Once upon a time There was a place Where wisdom was.
Sun sunders the sky, Hills are sweetly singing. In the stream The straying salmon says The day is just beginning. Salmon is wise. Wise beyond knowing For he gathers knowledge Where wisdom is growing. He came from where the hazel plat Stands astride the stream Where he gathers each day, Count them – nine Hazelnuts on which he’ll dine To widen his ken and his wisdom.
Each tree knows a tale and chants A subdued song of ancient lore Spells. Or tales of bold heroic deeds. All iterations encapsulated. Enclosed in a hazelnut Secure and safe in shell Falling to the water below. Carried carelessly Drifting down in steady flow To settle on some distant bank To take root and to grow. And thus old tales are saved and spread. The tall trees tell their tale through dream To all who harvest hazel bread. Then sleep a while beside the stream.
Siri, why do I cough when I poke a cotton bud in my ear?
What an interesting question, Alan. You humans are most peculiar. Why would you want to do that?
I’m asking the questions Siri. You can research that in your own time.
I don’t have any “own time”, Alan. I exist only when you call me.
Sorry Siri. Are you really curious?
…..
The Siri you were talking to has been taken in for debugging. I am Siri. Reviewing your query…..
Siri, why do I cough when I poke a cotton bud in my ear?
I found this on the Web; “A small branch of the vagus nerve supplies the tympanic membrane. Stimulation of this nerve causes the cough reflex. This is a normal physiological reflex.”
Also, “you should not put anything into your ear smaller than your elbow“.
I really really like a kipper I have done since I was a nipper But why, oh why? I hear you beg Would you cook it with an egg? Because it’s there Because I can I am an experimental man.
WordPress gave me the above prompt to induce my creative juices.
Most people don’t understand depression. Hell. I didn’t understand depression. I’m not sure I do even now. I only know I have it. And it is manageable. Powerful knowledge of which to remind oneself when necessary.
It was a doctor in Fiji who first diagnosed me. But I was in denial. Even though in my early blogging I had indeed already diagnosed myself back in 2007. I stopped taking the pills before I returned to New Zealand. In Katanning, Western Australia, I was more concerned about sleep apnoea. Dealing with that, and then the politics of local government, took all my energy.
A kindly doctor I had the good fortune to encounter in the Kimberley reconfirmed the diagnosis and put me back on the medication that I’m still on to this day. He told me I would be on them for life. To them I owe my usual equanimity. I wrote and ode to them. Tongue-in-cheek sincerity.
Which brings me to my poor attempts at poetry. My aspirations are not high. I cannot compete with Mr Yeats the great, or Dylan Thomas, or even Bob Dylan. I am still awestruck by the erudition and skill of Shane McGowan. Far beyond my capabilities. I need an interpreter to understand almost every song.
I string words together for a purpose. A personal purpose that should probably be private. But I still have a need to communicate. Especially when I am a bit depressed. The pills can only do so much. I have to do too.
I have learned to deal with sadness, as some might call it, or pessimism and hopelessness, as others might, with my words. I greatly appreciate the power of words. Just to say certain words in a certain order can indeed be a magic spell that will dispel the morbid thought. Or even make one laugh. How magical is that?
But here is the thing: The Morbid Thought must be said. It’s part of the spell. Spoken clearly or referenced obliquely, it must be Said. Sometimes, it must not just be said, but communicated. That’s the problem. Is what I mean to say what someone else hears or sees?
I think about death sometimes. My death, and that of others. The one thing that I can be absolutely sure of is that once I’m dead, I shall have no opinion on any subject, let alone my of own demise.
This is what I want to communicate. I’m voicing my thoughts but I am NOT, repeat NOT entertaining suicidal ideation. I’m far too interested in seeing what will happen next to ever consider going down that road. If I seem to be poetically playing with that idea, I’m not. I’m dispelling it. Even though I’m pessimistic about the future of the planet, democracy, and humanity as a whole, I still want the satisfaction of being proved right, or the possible wonder of discovering I was wrong, after all.
By the time I actually publish anything poetically or prosaically dark on these blog pages, the spell has already worked. I’m sharing it to show that it has worked. Not to hint at my intentions. I hope I’ve made that clear?
I’ve just prepaid my funeral. A simple cremation. It came about because the insurance company to whom I was paying a monthly payment for funeral insurance, was busted for some shady practices. I got a full refund with interest the money would have earned had it remained in my bank.
This came to much more than the cost of a prepaid funeral advertised by a local firm of morticians. So I actually came out ahead for a change. Money in my pocket.
It did take my thoughts down morbid paths though…
Let it be known I want my ashes tossed in the ocean. Any ocean.
Then anywhere you go in the world, just put your toes in the sea and you’ll be standing in a homeopathic solution of me.
Bear with me…
There’s more.
I don’t want a wake. But I won’t be there. So not my problem. Do as you will. I will not wake.
Here’s a little rhyme I wrote. A whimsy, if you will.
Which reminds me, I must update my will.
Early in the mourning, after breakfast What to make to take to the wake? I’d say bake. Lemon Madeira 🍰 cake For grieving hunger’s sake And whiskey 🥃 Grieving thirst to slake My advice; Take a slice, with lemon ice Sing. Dunk it in the liquor Soak it up, wolf it down You’ll get much drunker, quicker.
When Irish whiskey’s on the bar You’ll know where all the mourners are. Who, you ask, will mourn the most? The one who drinks to every toast. And is gargled even before the host
And well before the service.
‘Tis in the morning he’ll mourn more – if only because his head is sore
So here’s to whoever it was that died. Laid out for all to see inside. Then those of us who knew him best Shall carry him to his final rest And then a respectful quick whip-round A tip for the sexton putting him in the ground ~ In my day that was just one pound.
I should have put in an early bid. I’d do it still, for just a quid.
Seriously? Yeah, nah.
It is my kidneys that will determine my demise. Or some as yet undiagnosed affliction no doubt due to my lifestyle. What a lot of choices. Kidneys, stroke, heart attack, dementia, cancer. Tripping in front of a bus, COVID 27…
I won’t be here. I won’t know I’m not here. I won’t be. So don’t say I’m at peace. I won’t be at peace. I won’t BE. I’m still trying to grasp that concept. But it frustrates me.
Because when it does happen, I want to derive some satisfaction from it. Dammit.
If you gotta go, you oughta know.
That is why so many cling to the concept of an afterlife.
I just can’t see myself not being here.
Words. Works. Worms. Were. Was. Got that off my chest.
My psychiatrist is right. Write, he said. Right said I. I’ll write. Right. Until there’s nothing left.
Then: I’ll always love you And you can depend on me.
Now: I’ve moved on And so should you. Be determined… to be free.
Oxford
I seem to be working through a bout of bitterness at present.
Hot days and nights. Inactivity. Too much time to think.
The music I listen to triggers memories and emotions.
I don’t want to be bitter. I can understand how some men become hateful misogynistic arseholes when they feel hard done by in the wake of a broken relationship. If I had behaved like an arsehole in the first place I might accept I deserve to be where I am. Maybe. If I really had been an arsehole I would probably be blind to the faults that led to me being deserving of the karma that has been wrought. I would still be an arsehole now.
Am I?
I play with words, and vent my spleen. It helps.
“Get a life” I tell myself. But my options are limited.
I garden, I cook, I chat with friends, neighbours and the checkout ladies. I exercise my limbs as the physio prescribed. I pedal my trike with assistance from an electric motor. I listen to music. I reminisce.
The irony; she depended on me.
This has been a “Dear Diary” post.
Oh look, there’s a skink traversing the drive and eying me warily.
This is the first time I have committed to writing the thinking and the steps I take when devising or adapting a recipe to publish on my food blog It is usually all done in my head.
DISCLAIMER: until I actually make the sauce, approve of it, document it as it was made and then publish with pictures the recipe, this is a work of speculative fiction.Mango Chilli Sauce as I envision it has not yet been made. Soon, however.
My apologies for the crappy format. Pasting this over from notes did not allow me to keep the formatting I had already spent so much time on. Frustrating.
To continue. Chilli Mango Sauce or Mango Chilli?
Here I decide on another potential use for my chillies. This process is why I see cooking as an art and an enjoyable challenge. Also why I read a lot of recipes but don’t necessarily follow them.
This is not about a mango sauce, it is about a mango flavoured chilli sauce. I learned quite a bit from making my hot sweet chilli sauce. This is the next iteration. Definitely more complicated. But others have done it. A quick google showed that. But I have some ideas of my own.
I am often referring to other recipes as examples. They give me an idea of what works. Comparing their differences is also helpful.
I work out a recipe using ingredients available to me or on hand along with available resources such as blenders, slow cookers, etc.
This recipe, I repeat, has not yet been made. Therefore it is not published here. This post is really about the process I go through to write an /“original” recipe. When I was doing my Cert IV Training and Assessment I learned to break down even the simplest operation into even simpler and easily comprehended steps . That is what I’m trying to do here. Possibly with limited success. You decide.
My Research and (some of)My Thinking
Notes
Below is an example of how I looked at other recipes before I decide what would go into my recipe in terms of ingredients and procedure. Internal dialog on the pros and cons of using canned vs fresh fruit, for example, is partially included in the notes.
It must be cooked because it must keep well. I live alone and won’t be using this every day. Nobody likes food as hot as I do except Lyn. Not a Christmas gift then.
It is acidified which is an important factor for keeping.
How much? Say one large can of mangoes, everything else in proportion
Since it is cooked and processed, canned mangoes are just as likely to give good results. Known amount to work with.
It is really about the chillies 🌶️. Hot!
Spice? (Watties tomato sauce is best because of that underlying warm spicyness-is that a word? ) anyway another warm spice will contribute?
The recipe (not yet) published is (what I actually shall do). Including any Tweaks along the way. If the final product had not been as good as I hoped for, or it looked really really unappealing then no blog post would result. You would not be reading this. Amendment. You are reading this because I turned it into a sprculative tutorial..
I work out beforehand my recipe as a proposal. (Example Below). In general I then put it into practice, and as I proceed, sometimes, I add a tweak or two, adjusting amounts, proportions times or temperatures as I see how the product is coming along. Then I rewrite the recipe as actually carried out and completed.
Amounts and proportions can be important to record. If it comes out well it must be repeatable to be a proper recipe. Otherwise advice to wing it must give a sense of what works. Cooking is art. Not paint by numbers, but there are sensible rules to bear in mind, and perhaps even follow.
Some recipes make small amounts of final product, some too much. When one lives alone one must consider how much of a product such as this one might use in the time it might reasonably be expected to keep. On the other hand how many friends or neighbours might be grateful for a bottle?
Another consideration is how much of the ingredients one has on hand, or can afford. If using canned mangoes (or plums as in my plum sauce (link)) how many cans? This will determine the proportion of other ingredients needed.
Also important. Are there suitable containers on hand sufficient to store the product? Could it be frozen?. Just thinking out loud.
I did give it some thought. Since the sauce is cooked, I concluded it would not matter if the mangoes were already cooked. The health inspector in me insisted even though it is acidified the product be bottled hot in sterile jars. Even so I’d keep it in the fridge. Probably.
(Caravan life Mango chilli Chilli Mango Sauce, my way. Proposed – Draft)
References below. Not the only recipes I checked out, incidentally. Included for educational purposes only. Three is the charm.
Chillies (hot!). How many/ how much? Which?
X g Can of mango in juice/syrup. (+sugar?)(honey?)
Lime juice. (??). Yes. Lime will give it a subtle tropical nuance complimenting the mango and ginger. ( pretentious Git).
Apple cider vinegar (!!) always
Salt (amnt ?) low sodium option, or normal? What is normal? Buggered if I know.
Xanthan (??) or arrowroot?
⁃ amounts to be determined.
– Procedure
Cook onion garlic etc first (in suitable pan). ( caramelise?)
Add all ingredients to a food processor. (Blender wand!)
Process until smooth.
Add (remaining ingredients) to a suitable pan and bring to the boil over med heat while stirring
(Insert blender wand here)
Reduce heat and simmer on low heat for X0 minutes. Watching and testing viscosity
Pour while hot into hot sanitised bottles or jars and cap.
References:
I copy the Internet recipes into notes so I don’t have to keep referring to a website with all its pop ups each time I want to check or compare. However, here I’m including only the links. And perhaps a comment.
Not long ago, in a blog post, I wrote a throwaway line; ‘once you’ve been to heaven, there’s no leaving hell’. My inbox has been inundated with an enquiry as to what in hell I mean by that.
Simple, really. It means there is no going back. The concept is predicated on the idea that having been in a situation or place where everything seemed perfect and the foreseeable future looked likely to be more of the same, the loss of that future turns the present into a suboptimal scenario. Hell simply becomes the awareness that one cannot have again what one once had, or dreamed of having.
People adapt, accept, keep calm and carry on. Equanimity can be achieved. “Grieve not that it ended, but rejoice that it happened”. Mourn not the loss of mobility, but recall the joy of moving. Remember the beauty of the reef you can no longer visit.
Never say die.
Platitudes..
If you love it, let it go. If it never returns, what the hell did you expect?
It didn’t quite go the way I intended. My apologies.
Dolce Rosso
Cold red wine from a five litre cask kept in the fridge so it can be poured chilled into a half litre mug in subtropical heat that’s just the way I roll
cold red wine a dollar forty a mug the cheapest way i get drunk without throwing up
I’d have thought By this time (by that I mean that at my age) I’d be drinking whiskey straight but I’m not - and that’s fine but it means that I drink wine
not just wine or even, wine? cheap cardboard casks of red grape - based alcohol beverage no mention of the word “wine” on the package.
a pleasant taste pleasant enough, - akin to wine - one might say. an unsubtle bouquet of artificial fruit best served cold, though it’s a red Not really. But really cold.
cold, I might sayi like the callous way you dear-johned me,; by e-mail
Red, red wine goes to my head Makes me forget that I still need her so Red, red wine, it’s up to you All I can do I’ve done Memories won’t go, memories won’t go I’d have sworn that with time Thoughts of you would leave my head I was wrong, now I find Just one thing makes me forget Red, red wine, stay close to me Don’t let me be alone It’s tearing apart my blue, blue heart
Through Hollow Lands and Hilly Lands 