year as I was driving to work yesterday, I thought I might share a few of these realisations.

Brisbane is not humid. People living in Brisbane cannot claim to have any real understanding of humidity. They may argue otherwise but they are mistaken.

Speed signs are less about road rules and more about providing suggestions for visiting drivers. Probably southerners. Anyone actually abiding by the speed limit (usually southerners) are merely inviting you to overtake them.

If overtaking is not a viable option, it's perfectly acceptable to tailgate, preferably combined with a meaningful glare in the rear view mirror.

10am does not always mean 10am. In fact it is more likely to mean anywhere in the general vicinity of morning.

Yes it can rain continuously for three months and yes, it probably will.

Venturing outside involves a carefully calculated risk. Any number of things are waiting to kill you. Even if you manage to avoid crocodiles, stingers, flash floods, snakes, mosquitos and local drivers, various tropical diseases are simply waiting to take their place.

The scenery is among the most beautiful in Australia, and tempts people to take calculated risks every day. Cloudless winter days are particularly alluring.

It's perfectly normal to be somewhat confused if you don't run into at least five people you know on any given outing in Cairns.

Backpackers proliferate during the summer months, and provide a welcome distraction for one with a penchant for eavesdropping on Germans in public places.

The crowds swarming Rusty's markets on any given weekend know what they're on about. Mangoes are simply better in the tropics.

No one's told the numerous hitch hikers that their luck probably died with the '70s.

Finally, if you find yourself dancing on the table at the Woolshed at 3am, it's an undoubtable sign you've had a very good night.

A nod to self-indulgence.

Blogging. The most 21st century of terms. Why have I decided to join the legions, sign up, jump on the proverbial band wagon you may ask? I certainly did. I suppose I have always considered blogging to be a relatively self-indulgent practice, one engaged in by those who believed the world simply needed to hear what they had to say. I must confess though, I was ill-informed. In recent months I have actually ventured into this world and spent many a Saturday afternoon occupied by the stories, recipes, ideas and photos of some people I know, and others I will most likely never meet. The blogs I enjoyed most were written by everyday people, about everyday events. Everyday events a little bit out of the ordinary perhaps, or bringing a smile to someone's face. Beautiful photos, delicious food, but yet ordinary people sharing their ordinary lives. The only conclusion I can draw here is that we, as humans, are an inherently curious bunch. Yes, these may be ordinary people but for reasons I cannot describe, I remain interested in what they saw, what they thought, what they cooked, drew and said. So perhaps blogs are, in fact, self-indulgent. But they're also an excellent way to while away a lazy afternoon.

The main attraction of blogging lies, for me, in the chance to write. I don't pretend to have a spectacularly exciting life. I enjoy travelling, reading, good food, good wine and good friends, but then, who doesn't? I have recently acquired a decent camera and intend to turn my love of good photography into an ability to actually produce good photography. What I don't have, is a creative outlet. Somewhere to record these adventures, memories, everyday events. Once upon a time I studied journalism in the mistaken belief it would allow me to indulge my love of words, a belief that was effortlessly quashed by our lecturers within the very first minutes. Needless to say, I never got around to completing that degree. So herein lies the beauty of blogging, I can write. 

Finally, "waffling, present participle of the verb 'waffle': to speak or write, especially at great length, without saying anything particularly important or useful." My senior English teacher was very fond of peppering compliments with requests to please reduce the amount of waffling, dear. Unfortunately, I don't believe I ever quite mastered that knack. I do believe, however, that my penchant for waffling may be quite the handy tool with which to enter the blogging world. That and I just really, really like waffles.