What I Cooked Last Night

In 2021 I posted a list of songs, ranked in order of personal choice, from one hundred to one. I was fascinated by the obsession with ranking things, and tried to demystify the process by making one myself; a kind of contrary similia similibus curantur . Of course, having posted my top hundred I immediately disagreed with many of my own selections, vindicating my scepticism about lists*. But I had already undertaken the experiment a couple of decades earlier and completely forgotten about it. The older list was a top ten of the 1990s, published on one of my early 2000s nouveau siècle weblogs, of which everyone seemed to have several at the time. It surfaced recently out of the internet like a lost vegetable peeler turning up in the compost. For purely historical interest, here is the initial post followed by the first five songs. * It’s 2004: time I posted my favourite songs of the 1990s. There's no point rushing it. Time gives you perspective. … In the 1990s, my first marriage ha...

A large television screen cast a lurid blue glow over the foyer. On the screen, an exclamation mark inside a triangle, like a road sign warning of a bridge down, drew attention to the words below:  'This show contains guns and physical violence, firearms, death, explicit language, sexual content, apocalyptic themes and depiction of a nuclear disaster. Please be advised that this show contains loud noises, flashing, intense lighting and the use of haze.' I thought it was parody. Of course, it might have been both warning and parody at the same time. You can’t tell. The last play I saw in the university, decades ago, was Oedipus Rex, performed in the old Union House theatre near Wilson Hall. Years later the theatre moved a hundred metres to the arts and cultural centre, a swirling architectural fantasy that has an interior with no straight lines and a colour scheme like blueberries in a blender.  * He took a hansom to the university. The drive occupied twenty minutes, but by the...

His fingers—hands—were always busy. They had a life of their own, drumming, twisting, elucidating; not in the Neapolitan gesticulating sense, but in a kind of hand language of his own.  We sat in the cafe—teenagers on the brink of twenty—and drank coffee, and talked about our lives, because they were ahead of us. David’s hands unfolded like a bird’s wings or a carnate Greek statue, his symmetry disturbed only by the heavy black curl over his pale forehead. So there was European in his blood, probably Spanish. The café, at the top of Bourke Street, was long and narrow, with red-topped stools running in a row back to the kitchen. Behind the bar, the bow-tied waiters smiled and made coffee and spoke stage Italian. After drinking coffee, enlivened, we would cross a lane into a cramped bookshop, and browse, and envisage our unfolding lives represented in the pages of the authors and poets to which we gravitated: Whitman, Genet, Joyce, White, Bellow, the usual French and Russians; the Be...

Of course, I would never dream of serving pasta any other way than al dente . Social ostracism might ensue, if you’ll pardon the sarcasm. I was standing by the pot, watching the steam rising frantically in baroque curlicues; little parallel curves like a Don Martin cartoon in a magazine circa 1968. I turned it down to ‘simmer’ and wondered how generations of Italians managed to instantaneously transport themselves from the threshing fields, the horse and plough, the FIAT production line, or the corner garage at the very moment nonna drained the cooked-to-the-second yellow strands. Maybe they did, but it seems unlikely. Forgive me, padre, for I have sinned (SFX: jiggle of rosary beads—use uncooked rigatoni if unavailable: shaken, they sound uncannily like chunky wooden beads). The sin : I once broke the al dente mantra, enthusing on this weblog about well-cooked pasta—in that instance a thick, muscular, robust bucatini paired with a meat ragu made from the leftover semi-solid fluids f...

In 1948 she was already 27; over the hill, as her American-slang-talking buddies might have said, jokingly; or not. Some of them had actually married American soldiers during the war. Years later, when I was writing a history of the college she had attended, a clear-memoried ninety-year-old who knew every stitch in her darned woollen gloves told me one or two had returned to Melbourne after the war accompanied only by a child. Kathleen was an amateur thespian; local theatre companies, play-reading groups, poetry recitations, that kind of thing. She was tall and willowy, and had a face that smiled crookedly; she was no beauty. She lived with her parents and wrote diaries. She worked in a city office and wore fawn gabardine coats in winter on the tram into town and home again. The house was an untouched Edwardian, of the kind you expect still to be lit by gas, on a triangular corner block below the rail bridge in Ascot Vale, and from the east window of its heavy-sofaed sitting room, you ...

This old house has no built-in wardrobes, so we ordered a new freestanding one from the furniture store to replace an old one that was too small for a teenager's fashion ambitions. The new wardrobe came flat-packed in three huge packages, like the monoliths in 2001:A Space Odyssey . The monolith packages contained innumerable pieces of particleboard, some main strut-type wooden beams, scores of shiny metal items that looked like pieces of hinge, and hundreds of tiny metallic screw-like objects. Attached, and nicely protected inside a ziploc plastic bag, was an authorless book entitled—I think— Instructions: The Seque l. I might have embellished that last bit, but the book is gone; it could have been A Long Day’s Journey into Night or Ulysses . There was an option. By paying an extra fee you could have the million pieces magically transmogrified into an actual wardrobe, 'magically' because the assembler would not need to read Instructions: The Sequel or A Long Day’s Journe...

Shchi?  It looks unpronounceable* to the English speaker's eye, trapped by the double digraph. It’s just cabbage soup. It features enticingly, within cosy steamed-up café windows, in Hal Porter's The Paper Chase  (see post July 9). For a couple of fleeting years, Melbourne’s late-1930s intelligentsia gathered at Café Petrushka, where discussions of fascism, philosophy, borscht, communism, and wall paintings forestalled looming premonitions of a new world war. Porter's autobiography exhumes artists, dancers, chefs, writers and drunks; and they live again, dustily, gold-specked, spectral, in the memory-shroud of history. The cafés owners bought their cabbages—and everything else for their kitchen—a few blocks away at the Victoria market. My grandmother shopped in those post-Depression days at the same market, approaching at a similar distance, but from the opposite direction. Cabbages, cabbages. Cabbages stacked in four-in-the-morning darkness by the sleepless; carried from t...

The neighbours' children, four and six, are candy-coloured noise machines in their winter woollens; bright as bunnies; excitable, alert, and enquiring. The teenager visits them occasionally, crossing the road to their little white house when their parents go out for dinner or a concert, to babysit them. ('Babysit’ seems obsolete once children pass the age of two or three. Monitors? Too close to surveillance, and therefore creepy. Looks after? Too folksy. Minds? Supervises? Too official. English has multiple words for so many ideas but no satisfactory word for 'guarding' children.) * The children’s mother had messaged the teenager on one of those closed-community message platforms—virtual village squares without the well. Could you garder les enfants on Tuesday? The teenager didn’t receive the message immediately, possibly being in a class, watching a movie, or sleeping.  That’s where the trouble starts. You can’t be at that metaphorical village square, loitering like a...

(We) stroll ... under the twilight plane-trees of Collins Street until we turn to enter Little Collins Street and the Café Petrushka. ... (through) a glass-panelled door streaming with the condensed breaths of Melbourne's 1937 intelligentsia—writers, musicians, painters, actors, dancers, and their hangers-on ... run by two young women, Minka, ... of Russian-Jewish parents ... and Jessie ... (who) must arise at unseemly hours to buy meat and vegetables at the Prahran and Victoria Markets. With the help of a part-time assistant cook, Minka and Jessie prepare the food in a ten-foot-square kitchen separated from the dining-room by green curtains. … I pay ... for kotletki golubtzi or lenivy shchi ... Minka is willing to give me poppy-seed rolls and a large bowl of borsch for lettering out menus in Cyrillic script ...   … the paintings ... hung on the sweating green walls … are grimly abstract or murkily message-ridden as though to prove … amid the laughter and melodious teaspoons and ...

Two . Six . Eighteen . A week ago he turned twenty-one, so we celebrated with dinner at the Little Hungarian (no, we’re not), a modest glass-fronted café of the gingham-cloth kind in Glenhuntly Road.  On a cold wet midwinter night, we ate finely-hammered schnitzels edging over their plates like storm-tossed boats, chicken soup with matzoh balls, szegediner goulash; lecsó salad, sautéd red cabbage and sauerkraut sides; and then followed these with caster-sugared strudels and crepes leaching fruit like snow-dusted forest floors.  Egri Korona red wine filled glasses which, through their prismatic distortions, turned the lights of the trams sailing past outside into little planets of rain-streaked gold.

At night the trees speak in hushed tones over the small starlight-silvered bungalow, but the river at the end of the street snakes its bends in black silence. I walk along the river’s north side at night, sometimes under a full moon, listening to the faint hiss of the upper branches of the silhouetted pines, old cypresses planted a century ago by some riverside farmer who probably lost stock floating away in its sinister flood prone flatness. Eventually the child, his auburn-haired, kaftanned and sandalled mother sometimes already in exhausted sleep, is grown enough to accompany me past twilight to climb on the tubular steel play-rocket embedded in concrete at a sky-bound forty-five degrees. He sits silhouetted like the trees, so I cannot see his astronaut’s intent frown of concentration. We return to the bungalow and he sleeps and I read, deep into the night, motoring magazines or Bleak House or the film festival program. George, the Sicilian landlord, collects the rent every second ...

It is the year of Star Wars and Saturday Night Fever , and because I am busy with studying and working and finding somewhere to live, I miss the two blockbusters, and never, ever see them. It is also the year of Annie Hall , and I do see it, but not in that year. It is 1977. My first landlord is one of several Georges. Rentals in the inner north-western suburbs are often owned by Greek immigrants, but this George is a short Sicilian; his only Greekness being a comical Thalia face. Having seen a classified ad in the Saturday Age, I push open the angled glass door of Abbot and Dean, Real Estate Agents and Property Managers, in Rose Street on the Monday morning and sign a twelve-month lease. That squiggle decides it: I'm leaving home, bye-bye : age nineteen. The bungalow is a board-and-batten square with soft green panels enframed in white timber below a raked roof, crouching in semi-seclusion amongst trees in the back yard of a house on a sloping corner block at the river end of Abe...