Challenge 33 - Sponge-worthy

A dear friend is having root canal work at lunchtime. I decide to bake her a Whisked Sponge with Blueberry Sauce and Double Cream. I have never made a sponge cake before.

Have no recipe for blueberry sauce so decide to make one up. Hey - I know sauce.

Place blueberries, water and sugar on to simmer. Now have to whisk eggs, sugar etc over pot of boiling water for ten minutes. Fussy! Start whisking. Wrist starts to ache. Change to gammy left hand. Change to right. Sweat dripping (it's hot - 8.30 in the morning and 86F for my US readers; a 'plain stinker' for the Aussies).

Take off heat. Whisk for another 5 minutes, advises cookbook. Arm falls off. Enlist Master Three, who stands on small red chair and whisks with glee.

Line 2 sandwich tins with greaseproof paper. Don't want a sandwich sponge - want traditional round sponge.

Attempt to place rectangular greaseproof paper into round tin. Un-uh. Run pen around base of tin on paper and cut out circle. Strike two - batter will seep underneath. Settle for brute force: multiple layers jammed in hard. Perfect!

Fire Master Three as whisker. He keeps stealing the merchandise. Master Three drops whisk on floor and mixture goes everywhere ... calm thoughts ... - it's 8.45.

Cooking constantly interrupted by Book Brain. Book Brain is an occasional condition I get when working on a manuscript (this an old one called 'Big Girls' Briefs' -going gangbusters lately). I'm in the groove and dialogue runs through my head like a telly on-full in the next room. Periodically I stop and jot in my little book. Tick tock.

Sift flour and salt and, using a metal spoon, gently fold flour into egg mixture, alternately with combined butter and hot water. How?? Grow an extra arm? Look at Master Three. Bad idea. Get Partner out of office and together we juggle ingredients into pan. Batter barely covers the bottom. Maybe sandwich pan better.

Tick tock, too bad. Into the pre-heated oven with you.

Blueberry sauce perfect - take off heat. Blueberry sauce cools and congeals into a tiny black puddle. Remnants up side of pot harden like glue. Stick finger in. Still tastes great, so chalk up as a Win.

Read recipe again and jot notes for Blog in different book. Yarg! Forgot to put hot water in! Damn you, Book Brain. No! I'm sorry ... Don't leave me! How bad can it be? It's only water.

Tick tock, two minutes to go.

Time! Look at cake. Has crust like pavlova. Poke to see if it springs back, as per recipe. It's hard. Poke again. Finger goes right through crust and sponge deflates. Close oven and slip quietly into denial's sweet embrace.

Partner looks at sauce. 'Look, Ma' I say, holding saucepan upsidedown. 'No gravity!' 'Want me to get a coal chisel out of the shed?' asks Partner. I reserve my decision.

Cake's been in oven way too long. Still looks mushy through Hole I Prepared Earlier. Leave cake in.

Take cake out and photograph. Partner looks on with furrowed brow. 'What am I supposed to do with it now?' I ask. 'Discus, anyone?' he says.

Challenge 32 - Tarot

I didn't plan on doing this. Tarot has never held any interest for me. Conjures images of nasty old crones hiding in tents and sharping for money.

This is how it all began ...

Night before I leave my parents' I go through my brother's art works. It's more nerve-wracking than I expected. Haven't looked at this stuff for a couple of years and memories come flooding back.

'Don't forget Alien With Brain,' says Partner. Tell him I don't recall that piece. 'You'll know it when you see it,' he says.

Art all rolled up in postal tubes. Pick one up and try to take lid off. Art falls out the bottom. Mum flinches. Turns out to be art that other artists gave Rohan over time. Whew ...

Pick up another one and same thing happens. Why me? Try to distract mother with pithy observation: 'There's a frog on your book,' I say. 'It appears to have relieved itself.' 'Well, Dear, you are in the country,' says mother. I'm left wondering how something so big could come out of such a bitty little frog like that. 'You going to move it?' I ask. 'To, say ... the toilet?' 'Nope,' says Mum. 'The python's moved back in.'

Oh joy ... maybe it'll eat the tarantulas. Little brother told me Incey escaped last year. Incey is the size of a bread plate. Mum spent the next two days stalking around the house with a broomstick. Incey eventually turned up minus a leg. The common theory is that he got into a fight with the neighbour's dog. Having met the gigantic, poisonous arachnid my money's on the spider.

Back to the Tarot ... I move a pile of stuff and a Tarot card falls out. What is that? I wonder. The Nine of Clavicles? Ah. Pentacles.

Not too freaky as freaky goes. What's freaky is that I moved the same pile of stuff two more times and two more times the sodding Nine of Pentacles falls out.

Pick up a book on Tarot. Most embarassed at library as also have books on ghost hunting, witches, the occult and some fluffy thing by a former Las Vegas showgirl about the underworld (and she don't mean the one in Vegas, baby). All in the name of research for a novel, I assure you.

I open the book. Within a whole minuite I glean certain facts:

1. Fives are bad.

2. I should have checked to see if my card landed upsidedown.

3. There is a card called The Fool so I reckon I got off lightly.

Look up Nine of Pentacles (sounds like a lucky octopus, boom boom). The card features a rich chick holding a bird. So far so good - can't remember the last time one of those bit me. Book says I have no concern over finances and that the spirit world would provide buckets more than I'll ever need.

Run right out and buy a Lottery ticket.

Card also says I'll travel to exotic places. Not so far. And the next person who asks why will meet the blunt end of my boot.

If the card is reversed it means I'll still have buckets of money but no love to share it with. That's fine - I'll just move to Hollywood and join a support group for the rich and aimless.

Console self that if Lotto doesn't pan out, family is all the wealth I'll ever need.

PS to the Powers the Be: That doesn't mean I wouldn't like a super yacht ...

Challenge 31 - The Table

Wake up with burst of energy. Today I shall conquer The Table!

Buy varnish at hardware store. Feel like a bona fide tradie



(that's a 'tradesman', for those who require US translation). Buy 3 giant paint brushes for applying said varnish. 'They're a bit big, aren't they?' says concerned shop guy. 'Nope,' I reply. 'I figure the bigger they are the less painting I have to do.' 'Gee,' he says. 'Never thought of it that way ...'

I take home manly wares. Partner looks at varnish. 'That stuff's toxic,' he says. 'Off-gasses for years.'

Darn! That stuff cost me thirty bucks! I look for receipt. No receipt. Hide tin from Partner and head back to hardware store. Vague recollections of carpenter friend using orange oil on his wood. Find some and ring it up ($20). Also buy roll of sandpaper ($12). This table is getting expensive ...

Take BEFORE pic of table. It's where the kids do pretty much everything - gluing, painting eating, plotting destruction of the world - so it's in bad shape. Use sander for a while and give up. Table is lumpy so sanding is too patchy to be useful. Have lightbulb moment and change sandpaper. Is a bit better, so I alternate between sanding by hand and using evil machine. Take DURING pic.

It's 70% humidity today and 33 degrees C. Partner ferries me glasses of water on regular basis. Sawdust forming archaeologically significant layers on my skin. Master Three thinks I look like Casper the friendly ghost. Much more of this and it'll be Casper the homicidal ghost.

Finish table.

Give orange oil a test run on coffee table. Table is the lid off a French wine barrel and is about as healthy as the big table (for similar reasons). Check out the difference! And that's without any sanding. So excited I wipe down every wooden surface in the kitchen and lounge room. Wood sparkles with renewed vigour. I feel like the Fairy Godmother of Wood, then change name to Fairy Godmother of Nice Finishes to avoid misinterpretation.

Oil table. Take AFTER pic.

Huzzah!! It's a thing of beauty. Put Chair I Prepared Earlier beside it and bask in the glory of my success.

Hmmmmmmmmmmm. Five other chairs looking a bit sad in comparison. What to do?

Challenge 30 - Roughing it

My idea of a holiday involves a turn-down service and little points on the ends of my toilet paper. So it was with girded loins and steeled jaw that I suggest Partner and I go camping.

And I don't mean Scout Camping (aka baby sitting in a large-ish backyard). I mean the kind of camping where it's just you, the elements and that giant amenities block called Nature.

We arrive at Koombooloomba and set up camp. There are a few families here - mostly with humongous camp set-ups that involve portaloos, camp showers, patios on their broad acre tents and generators to run their fridges. We. however, have two sticks to rub together and a dome tent with the structural integrity of a Kleenex.

Go hunting for firewood. Koombooloomba is on top of a mountain behind Tully - town best known for its giant fibreglass gumboot. Tully measures rainfall in metres, not inches. Dry firewood scarce. We bushwhack, trudge and push our way through hostile territory. I have tick paranoia. Suddenly every tickle on my skin is a blood sucking parasite. Every few steps Ido the pogo and flick frantically at my clothes. I hate ticks.

Back at camp I spy two widow-makers suspended in a tree. 'I'll get one for the fire,' I declare. 'It's going to fall on your head,' says Partner. He picks up a rock and examines thoughtfully.

Remove shoes and start up tree. Tell self nibleness is all in the mind.

Hear words Youtube and camera. Climb faster. Can't reach branch. So close! Lose skin off arm as I slide down trunk like 80 grit sandpaper (see, I know stuff).

Drag esky over and stand on tippy toes. Can just reach branch. 'It's going to fall on your head,' says Partner. Ties a piece of rope to his rock. I reach branch and pull ever-so-gently. Branch touches down like a pussy willow on the wind.

'Ha!' I shout, doing triumph dance. Partner gives loppy smile, like Clint Eastwood. Throws rock over second branch and pulls rope. Branch hits ground. High fives all round!

That evening we hike. Ground covered in dodgy rocks. It's like the surface of Mars out here (see top right hand corner of pic). I fear for my delicate ankles.

Throw my first line into the water. Within seconds I have a fish. A minute later and I have caught the second fish of my life. 'This camping business is AWESOME!' I declare. Partner catches fish and smiles. I throw line in and it snags.

'Don't have many sinkers,' says Partner. 'You'll have to go in.' Toss clothes off and wade into water. Dam at 30%. Ground silty and horrid. Slip on slimy rock and disappear up to armpit. Find line and un-snag.

'It's getting dark,' I say. 'Time to head back.'

'When you're catching fish, you don't leave,' says Partner. 'It's a rule.' He's wearing Dodgy Ron's Fishing Adventures cap so he should know.

'Time. To. Head. Back.' I say. Night falls quickly. Terrain treacherous - no dirt, just shifting shale and slippery rock. Bank incredibly steep. Crest and follow dirt road and hit 6ft fence with barb. Getting tricky to see my own feet. DON'T PANIC!! I mean, don't panic.

Clouds shift to reveal full moon. Make up prayer to Moon Goddess and struggle down rocky embankment. Again. 'Don;t follow too close,' says Partner. 'I don't want you landing on me.' 'Nice,' I say. I would never do something like that. He has no squishy bits worth landing on.

Finally reach camp site and collapse in exhausted heap.

Bask in glory of first night at Koombooloomba. Sunshine, fish and firelight ... how good is that?

Challenge 29 - Feeding Father Foreign Food

My Dad is a meat and three veg kinda guy. In short, he won't eat anything that can't be found in a British hospital cook book.

I break the news to him gently: 'Hey Dad! How 'bout Moroccan for dinner!' 'Moroccan what?' he asks. 'Food,' I say. He blinks a couple of times as the information filters through. 'Sure, Love. Sounds good.'

Yeah, right. Time to show him a whole new world of Funtastic Cuisine. I make the trek into town and stop at supermarket. They have rabbit, pigeons, African spices, you name it -no but no lamb mince. Go to Woolworths. No rabbit, no pigeons, no African spices - and no lamb mince. Go to butcher. Look for lamb mince. Baarp! Strike three! Do I really need to borrow gun and raid nearest sheep farm?

'Got any lamb mince?' I ask the butcher. 'Why?' Okay, smart guy. I'll play your silly game. 'To cook with,' I answer sweetly. 'Hey, John. We got any lamb mince in the freezer?' John scratches head. Does he know where that hand has been? 'I think I saw some a couple of weeks ago. Try on the bottom.' Welcome to the country - where the food is Always Fresh!

I pay an horrendous $15.99 and take home my prize. Dad will eat if I have to sit on his chest. Enjoyment optional. (Of meal, not sitting.) Pop equal amounts lamb and beef mince into pan. Go to find Moroccan spice mix I bought couple days ago. It's not there. I send everyone out in co-ordinated search. Nothing. Nada. A big zipparoo. I have small tanty in the pantry. All spices bought that day are missing.

No problem. Calm thoughts. I know spices ... can make my own! Mix up a bunch of stuff and throw into pan. Feel very witchy. Tastes so good I spend a moment in stunned silence. We're back on track!

Next, vegetable and Haloumi skewers. Everybody likes food on a stick. Everybody worth knowing, that is. Slice off part of my fingernail and some finger below it. Search through veg. Can't find flesh. Oh well. Some lucky punter gets extra protein.

Finish skewering. Family look dubious. 'Look!' I cry. 'Finger Food!' Colour and composition perfect. I am a craftsman. Cook skewers and pop into warming oven.

Now, where's that flatbread ...?

Flatbread missing. Presume worst - the spices knocked it up and they've run away together. Either that or that pesky rip in the space/time continum has struck again.

This time I have tanty in the kitchen in front of family. 'It's all ruined!' I cry. 'Flatbread is integral!'

Mum hands me a glass of red and pats shoulder. 'I'll whip some up, shall I?' Mum starts mixing flour and stuff. I start drinking.

Mum looks at flatbread. 'Well,' she says, 'It's flat, alright.'

Flatbread a disaster. Almost transparent, like cooking pancakes with plain flour. So I've heard ...

I remember skewers. They are burnt and horrible. Pick a piece of Haloumi off and drop it onto bench. It goes clunk. Tastes burnt and hollow, like my soul.

I boycott meal in favour of more red wine. Boys eat Moroccan sloppy Joes.

'That was great, Love,' says Dad. 'Wouldn't want it every night, though.'

Challenge 28 - The Steam Engine

Today I rode the steam train. The Capella is a 4-6-4, the last of its kind in the world and that makes it kind of special. Just think about that word for a moment: the last.

My father and brother volunteer on the line - keeping the boiler stoked, laying track, putting out the odd fire and re-building the odd bridge that burns down because of aforementioned odd fire. That's a funny thing about steam engines. They throw soot and sparks into the undergrowth and their potential for a carnage-strewn wake is impressive. But fear not! They have a Section Car (or Putt-Putt, to use the steam-enginey vernacular) that follows like a trusty Spaniel and squirts the smokey bits before they wipe out the neighbour's milk shed. Dad used to design railway bridges so this is like turning the once-daily grind into a fun hobby. Big boys need their toys. Or so my boys keep telling me.

We arrive two hours early - I assume because said boys want to bask in the splendour of Capella's mighty majectic-ness before all the tourists arrive. Cute, until the rain starts.

But, Dear Reader, this is Ravenshoe (the highest town in Queensland) and what tourists call 'a moderate downpour' the locals call 'heavy mist'. It's all a matter of perspective. Having lived in Ravenshoe I subscribe to the 'heavy mist' school of thought. And it was misting by inches, let me tell you.

The train was all a steam engine should be: noisy, hot, rumbly fun with heaps of whistle toots and bridges so narrow you feel like Harry Potter puffing his way to Hogwarts. The kids are in heaven. We choose a seat in the open carriage and are promised sightings of rare beasts such as drop bears and cobras and bunyips and not-so-rare beasts such as Paris Hilton in the nuddy. I request staff give adequate warning before Paris rounds the bend on grounds I'm fond of my retinas. I win smiles from approving parents.

The kids see farms and dams filled with happy ducks, inventive bush dunnys and cows aplenty. They see iron roofs twisted and torn like paper from Cyclone Larry and piles of rubble that will never be re-built. A group of kangaroos are spooked and hop off into the bush.

'Can we follow them?' asks Master Three. 'No, they've gone bush,' I say. 'Why?' he asks. 'Because that's where they feel safe.' 'Why?' 'Because they're kangaroos,' I say. 'Can we follow them?' 'No.' 'Why?' 'Because those are carnivorous kangaroos,' I sing-song-say. 'They eat small children.' Once-approving parents glare. 'Too much?' I ask.

We arrive at Tumoulin and disembark for scones and jam. Miss Eight asks for orange fizzy and I comply. It's Christmas, afterall. This of course means Master Three has to have some. Within minutes Master Three starts doing laps around the grounds hooting like a train and patting strange dogs with his face. 'Sorry, sorry,' I say. 'Is he scaring him?' 'No,' says the nice Asian lady. 'His eyeballs have been removed.'

I get nose to nose with the poodle. By God, she's right! And yet I feel it looking right through me ...

'Who wants to blast the whistle?' says train guy. Kids swarm like killer bees. Train guy feels the pain. We all feel the pain. Kids hang off that whistle like it runs their life support.

'We like our ears,' I say to Master Three. 'You're not going to do that, are you.' Master Three looks at me like I'm gum on his shoe.

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRP!

While he's BARP!ing I'm tipping the orange muck into a potplant.

On the way back to Ravenshoe we sit inside. The seats are huge and red with pull-out armrests and massive windows that roll down manually like a motor car from the 70s. On the wall there are B&W pics of the Capella at Tumoulin station in 1913. For such a young country that's pretty impressive. Mum and I pretend we're on the Orient Express and mutually enable eachother's pining need for a G&T.

'What are you looking at?' I ask Mum. All I can see is her rump out the window so it must be good. Could it be Istanbul?? I lurch for the window and bang my eye on the glass. 'It's not that clean,' says Mum, pre-empting my thought of suing the line for excessive cleanliness. I nurse my eye and stagger down the aisle in search of Miss Eight. The ticket lady at the counter looks suspicious. 'S'okay,' I say and bump into the wall with my shoulder. 'I've been drinking.'

I find Miss Eight communing with some special needs gentlemen and their carers. One of them has my camera. I swapped it for a microwave in '07 but it's all I've got. 'Take picture?' he says. 'Absolutlely,' I say.

Back at Ravenshoe the sun is shining and the kids are beaming. Around fifty people disembark, all smiles. Mum and Dad are proud as punch as my little brother steps out of the Capella's engine covered in grease and soot and gives a wave.

Some gin and an icepack, and the day goes down as awesome.

Challenge 27 - Power Tools

After days trying to sand my chair by hand with 240 grit sandpaper I decide to defer to Partner's suggestion and bring in modern technology.

Go to 1st birthday party of friend's son. Give present, kiss baby, ask to borrow sander.

Men pause. Air thickens. Silently they rise and march to Inner Sanctum (i.e. shed) without me. Tool borrowing is serious business. Tool borrowing involves treaties, trade agreements and conventions no woman is privy to. Men are in there a long time. Have I asked too much? Did I push too hard ...? Partner appears holding sander like newborn child. Success!

Partner observes me sanding chair by hand. 'That's 80 grit,' he says. 'You'll leave grooves in the wood.'

I ignore.

'You going to use the sander? Doing it like that? Well, it's kind of a waste of life.'

I don't tell Partner I am having a bad day - so bad in fact that sanding the bloody chair by hand was the best thing about it; meditative in fact, like watering 1/2 acre of lawn by hand. (Am very Zen when upset.)

Partner gets out sander and does technical stuff. Holds it out to me. 'Don't think you can hurt yourself with that.'

Has this guy met me? I take sander like it's a snake. Examine closely. Sandpaper is 80 grit. Ha! Start sanding. Great clouds of old varnish, wood and goodness knows what (is that peanut butter??) float around me like a toxic cloud. Hand begins to ache. And back. And neck.

Manage to run sander over thumb. Is okay - haven't had any feeling in top of thumb since run-in with Vengeful Duck. Bastard! Now have Legacy of Vengeful Duck!

Grit in eyes, up nose, down shirt, in hair. Decide sanding more enjoyable with Champagne. Alcohol steadies the hand, right? That's why professional pool players are banned from a soothing larger before tourney. Decide logic is sound. Pour, drink, sand. Second glass and chair looks good.

Turn chair over. Seat falls off. Have Champagne.

Strangely no longer concerned by lack of seat on chair. I can fix that. I can fix anything!

Time to down tools. Am leaving for holiday tomorrow and need to pick. I mean pack. Shall finish chair and begin on table when I return.

Final Note: Am 'going bush' for three weeks - no internet, no mobile phone coverage. Just three weeks of swimming, eating, cooking and laughing at the stars. Ripe pickings for New Challenges! Especially since Little Brother has new pets: tarantulas called Incey and Wincey. Little Brother also has sense of humour. Did I mention I don't do spiders?

Anyhow, shall try to Post whenever we 'go to town'.

Wish me luck with the spiders!