Ruminations and recipes from a small kitchen in a big city.


The tyranny of choice: a tale of two time machines.

You can only have so many cars, unless you’re Lindsay Fox or a bureaucracy. In my case, I once could fit two cars in the double garage, one on the front lawn and two more in the driveway. But that was years ago.

Then we moved, and there was no garage. Plus we had two more children, and children cost more than cars unless you run Alfa Romeos. So I was back to two cars. The Tangerine Dream for me, and the Volvo (English: “I roll”) 940 for Tracy.

But you can still window-shop. My favourite lunchtime reading became the online car classifieds, after giving up on online newspapers full of Z-grade celebrities and stories about overweight dogs or horses drinking in bars.

Read enough car ads and you develop a kind of sixth sense about the condition of a vehicle. ‘A couple of supermarket scratches’ means major bodywork; ‘long reg.’ mean two months; ‘recent full Selespeed service’ means the gearbox is rubbish; ‘near new Pirellis’ means ‘quite old Pirellis’; ‘quick sale’ means the vehicle has been stolen; and, if it’s a Mercedes Benz, ‘black paint’ means a Moonee Ponds gangster is selling his car.

Your car-ad-copy sixth sense lets you filter out the bad ads, drawing you to the good ones. A couple of weeks ago I came across the following description, which I have cut and pasted from the ad verbatim, including excessive ellipses and gratuitous capitalisation:
Now...take your time reading this....ONE OWNER....FULL SERVICE HISTORY.....The BEST Volvo we have ever seen.....This has been kept in a garage in Seymour and hardly ever driven...It is immaculate.....This is a Collectors vehicle....One you keep and stick away somewhere..... price is firm....FIRST TO SEE WILL BUY THIS...
It was a metallic-sky blue 1989 760 GLE, not the collector’s favourite. The pictures in the ad showed an unmarked vehicle. The interior looked like no one had sat in it, but since the odometer read 116,450 kilometres, I assume someone had been it at some stage. The model is rare in this condition. In pre-recession 1989, many top-of-the-line Eurobarges of this kind were leased to business types who wanted all the bells and whistles, drove them hard and sold them four years later to owners who might not have serviced them enough. (Incidentally, the 1989 Volvo 760 GLE sticker price of $90,000 would have bought you a house that would be worth around $1.1 million today. The Volvo is now worth $2,000. Choices!)

So here was a genuine one-owner, unmolested, completely original time-warp vehicle with a full service record that looked like it had rolled (Latin: “volverat”) off the Kalmar production line yesterday. You could drive it and imagine it was 1989.

Which was a problem.

Because the rule was we could have only two cars.

How could I get around the rule? Maybe I could buy the 760 and hide it. I wondered how I could secrete a 760 GLE into a dark corner of the backyard, or park it down the street, or pretend it belonged to my brother who lives in Alice Springs (really) and he would be coming to pick it up in a while, say 2015, and I could use it in the meantime.

But I knew, deep down, way down in my shoes, that I would have to choose between two cars. The 940 was out, of course, because that was Tracy’s daily car. That meant I had to choose between the 244 or the 760. Which was it to be? I hadn’t had this kind of dilemma since one day years ago when I was single and two women moved in next door and I ended up marrying one.

But which one? How do you choose these things? Lord, give me guidance.

Would I toss a coin? The orange 244, of course, had ridden, sounded and driven like a new car when I purchased it in 2007, so I could pretend it was 1976, when Malcolm Fraser was a Liberal Prime Minister (hard to believe, but true) and tune the AM radio to Magic 1278 and hear If You Leave Me Now by Chicago to add to the 1976 ambience. I like cars that make you think time travel exists, like in that movie, the name of which escapes me. One of the ones that is so popular everyone knows the plot even if they’ve never seen it.

In four years, I added 27,000 kilometres to the 244’s odometer, gave it a new set of Michelins, changed the starter motor, and serviced it religiously every 5,000 kilometres. At 67,000 kilometres, any Volvo is still a new car. The only thing that changed about the 244 in four years was that it started turning heads. A Volvo turning heads? 244s used to be everywhere, but are now a relative rarity, let alone in this condition. Being orange helped. It got particular notice in the inner suburbs where art and design people gather. Every time I parked it in Brunswick Street, people would run out of cafes, high on caffeine, and offer to buy it. The offers kept rising, like electricity bills. My car was no longer just an old Volvo. It was a “design icon”.

But the allure of a new (new for me, anyway) kind of Volvo – an old-school V6 – got the 760 over the line, by a nose, which is not insignificant when it comes to Volvos. The 760 had all the gear deemed necessary in the power-suited 1980s: cruise control, an innovation called climate control that heated your feet and froze your head, chrome everywhere, headlamp wipers, remote entry that bleeps, seat heating, a sunroof, a light around the front passenger’s visor mirror, and reading lamps for the back seat passengers. How cultivated! By contrast, today’s cars stick a television in the back of the front seat, so your children can stare vacantly at Yo Gabba Gabba while you drive along the Great Ocean Road:
- “Hey kids, take a look at that amazing sight! Loch Ard gorge! A clipper sank there in huge seas in 1878! The only two survivors were a young lady and a cabin boy who clung to a spar for five hours! They wrote a play about it called Eva and the Cabin Boy! The site is of massive historical and social interest!”

- Silence, apart from the idiotic TV soundtrack
That one feature puts 1989 at the turning point of civilisation, and here was the car to prove it. Reading lamps! I think it was the reading lamps that closed the deal. It’s the little things.

So next morning, I rang the dealer and bought the 760 over the phone, and the dealer trucked it home a day later, while I was at work, and left it under the carport. Alert readers will have realised that I had purchased a 22-year-old car without even having sat in it, let alone driven it.

The 760 waited patiently under the carport until the weekend. I came out early on a cold winter Saturday morning; walked around it once, clockwise; admired its ridiculously dated lines; opened the door – “bleep” - and got into the driver’s seat; and turned the key. Nothing happened.

Just kidding. The car started immediately, and the six cylinders chattered softly to themselves like polite children. I backed it out, turned its massive nose around with a gentle whine of power steering, and drove it. The engine was turbine-smooth, slow to rouse, and wound up like a dragon disturbed from sleep when pushed. The engine, of course, is the same PVR type fitted to the famous DeLorean DMC-12. Then it dawned on me.

I had purchased a DeLorean in disguise!


Always buy a good umbrella.

Lunchtime yesterday. I was at the top end of Collins Street trying to walk south and the rain was horizontal, propelled by a gale that was howling straight up the middle like a 1970s Western Oval southerly.

It had been raining before the wind came, and the street had been a sea of umbrellas. Suddenly, the wind got up and all the $10 umbrellas blew inside out and snapped their ribs, and someone’s quality one flew up into the plane trees and hung there like a paratrooper landing in a forest. It should be fine if the owner manages to retrieve it. The rain was so intense people had to take refuge in shops. I was outside Harrold’s Gentlemen’s Outfitters and, at the height of the storm, I and four or five others huddled in the entrance set back from Collins Street, and that made the electric doors open, so we stood inside instead, far enough back to let the doors close, and waited for the storm to pass. I amused myself by inspecting the display case nearest the door. Paul Smith driving gloves, $295. The staff just stared. A “Hello, how’s the weather outside?” would have been nice, if a little superfluous, and, indeed, comical. Then the wind died and the rain slowed, and we went out into Collins Street again. $295? Ridiculous. A show-off brand for cashed-up bogans. You can get the old money brand in Henry Buck’s for half the price, or cheap ones in Dimmey's Coburg for $5. I have the $5 ones, but I refuse to buy a cheap umbrella. They are just not worth it.

I went back to my office on the top floor of what used to be a department store, and looked up the temperature. It was 8 degrees but the wind must have sent it lower. Later the sun came out and shone through the skylight and hit my desk.

I left the office late and walked out of the city past the steamed-up Chinese cafĂ© windows in Russell Street and around the corner into Lygon Street. Then past the gas heaters and spruikers of Little Italy, and through darkness and coldness and bitter wind and pooled water reflecting streetlights and car lamps and, at last, home. I love that walk. Everyone should do it. It’s good for the appetite.

Dinner was late. William, still awake, came out and said he was hungry, and I made grilled Jarlsberg on toast, his favourite. He likes the way it bubbles. Pasta with onions for me.

Pasta with onions: for the longest night.

First I chopped a large onion into rings and set it on the stove in a pan with a tight-fitting lid on low heat with oil, and a little sugar. Then I set a pot of water to boil for pasta.

With that out of the way, I made the grilled cheese on toast and, while William ate, to the boiling water I added bavette (the boys call it square spaghetti, although it is strictly speaking rectangular across the grain), and squeezed a lemon, and added the juice to the onions in the pan, and gave them a stir.

Then I made another round of grilled cheese, and drained the cooked pasta. William has a great appetite right now, coming out of a cold. Soon he went off to bed after a glass of milk.

I opened a bottle of Mt Alexander shiraz 2008, the one that reminds me of chocolate paper straws. Then I drained the pasta and twirled it into a large serving bowl, and added several strips of previously-prepared roasted red pepper in olive oil and garlic, and a dozen pieces of semi-dried tomato, and half a jar of anchovies in oil, drained. I folded these ingredients through and the whole thing was unctuous and aromatic.

Then I scattered a generous amount of the now-caramelised onions over the lot, and that made it possibly my best-ever pasta invention, although the one with chicken, asparagus, mushrooms and a touch of home-made pesto comes close.

Try it and see what you think.


Now We Are Six.

On Sunday afternoon, a garden tea party attended by friends and relations was held for William to mark his sixth birthday.

The guest of honour wore an argyle-patterned wool vest knitted by his maternal grandmother with a white linen shirt and his favourite red tie, and fawn corduroy trousers.

The weather report for Sunday had changed every day last week, variously predicting sun, rain, cool, warmer and dry. Contingency rooms inside had been prepared, but the afternoon turned out merely cloudy, and the sun appeared mid-afternoon, and warmed the gathering.

Guests were welcomed at the front gate by Thomas while a gaily-coloured bunting banner flapped in the breeze. The bunting, made by Tracy from neat triangles of vintage fabrics sewn onto white cotton webbing, festooned the front garden all the way from the front right stay of the carport to the trunk of the ornamental pear in front of the lounge room window.

The guests included William’s current school friends and kindergarten friends from last year. A special guest was William’s paternal grandmother who failed, despite poor health, to maintain a serene presence on a chair in a sunny corner during the afternoon and insisted on rocking the baby, making gallons of tea, washing up and generally making a nuisance of herself. (The aforementioned vest-knitting maternal grandmother was unable to attend due to hospitalisation for surgery to repair a knee ligament following a fall on rail-less steps in a darkened room – a victim of that appalling 1970s architectural feature, the ‘sunken living room’. Get well soon, Grandma.)

Afternoon tea was served at outdoor tables on 1950s seersucker check tablecloths using old mix-and-match teacups and saucers arranged around centrepieces of large bowls of red apples, mandarins and bananas. Were there a theme, which there wasn’t, it might have been primary colours.

Fare consisted of triangle sandwiches in a variety of fillings to please adults and children, iced and sugar-dusted cupcakes, freshly baked savoury pastries including Tracy’s sausage rolls with garlic, tomato and spiced filling, and miniature meat pies bought in from our official pie supplier, the tiny shop in Walker’s Arcade off Sydney Road (try their Cornish pasties or cheese and broccoli pies). Cheese, crackers, olives, sliced meats and a variety of other finger food items were served on Carltonware divided platters. Leaf tea in pots, coffee and white wine were offered; lemonade, fruit juices or milk for the children.

There were no official activities or clowns or magicians or jugglers, however large coloured chalks were provided for pavement drawing, and a box of vintage clothes for dressing up, and balls for kicking around the garden. The children managed to amuse themselves. Several climbed the old grapefruit tree that is loaded right now with full-size but yet to ripen fruit. A number of these made excellent bowling balls. Children are resourceful when you don't spoon-feed them.

A very large chocolate cake of several layers sandwiching chocolate ganache and topped with more ganache concluded the day. Then everyone went home in the dying winter light of a Sunday in June.

Memories are made of this.


Earlier milestones here.


Flayed with puns: export cattle crisis latest.

The West Australian reports:
Senator Ludwig is meeting MLA (Meat and Livestock Australia) representatives today, but the organisation faces more grilling at a Senate inquiry.
Bumbling Minister Ludwig, who would be as popular on a cattle station right now as Small Business Minister Sherry in a bookshop, won't wear the blame:
He said the buck stopped with the MLA.


The Long Good Morning.

I used to be able to wake myself at any time during the small hours, such as three in the morning. I taught myself to do it when I was a kid and had a paper round.

(Paper round? Kids delivering newspapers on bicycles. They used to slide them neatly into the round hole over the letterbox or, if there was no round hole, between two pickets in the fence near the gate. These days they wrap the paper in unpeelable plastic and fling it at the property from a moving car that doesn’t stop, like a drive-by shooting, and the newspaper might land on the property or it might not. I spent five minutes looking for the paper recently. It was on the roof. I am not making this up. )

I tried waking myself up this morning at 4.23 to see the eclipse. I woke at three. I tried again. It worked. 4.20 a.m. William woke up, co-incidentally. We went outside. The moonlight was still bright and cut a frosty white slant across the lawn and up the fence. The eclipse had just begun. A small stain like spilled ink was growing on the moon in the one o’clock position. It was too cold to stay outside long.

Up again at six. This time, Tom was awake. Now the moon was lower, a dirty red misty orb, and it was disappearing fast behind clouds. We watched it disappear and went inside for breakfast.

Breakfast here is jungle animals. No, we don’t eat them, I’m describing the attendees. It’s a slow insurrection, a bar room brawl without the swing doors, a tornado that doesn’t go anywhere.

There’s one rule. We never rush. Never. I tell them to riot slowly. The baby, who still keeps Tracy awake half the night, has recently joined us as she is old enough to kind of sit up. To add to the noise, we have entertainment from the radio on the fridge. Nothing on FM (other than the subscriber stations) is in any way suitable for a family audience, so we have the AM station that plays Cash, Presley, Miller, Sinatra, Cline, Allen, O’Keefe, Parton, Orbison, Jones, Springfield, Monro, Rogers, Franklin, McPhatter, Sedaka and Johnson. The children get rowdy, I just turn the radio up.

Here's how it goes: load up the table. A Roger Miller song comes on the radio: Put a smile upon your face as if there’s nothing wrong. Oats with milk and honey. Poached eggs with toast on the side, sliced into inch strips. Think about a good time had a long time ago, think about forgetting about your worries and your woes. Hot tea. The baby has toast strips and grated cheese. La La La La Lah-di-o, whether the weather be rain or snow. She’s at the stage where they get their finger and thumb working like a pincher crane and then they swing it around like a cantilever and unload over the floor. Steve Pinker’s The Language Instinct postulated an innate, universal grammar capacity at three years old. That’s nothing. My ten-month-old has conquered construction engineering. There’s a book in it. Pretending can make it real. A snowy pasture, a green and grassy field. Roger Miller’s phrasing is perfect. So was the morning. Then the fridge door fell off.

Yes. The fridge door fell off.

It’s a nine-year-old Kelvinator, barely run in. It’s a big fridge. The door has been sagging slightly but to completely fall off is ridiculous. That’s the only word I can think of. I’m going to start an organisation called The Ridiculous Society and hold monthly indignation meetings. We’ll have a million members by July and I’ll be president and we’ll hold annual Ridiculous Awards.

The bracket holding the lower pin had completely snapped off, along with the base bracket holding the right front castor. Ridiculously (again), the castor itself had caved in around its axle, like a flat tyre. That failure itself might have caused the door to come off, because an intact castor should have held the door just high enough to keep the upper pin in its bracket. But it didn’t. Rubbish products are one thing but what really annoyed me was that some time ago I threw out a 1950s Crosley Shelvador refrigerator in perfect working order. It used to purr loudly and thump to a stop but it worked like a swiss watch for almost sixty years. And the door on this piece of crap fell off in less than ten.

That was at five to eight. By half past eight I had arranged delivery of a new fridge from Clive Peeters and removal of the old one and its ridiculous door. Then I walked William to school. The Principal was standing with a mug of coffee in his usual place in the sun in the schoolyard. I greeted him and he pointed out a new 10-year-old just arrived in Australia, whose parents had fled Greece's economic meltdown for a new land. They'd been here two days. He had not a word of English, the Principal told me. He was playing soccer with the other children. William ran off and joined them.


Then a walk to the station to wait for the 8.57 city train. It was a very cold morning, but the sun shone.

Walkin’ in the sunshine, sing a little sunshine song

Invisible link.

Despite being a few shades of grey apart, links in my posts were virtually indistinguishable from surrounding text, rendering some posts even more obscure than usual. Now links are coloured and you can actually see them. I just dragged some crimson out of that sunrise.


When Ford Prefect was a car.

Remember that Top Gear coffee table book about retro cars entitled My Father Had One of Those?

Here's where they were parked.


Romantic poetry redux, with adverbs.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.

- The Cloud by Percy Bysshe Shelley

iCloud stores your content and wirelessly
pushes it to all your devices. And
because it seamlessly integrates with your apps,
everything happens automatically

- iCloud by Apple Corporation


They're racing in Hurstbridge. And a recipe involving scotch ale and pork.

Hurstbridge was cold. It’s always cold in Hurstbridge, except in summer when it’s as hot as hell. Maybe I’ve just never visited in spring or autumn.

It was the monthly Sunday farmers’ market. I don’t usually like markets when they’re full of trinkets and junk and strawberry soap, but this one is different. The market rambles across open space on the river flat below the main street, just north of where the train line ends in a pile of junk in the old rail yards.

The children were queuing for pony rides at the edge of the market grounds where Diamond Creek meanders through the eucalypts, so I went over to the Grand Ridge Brewery stall just to admire the labels on the bottles. No cutting edge minimalism here. Each label has the magnificent Grand Ridge Brewery lyrebird logo over different background colours to indicate which beer variant it is. Handy, because you don’t want to be reading small type late at night when you reach into the fridge for your seventh beer, especially when the scores are close. You just want to grab a colour. Carlton & United Breweries knew this years ago, and made blue, red, green and white (later yellow) beers. The brand was the colour.

I noticed one I hadn't seen before, with a black label that read Supershine, which sounded like a car polish. The label revealed that the beer had an alcohol content of 11.5%, so it was probably not a bad comparison.

- It’s from my private collection, the man told me. Not available in stores, he said. It’s a silky smooth scotch ale with notes of treacle, molasses and herb with distinctive cashew and toast. Best sipped after dinner on a cold night when rain is lashing the house and you’re in front of an open fire and the telephone isn’t ringing. He didn't say the last bit but that was the picture he was painting with the treacle and cashew and toast descriptions. Not to mention the 11.5% on the label. The man was Eric Walters. He runs the brewery and drives about the state doing markets and promoting the beer, so he has the best job in the world.

I bought a couple of bottles of private collection Supershine and wandered back to the pony rides. William had been happy to roll along on his pony at pony speed, but Tom had tried to gallop his mount but it did not oblige. Can't have children racing horses around Hurstbridge on a quiet Sunday morning.

Pork hocks with Grand Ridge Brewery Supershine.

Take a pork hock and place it in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Add one bottle Grand Ridge Brewery Supershine (don’t tell Eric), one carrot chopped into thick rings, one bay leaf, two cloves, one scant half teaspoon each of nutmeg and cinnamon and a tablespoon of honey. Add water to just cover hock, bring to the boil and simmer for two hours.

When tender, remove hock and reserve stock. Chop an onion and fry it in another pan in a good amount of butter. Gently add somewhat less than a tablespoon of plain flour and stir to combine until thickened. Add some strained stock - and the carrots – and bring it to a gentle boil, then turn down the heat and stir until it reduces a little.

Serve the hock with roasted potatoes and pour the sauce over the lot. Drink: the remaining bottle of Supershine.


How fast is 3.1 million mph, anyway?

It's not every day a reporter gets to pull up a drama, within two sentences, like Clancy hauling in a runaway horse at the edge of a cliff:
The coronal mass ejection is directed at Earth and moving at about 3.1 million mph (5 million kph), SDO mission scientists said in a statement.
Reaction to this kind of statement is frequently expressed in one short word. But the reporter, after only the briefest pause, possibly to inhale, hit return and rattled out the following:
"Due to its angle, however, effects on Earth should be fairly small. Nevertheless, it may generate space weather effects here on Earth in a few days," they added.
Hard to do police rounds after that.

Today is the coldest day in Melbourne for years. Any 'weather effects' around your way?


Four-year-old dons flippers; teaches himself to dive.

Filmed at the diving pool, Coburg Olympic swimming pool, March 2011. Starring Thomas, 4 years and 5 months.



One of more hair-raising stories from the book I worked on (on and off) for six years until the thing finally appeared last year:
I am uncertain of the year I started at St Bernard’s - being 1942 or 1943 - but I have clear recollections of the reason. While in Grade Four at St Monica’s, we did regular air raid practice, and helped dig air raid shelters in the large dusty wasteland that was the schoolyard. During these exercises there were various boyish discussions about the war, and to where we would be evacuated if the war were to get any closer.

I remember in particular becoming friendly with a group of boys - in particular, two brothers whose father was at the war; and as I recall, missing in action. These were Ted and Jack Harris. They lived above Williams shoe shop in Sydney Road, Moreland. Ted was in my class and Jack in my brother Leo's class. One day they came to school with a fistful of money, how much I am not sure. Nor am I sure I knew at the time how they had come by this windfall and probably did not care, but found out later that they had entered the shoe shop through a manhole accessible from their upstairs accommodation.

We decided that we should spend it wisely and invest in some treats, rarely if ever seen by we poorer kids. Two or four kids were dispatched to the nearest place of purchase for Violet Crumbles, licorice straps and Coca-Cola. We gorged ourselves beyond measure, devouring most of the booty either behind the toilets, in the bike shed or in the half-completed air raid shelters. Like all good things, our party came to an end, maybe within a week; and we thought no more about it. Until one day, Br Hayes or Ryan asked Ted Harris to come to the front of the class. They both left the room together, Brother returning a short time later and searching Ted's desk for evidence related to this heist from the shoe shop.

I was taken out of class next, down to the brothers' lunch room; and to my horror was confronted by two plain clothes detectives and interviewed regarding our involvement in this crime. A few of us who were interviewed became so scared that we met after school and decided to run away.

You can imagine how well prepared we were, no food or warm clothes etc., etc. From memory I think we chose the Pascoe Vale area, due to the many trains going through that station and area, taking troops and supplies north for the war. I distinctly remember that the trains quite often slowed to a walking pace due to the steep rise out of Pascoe Vale, particularly Heavy Harry, the largest locomotive ever built in Australia. Heavy Harry and other locomotives quite often used to slip and get wheel spin on the frosty tracks, and then reverse back some considerable way for a re-run at the incline. Just the right place for us to board and hide in a goods wagon and be on our way to Sydney or somewhere.

However, we had to abandon this plan as no train would slow down sufficiently enough for us to board. As I recall, it was getting late, dark and chilly so we decided to go to the aerodrome boundary and find shelter in a hut we had previously seen while mushrooming in the area. No accommodation was found, and we arrived at the huge trestle bridge that is on the main Sydney line between Keilor and St Albans.

Climbing the supporting steelwork was no mean feat, one that I would not contemplate today. This bridge had a service walkway along its length and was a welcome resting place for the night.

I cannot recall the police being notified, possibly because my father had a huge network of friends. I do recall seeing lights at night flashing all over the place, but am not sure whether these were searchlights, which were very common near the airport during the war. I remember we froze at night and after the second night we decided to head back to a more populated area under cover of darkness. We gathered what we called plum puddings, which were unripe grass seeds, and ate them voraciously, but hunger lingered.

On the third night I found a sheltered spot in a telephone box in Gaffney Street near the station; and had settled in nicely when an American serviceman sought refuge from the cold while affectionately saying goodnight to his girlfriend. He entered the phone box and stood on me. I don't know who got the bigger fright.

Now I needed to seek cover quickly, both from the cold and detection; and immediately found shelter behind the shutters at the nearby newsagent’s. In those days shops and houses had to be blacked out with tar paper, and the newsagents had a trellis in front where the paper bundles could be thrown for weather and other protection. An ideal place for a sleep in an emergency. Such was not the case, as soon after I was battered by the paper deliveryman hurtling his bundles through the opening. I retreated to the parcels shed on Pascoe Vale station, where I think two of the others were, and slept. We were nearly apprehended by early station staff and took off. By this time hunger and disunity had set in and the rest is a bit vague, except I recall being home shortly after and belted to within an inch of my life.
Murphy's Lore: A History of St Bernard's College As Told by Those Who Were There
Edited by Paul Kennedy
Penfolk Publishing Blackburn (2010)

More information here. (Click on cover to request information or purchase.)