In a world, bursting with chaos, noisiness, glamour and lights; a world saturated with bubbles, sparkles, flashes, shrieks and popcorn, there was, in the middle of it all, a pear.
A pear, a pear, a happy pear, a blushing pear, a yellow pear, a green pear. A pear dripping with crimson sauce, delightfully fragrant with orange and spices. A beautiful pear, a wonderful pear, a pear lavishly delicious to bite into.
A sad pear, wrinkled, mouldy, lonesome in a bowl, sweating in hot daylight, vibrating on heavy footsteps of ignorant passengers. Left uneaten, unpeeled, a pear untouched, unloved and forgotten. In a bowl where all the other fruit had been chosen.
The pear used to be a handsome pear, sparkling green with lovely light green patches as enticing as a spring morning. Fresh with dew, and with one leaf remembering its heritage of being a newly created pear from a lovely pink pear flower from a pink pear tree.
When caressed, the pear used to have a soft, silky skin with hardly any imperfections, with juicy flesh but not too unripe; just the perfect ratio of ripeness and crunchiness.
A pear, the pear, the lonesome, mouldy, wrinkled and sweaty pear left alone in the bowl. Bubbliness, sparkliness have left the pear, evaporated, like a bygone husky summer evening. Who will touch the pear now.
As usual, my timing is bizarelly good – Jamie Oliver
That was not the case this sun-drowned afternoon when I hurriedly tried to assemble a carrot cake auspiciously called ‘incredibly moist and easy’. While three obnoxious fat flies neurotically circled around in the kitchen and bumped against the window and while flushed breezes entered through the opened doors, I ran around panicking, trying to find the spatula. I had to ride off on my trusty bike to work at 3:30 and the cake needed to be in the oven at least at 2:30. I crushed walnuts, peeled carrots and suffocated batter in cinnamon, rasped too much nutmeg and cursed loudly in Dutch when I dropped the wet whisk on the floor. Still, despite the chaos, I absolutely adore cooking.
Baking always seems the easiest way for me to find quick relaxation in the kitchen, though I do enjoy hosting dinners at home where I’ll go utterly crazy on at least 3 courses. Searching through Jamie Oliver’s or Donna Hay’s cookbooks, I’ll try to find the best matching dishes where I’d be able to learn something new. My last exploration involved cooking two different kinds of stew for a homemade chicken and beef pie (they were two separate dishes, I did not defy the universal rules of pie making). It took me at least half a day, but the results were received with applause and compliments.
However, baking offers the best possibility to create something beautiful from scratch in less time. I recently discovered a quick recipe for insanely fluffy chocolate muffins, that simply do not need any frosting, for their fluffiness is orgasmic (recipe is included). Carrot cake, however, has always had a special place in my heart. I’ve always felt there’s never enough cinnamon, silky walnuts add extra crunchiness to a sponge cake and carrots are just awesome veggies.
After a fight with the oven, the loaf emerged from the grey steam and although I would’ve liked it to be slightly less burned, the taste was absolutely breathtaking.
I present to you, the Carrot Cake Loaf.
Super moist Chocolate Cupcakes: https://sallysbakingaddiction.com/2017/06/22/super-moist-chocolate-cupcakes/ (applause to Sally!)
The Islanders are renown for their unconditional friendliness and genuine warmth, and I can vouch for that. Throughout my stay in Australia, I feel like their constant hospitality utterly astonished me. Besides the odd grumpy one, they have such a developed sense of empathy and an understanding of how the human mind likes to be treated.
Hospitality is the immediate environment where it can be noticed. ‘Instant gratification’ -the need for humans to feel acknowledged and praised- is common sense in the world of beer pouring and cocktail making. An instant smile appears when I tell them that Hendriks Gin is also my favourite gin for a GT. I am still amazed by the laid-back way a bartender can ask ‘how their day’s going’ and how the lazily leaning-on-the-counter Australian would reply with a genuine report on their day’s activities. “Oh you know, I just finished a tough workday, got some bad news from my auntie in New Zealand, she might need to be hospitalized, – yes, the Panhead XPA would be great, thanks- but yeah, everything’s fine, just having an easy afternoon with my family-in-law. How’s your day going?”
In my head, I keep comparing to what I’ve been used to in my almost 9 years of experience in hospitality in the Netherlands. Hardly any words are exchanged in the transaction of a Dutch individual requesting a Weihenstephaner Hefe Weissbier at any bar and if I even have the nerves to ask them how their day’s been, I’d receive the bluntest reply possible. Not that I’m here to rain down on Dutch mannerisms, though there is something to learn from this massive difference in culture. Although I have to admit it was rather hard for me to get to understand their small talk, it now feels as if I’m building an emotional bond with every customer who lands at my bar for an Afternoon Delight. I absolutely love it.
There’s something to say for both parties. Sometimes you’re just not in the mood to discuss your reason to decide to drink a double bourbon-coke at 11am. Nevertheless, these brief conversations offer someone a brief peek into their personal life, which gives the general Australian a feel of vulnerability and neighbourliness. Even if I tried really hard, I couldn’t find a way to not love this country and its inhabitants.
… I climbed the three staircases, raised the trapdoor of the attic, and having reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and hill, and long dim skyline – that then I longed for a power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen.. I could not help it; the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. – Jane Eyre from Charlotte Brontie.
I always felt that Brontie explains Jane’s emotions so well in this paragraph, where the reader can easily identify with her too. Restlessness has always been a major puzzle in my life, both physically and mentally. Reading books did not come naturally to me. Neither did being able to sit down quietly or having the patience to finish something properly (to the frustration of my parents). High school was a trial, especially getting the grades needed to graduate. I like to think back with a curious fondness to the moment I received the call from my mentor whether I had graduated or not. That man in particular was a dry, wrinkled and humourless teacher, though an honest man which he confirmed when he spoke to me that day on the phone. “Hi, Elise, I have received the results from your tests and well,” he uttered in his slow, monotone voice, “I did not expect this but you have passed.” No hint of sarcasm, no sound of a quick smile. I was happy nonetheless and continued to struggle with my restlessness throughout university.
As I got older though, I actively undertook steps to learn to sit down for a while in order to read. First, a page or two were almost unbearable for me, but after a while, I read page after page and now, if I feel like I have absolutely nothing else to do, I can read a book in a day. I read ‘Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children’ and ‘Silence of the Lambs’ in one day each – yes, I feel I’m allowed to boast a little about this. On the road trip around Australia, reading was my main entertainment in the evenings. We collected half a library in the back of the car and in order for me to stop buying books since I’d finish them rather quickly, I decided it was more profitable if I bought larger books. Naturally, I started to read Game of Thrones from George R R Martin. I can assure you when I saw the books for the first time, I could’ve never dreamed that I’d be able to read through all of them, but I did. It feels like an accomplishment, besides the fact that it was made easier since the books are utterly captivating.
Now, reading books is a relaxing experience for me, though I still have to tell myself to sit down and stop fussing about all the other things that need to be done. Rather to think of reading as a mandatory exercise needed to learn something or maybe for the aesthetic of it all, it truly opens up a new world filled with wild dragons, heated discussions, stonecold zombies, fiery passions, unsalted opinions and unexplored universes.
A lovely sunny morning had made way for an ominously cloudy afternoon, and so I took the bus to work. While the drizzle softly ticked against the windows and streetlights flashed by like fireflies in the night, I noticed a man sitting in the corner. Now, since a bus is a public form of transport and since the evening was not so far advanced that everyone had retreated to their bedrooms, it was not particularly unusual to see a man on the bus. Neither was the fact that this man had his head rested against a yellow pole, snoring peacefully yet noticeably. To be fair, I reckon everyone’s had had their share of bus napping.
However, what caught my eye most was the way he was dressed. He was a man of advanced age; silvery streaks through his dark brown hair, prominent eyebrows (and a prominent under chin, I have to add) and a large belly, where his hands rested on. Yet while this man slept harmoniously, I observed that he was wearing a beautifully coloured jumper, which could’ve been handmade. Horizontal stripes in a vague orange, pink and blue, made me think of the type of jumper the Weasley’s would wear. I expected to see a wand tucked in the back of his trousers at any moment. In the same style, a woollen scarf, casually draped around his neck and shoulder and on his head, a tweed flat hat like the ones from Peaky Blinders. I absolutely loved his appearance. He was the perfect fusion of a slightly more sophisticated George R R Martin, Ron Weasley and a golden retriever.
I suppose he caught me examining him when the bus suddenly stopped and the man roughly awoke from his fine dreams, looked around startled and caught my eye. An awkward moment followed where he clearly felt embarrassed, even after I’d smiled at him. And in the gloom of the afternoon, he shuffeled out of the bus, adjusting his hat firmly to his head and taking his cool jumper with him.
Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day – Elizabeth Bowen
While the soil is still damp from yesterday’s rain, the sun warms the porch with a radiance I had almost forgotten. Cries of the yellow-crested cockatoos fill the sky, overshadowing the soft chirping of the smaller birds. The scent of citrus, eucalyptus, freshly washed laundry and sea fill the air, a smell that I love and recognize from when I spent my first summer in Australia. Unacquainted as I was as a Dutch girl with absolute, raw heat, Australia’s summer felt relentless when I first set foot in Melbourne. I remember my first day trying to conquer the 40 degrees. In an attempt to walk from my dormitory to the cafeteria, which roughly takes 20 minutes one way, I arrived completely drenched in sweat, panting like a seal and a head so purple it could possibly match the colour of a blueberry. It was possible that in my stubbornness, I had neglected to wear something better suited for this type of weather, but at least I got a good sample of how insanely hot it can get in Melbourne.
Sydney is not the exception and a few years later, when I arrived at the Kingsford Smith airport on Christmas Eve, the heat welcomed me back like an old friend. I was surprised, with a touch of shame, how easily I got spoiled after a few months basking in its sun on the beaches of Northern Sydney. When finally winter came, a cloudy day with 18 degrees left me miserable and complaining like a sour old man, whereas it would’ve been a treasured day in Amsterdam, even in their Dutch summer. However, when the sun appeared this morning, hot, crisp and radiant, I could not help myself but to open all the windows and declare this day as its first fine spring day!
While the ants are gathering on the grey table on the porch, conspiring maliciously to squirm their way into the kitchen, and while a wild Ozzie is trying out its new chainsaw a few gardens away, I am sitting here, enjoying the lukewarm breeze and the smell of lemongrass and eucalyptus and the saltiness of the nearby sea.
I encountered the startling fact that in 1967 the Prime Minister, Harold Holt, was strolling along a beach in Victoria when he plunged into the surf and vanished. No trace of the poor man was ever seen again. This seemed doubly astounding to me – that Australia could just lose a Prime Minister (I mean, come on) – Bill Bryson from ‘Down Under’
Not that Australia minds too much about who is their Prime Minister at the moment; they seem to go through them as fast as horny koalas. Bill Bryson, however, gives a perfect illustration of how bizarre and massive this country is. With its vast, crimson wastelands, lush, city jungles and raw, undeniable refinement, Australia is notorious for its sense of adventure and not to mention its lethal and odd inhabitants. I mean, have you ever paid attention to the strangeness of the kangaroo or the wombat? The ancestors of kangaroos look like they’ve bumped into a wall and never quite recovered from it and the grandparents of the wombat were basically just massive hamsters on steroids.
Anyway, we flew to Sydney from Amsterdam and roughly planned out our trip. We wanted to drive from Sydney down to Melbourne, follow the coast to South Australia, drive through the Nullabor and from Esperance go to the Margaret River. Then to Perth, up along the coast of Western Australia, then via the Gibb River Road to the Northern Territory, Darwin. From there, to Townsville, in Queensland and drive back down back to Sydney again. This is the map, where the red line is the route we’ve driven.
There is no way to prepare yourself for a trip such as this, and so, moderately nervous, with butterflies in our belly, we drove off to start our trip around Australia. Armed with the Lonely Planet, freshly bought camp gear – except for our 25-year-old fridge -, a healthy amount of excitement to explore the unknown, old books on how to cross the Nullabor safely, and a bag of Snakes, we set off to Melbourne. Neither of us had ever travelled around Australia before on this scale. We decided to have an easy start and book our first 3 nights at Jervis Bay, to enjoy the pristine beaches and azure ocean, which was a lovely first few days, yet desperately unrepresentative of what the journey actually was going to be like. Ignorant as hungry, carrot-loving wallabies, we ventured further into the wilds of Australia.
Now, I’m not going to give you a detailed description of our trip, for then I will need to write almost as long as we’ve been away for. However, I will tell you the highlights, what we’ve learned (most likely, the hard way) and attempt to do justice to how much this trip has meant to me.
1. Weather is more important than you think
Especially when you have a relatively high tent, that needs to be pegged down firmly into the ground for it to be able to stay up. We never thought that our most fierce and persistent nemesis would be ‘the wind’. When it was cold, we simply rugged up into our woollen jumpers and blankets. We laughed when it poured and poured from the sky onto our campsite, safely dry in our tent. However, we cried, shivered with fear and dread when the wind would increase and pull and push our tent and precious awning around like an inflatable air dancing tube man. If we were very unlucky, sand would blow through our ‘windows’ and form small dunes around our bed, as if the Dutch had come and tried to keep the water out. If we were very, very unlucky, the poles of the tent would sag and cause the whole pavilion to slowly come down onto us. And I can assure you, no man as ever felt stress like we did when we would wake up to wild flapping sounds, caused by the awning who had detached from its pegs and expressed its liberation by moving through the air like a flock of panicking seagulls. No, we can decidedly say that we would prefer rain and cold over wind any f***ing day.
2. Food and water can get tricky further up north
We knew Australia regularly deals with draughts and that the further north you go, the sparser water becomes. It is essential to bring along jugs where you can store water in when you can’t get it fresh. Towns where you can find a supermarket that doesn’t try to sell you a cucumber for 8$ also become a thing up north, and so ideally you want to make sure you have enough supplies for a week or two. As a cucumber lover, though, it was hard to make them survive since the fridge would either freeze them and leave them inedible or the heat would make them foam (yes, they can foam), and taste like socks and thus leave them inedible. We basically stocked up on cans of tuna, beans and tomato sauce, used wraps instead of bread, cooked with frozen (thawed) veggies instead of fresh ones, and had either rice or pasta for dinner. In the end, you’ll become pretty inventive and making lists of food for the upcoming two weeks became something like a sport for me. Also, as the semi-alcoholics we are, buy wine in goon, preferably when they’re on discount, ’cause WA and NT have some very strict laws on alcohol.
3. Expect the unexpected
While we casually drove towards the attraction of the day in WA, listening to a True Crime podcast, nibbling on raisins, Tim suddenly saw that the backlight that was attached to the wheel had broken off and was leaning sideways, ready to hit anything that came remotely close to the car. After a rapid stop on the highway, it took us at least half an hour to get the bloody thing off. During our trip, the car posed multiple issues we had to deal with, such as a broken exhaust pipe, a dead battery, issues with the second tank and a flat tire. The ancient fridge decided to be even more of a menace than it already was, and broke its nob with which you turn it on and off. The ground in the NT and northern part of WA was often too hard for us to put a peg into, so it became a constant struggle to find a spot to put our tent down. We designed the ‘peg-test’, where Tim would pull over at a spot that looked moderately promising, I would jump out of the car with a hammer and a peg, crouch down and beat the peg furiously, nod my head in disappointment and fall back into the car, which would drive off with squeaking tires in frustration. Many odd looks of relaxing elderly we’ve had, who sat down in front of their 4 meters long luxurious campervan, though to be frank, we’ve given them many judging looks in return. One day, we drove 600 kilometres to find a place to get our tent into the ground. Things that not even crossed my mind when we started this trip, happened and often required quick problem solving, yet made this trip even more memorable than it already was.
4. How to deal with crawling and flying things
March flies, mosquitoes, sand flies, spiders, ants, guana’s, possums, flies, crocodiles, crabs, wombats and wallabies, and I am sure I’m forgetting a few more. Here is a quote from our journal to illustrate our experience with march flies:
However, as soon as we stepped out of the car, we were visciously attacked by swarms of march flies. On their own they can be annoying, but managable, but when they attack in groups, masses, of 50 at least, the whole experience of camping becomes impossible, incomprehensible, because the only thing you want to do is to get away from those nasty, little, develish, persistent flying horrors. After I had broken down into crying, I resolved to stay in the car untill they’d all gone.
Besides march flies, mosquitoes drove us crazy in the beginning, though soon we knew how to keep them at bay by using excessive amounts of insect repellent (I honestly feel that it has been my main moisturiser during those months). We’ve had possums and kangaroos and magpies tear our bins open and scatter litter everywhere, though possums where the most fun for they’d sneak up on you during the night and then freeze when you shine a light on them. One night, we had an army of crabs on our campsite, trying to climb up onto the side awning, which was hilarious since they would slide off again after a couple of centimetres. Less fun was the day up in WA with 20 flies zooming and tormenting you with a 40 degrees heat, where you can’t swim in the ocean because of the saltwater crocs. I’m thankful spiders were our least concern.
5. Meet amazing people and be awed daily by Australia's beauty
Along the road trip, we’ve met so many interesting people, from casual talks with grey nomads, obnoxious booksellers who won’t stop talking, to neighbours with who you later go out for drinks and old friends you randomly meet in a pub in the middle of nowhere. In the end, it feels as if we did half our trip travelling with other people who happened to go the same way. We had a drunken night in Agnus Water, watching the English team play soccer. We visited the local giant lobster with Tim’s old friend, and we drove in a convoy with a couple for almost 2 months through WA and NT. I would say that the trip by itself was beautiful, but the people we’ve met along the way made it just the little bit extra. There was not a day that we didn’t see either stunning mountains, fascinating wildlife and flora, gorgeous gorges, vast salt plains, dazzling sunsets and magnificent oceans. To be able to share it with people you enjoy makes it more worthwhile.
Today is a remarkable day: it is the last day we camp and sleep in our tent! It makes us feel slightly sad, but also happy, with mixed feelings of relief, nostalgia and fondess to our tent. We’ve been sleeping in our beautiful high, blue & beige square tent for more than 5 months and it has brought us so much happiness despite its faults. Today even, the middle pole was stuck and Tim had to pull it for a while with a tool to release it. Besides that, the tent had a lot to endure, causing multiple small issues we had to deal with. The pegs are the first obvious issue, but also one pole has become slightly lame and tends to sag a bit during the night when not tightened properly. The flaps are dirty, and there’s a continious smell of wetness and dirt. Nonetheless, it has been our home during the trip and it has been a great tent; it got us through rain, heat, mozzies & flies, and a LOT of windgusts and it managed to stay up. We will treasure it always and look back on the tent as an amazing feature of our lap around ozzie.
Today, a report on my day of picking and packing and sorting oranges in Leeton. Many oranges have been denied access to the first grade orange boxes, despite their flashy shiny coating they received. Orange families are furious by their blunt refusal, where the unlucky citrus’s were thrown into a large bin, designated for either becoming juice or something more ominous. The perpetrator confesses to feel rather guilty sending so many orange coloured balls into their conviction, though states that “she tried to do only what was asked of her”. She apologises for the heartache she has caused.
Tomorrow, a light shower in the morning, temperatures in the low 10’s and a chance of a dance with oranges.
He was not that type of guy who would willingly dive into anything serious. Although his heart would secretly yearn for commitment and safe affection, he could not find it in himself to put his restlessness at ease. He had tried, believe me, but all had failed. Some he would have wounded, some he would have neglected, some he would have forgotten, and some he would have vexed, though not her. Despite his rebellious ego, his besieged pride, he could not let go of her. It was a paradox; like a maze he could not escape from. There were moments he felt as if he was wriggling and kicking against strangling hands wrapped around his throat, yet the same feeling gave him excitement, ecstasy. She was as menacing, frustrating, displeasing, puzzling and perplexing as a woman could possibly ever be, yet the same she was exhilarating, invigorating and addictive. She felt like a cool, misty breath taken on a frosty morning, with a sky painted icy azure. Your lips would tingle, your hands would prickle and your nose would turn red, and even when the cold would freeze you through to the bones, a passion of life would capture you, as if you have not lived ever before.
Besides making an exception for all the days that are dedicated to Christmas, I nominate this day (the 13th of July) as my most cherished one. I have been running around like a mad dog every time someone mentioned a present and I have been plotting and scheming about where they might be hiding them. Yes, I behave like an actual child when it comes to my birthday, and no, I do not intend to change that. Similarly, I have requested in my list -where I have stated all my wishes and desires for this special day- that I would want as many balloons as the house could possibly hold. My loving boyfriend did indeed purchase at least 50 balloons, though appears sufficiently unable to help provide the air needed to inflate these miniature rubber zeppelins. It has fallen onto me, the burden of supplying the room with the festive necessities, though I won’t say I am unhappy doing it.
On the list was also a bottle of Glenfiddich, which I received, and an incredibly fluffy bathrobe, which I received, and a lovely emerald play-suit, which I received, and a dog, which I did not receive, though frankly, that was wishful thinking to begin with. All in all, I feel rather content with my birthday so far, and soon I will be celebrating my quarter- of – a- century with friends and wine and Glenfiddich and balloonyness.
As Yoda would say: A party it is, that you desire!