What I cooked last night.

In the early years of the century weblog writers circulated amongst themselves what were known as ‘memes’ - essentially questionnaires or surveys on various subjects, the following of which concerned books. The questions and my answers, posted on one an early weblog, were as follows: How many books do you own? Far too many. Hundreds. maybe thousands. They lurk, they shuffle, they sit on dark shelves silently and laugh on open shelves out loud. They reside in boxes stuffed away in back rooms. They probably dance with each other at night, covers akimbo, leaves all a-splay. They come out occasionally to be read. Most times, they are on their best behaviour. I love them. But sometimes I threaten to sell them when their stories become too loud, too raucous, like ghosts of the past having a party. They stop immediately, but I think they do not take me seriously and start regaling each other once again when I am asleep. You can't have too many books. The problem is the more you read, the

Some 'journalists' quotes are exquisitely revealing: “During any breaking news event we report what we know as we learn it.” (New York Times spokesman quoted in the Wall Street Journal and republished in The Australian, 23 October, on the Gaza hospital explosion.) Reporters ‘learn’? Not ‘investigate’ and ‘verify’? No, the NYT robot is on another journalistic planet; the one on which news capture and confirmation osmotically bypasses his abilities. He is a typing frog incapable of a leap. In fact, he budges not an inch from the lily pad: “And as the facts on the ground become more clear, we continue reporting.” Or, translated, ‘the truth, if there is one, doesn’t matter, we can fix it later’. Lazy ‘journalism’ like this will kill newspapers far quicker than any internet. The real problem for the 'journalist' is that since the reader has surpassed his level of intelligence he (the reader) regards the organ for which the journalist 'writes' as not worthy of his att

It's the weather. The roses are on fire, breaking out everywhere. Pick them madly, I always told the children who were hesitant, as if cutting off such perfection in nature were vandalism. For every rose you put in a vase, or of whose petals you scatter on the grass, I told them, two more will flower. Or four. Or six. Yes, counter-intuitive. Since she was tall enough to reach the blooms Alex spent untold languid summer afternoons launching with five ever-growing fingers rose petals around the garden or on peoples’ heads. This year I spent winter finding sites in the garden for roses where they didn't exist (sites not roses) making instant rationalisations for suitability, even though they may not have been. The winter bare-rooted rose type is surely the greatest bargain in the plant world; a nascent creation that should last a lifetime, stretching itself languorously upward against a wall, peering across a fence, or peeping around a corner of a house while issuing impossibly be

Some philosopher, or it might have been a scientist or a chef, said that the sense of smell elicits the strongest memories. You can't hear, taste, see, or touch it; so it must be true. The others are only recognition; each smell must be a sensation in the brain that is implanted the first time and simply gets poked, like a cow prod. Don’t ask me. The smell, which was a blend of new hessian, 1950s chemical plant, glue factory and artist's studio, was a brand new roll of linoleum that was being installed in the kitchen of the house in which I lived. I was close to the source of the aroma because I had not yet reached the mirror-like leading edge strip of 18/80 stainless steel that edged the kitchen sink and side drainers. I had to pull myself up to look into it and see two green eyes. The lino, once the installers had gone off in their Maples truck, looked to me like tracks. It was a linear geometric design; grey strips alternating with thinner black strips with alternate red and

Once Prime Minister of Australia, John Howard is incredulous: “I never thought we would crumple to this … people chanting these things … (‘gas the Jews’ … etc) … is a catastrophic descent from civility that I thought I’d never see. … If you’re a law-abiding Jewish person in Sydney who wanted to go along to the Opera House ( … lit up in blue and white … ) and told you had to stay at home … what is this?” (Headline of editorial in The Australian, 11 October 2023: ‘Sydney’s Night of Shame … ’)

News report: Sydney, 10 October: ‘ … a man was dragged away by police as he held what appeared to be an Israeli flag … (he was ) removed by multiple (sic) officers and threatened with arrest.’  No link necessary - it’s all over the web. NSW police ‘assistant commissioner’ in charge of this - Tony Cooke - has a history of Orwellian behaviour . Cooke went on, referring to neither side, “This is New South Wales. We do not expect people to bring conflict from other places to the streets of Sydney.” Expect? How about ‘allow’? Yet: ‘Cooke said police had allowed the rally to proceed.’

Yes, not new. But good, even if only once every seven years. It's probably been longer. The cold weather had returned with a vengeance, earlier having been spurned by the kind of spring warmth we haven’t seen for something like seven years. That Nino thing or whatever it’s called. Let’s hope it stays away permanently.  Either way, the chilly blast called for homely, filling fare. This time I did the corned beef thing in the oven. A fist-sized knob of corned beef, chopped into small dice (apparently you are meant to 'pull' it - some kind of bizarre American expression) was turned into a large bowl of boiled and semi-mashed potato along with a tablespoonful each of mild English mustard and butter, and folded through with two eggs, a handful of finely chopped parsley and a dash of salt and pepper. This mess was placed into a casserole dish and topped with more butter and a thatch of grated cheddar cheese, and baked until bubbling. Serve with steamed green vegetables; green bea