Blessed are the cheesemakers …

Once upon a time you used to be able to buy these little triangular wedges of cheese. They were wrapped in foil and arranged in a round cardboard box. I can’t remember the name of them, and I haven’t seen them for years. I don’t go near the part of the supermarket in which they might dwell if they still existed – because the very thought of them sends a chill down my spine. No doubt the Warrior Queen will be aware of their name, rank and serial number – and if she reads this, I would like her to know I do not wish to be reminded. And I think she knows why.

Somewhat hilariously, the Hunter Gatherer and I went on our honeymoon a good year after our wedding … and we took my parents. We had all decided we really fancied a houseboat holiday on the Murray River – so the four of us tootled off down to Renmark in a little old Triumph Dolomite, driving all through the night. At that time we were all smokers – so the interior of the car was a choking fug of fumes for the entire several hundred kilometres – and after a while, the WQ and I (who were in the back) mentioned we thought there was a petrolly kind of smell happening. For some reason this was uproariously funny. We all lit up again, for the forty-eleventh time, and made comments such as, ‘wouldn’t it be HILARIOUS if the whole car went BOOM …’ and just about wet our collective knickers in hysterics while considering the possibility.

On arrival in Renmark we discovered to our horror there was, in fact, substantial fuel leakage seeping into the back of the car just under where the WQ and I had been resting our arses – and the fact the car hadn’t gone BOOM was rather miraculous in the extreme. There was a bit of nervous laughter in the, ‘oh my goodness, the chips!’ vein as we unpacked our provisions and abandoned the car to the ministrations of the friendly, but rather aghast, mechanic.

It was very nice indeed on the Murray River. Beautiful weather, gorgeous birdlife, nothing to do but potter along in our own time, phone in daily for supplies and pick them up from designated numbered locked boxes at intervals along the riverbank – and eat. With eating in mind (as it’s always about the food), the WQ had packed a box of things she thought we might chow down on whilst pottering. And one of these things was the aforementioned Cheese’o’Tragedy. I can’t remember whether she actually said, ‘Have one of these,’ or whether it was I who asked. It matters not. I remember tasting it and finding it utterly repugnant. Like trying to chew the discarded remnants of a horrid old man’s rotting underpants. Or a rotting old man’s horrid underpants, even.

It should have been reasonable – nay, normal – for me to have just hoiked the offending morsel starboard. End of. But the WQ was having none of that. Oh no. She stared me down, nostrils akimbo, pointing a quivering arm. ‘You’ll jolly well FINISH IT,’ she declared. ‘You took it – you’ll eat it!’ The lads were trying desperately not to laugh, snorting into their hands with their backs turned. There were pelicans on the water, a pale blue sky which went on forever, the steady chug of the motor … and everything should have been intensely right with the world. But it occurred to me the WQ was deadly serious. Memories flooded back of a school I’d attended in England where I’d been made to remain at the table until I’d chewed and swallowed a piece of unchewable, unswallowable meat. It also occurred to me I was now a GROWN UP. A married person, even, who was old enough to vote.  It’s strange I can’t remember now whether I actually ended up eating the thing or not. I think there was much howling and gnashing of teeth before the matter was resolved.  There were seven more of those grim wedges in the little round cardboard box … their fate, also, is unknown.

A lasting legacy of the cheese experience is that to this day, when the WQ says, ‘Have one of these,’ in crypt-curdling tones, I feel a cold sweat trickle down the small of my back. The hairs on my neck prickle with horror. It might have happened 28 years ago, but like horrid old underpants, some things are destined never to die.

Blessed are the cheesemakers for they shall inherit the earth …

Not.

.oOo.

On the road with the tourists from hell …

A while ago I took one of the girls to Sydney and we ended up at Darling Harbour, ducking a frenzy of Japanese tourists taking photographs. It immediately struck me how seriously they took their tourism. Constipated little family groups were arranged with origami-like precision. If they were enjoying themselves, it was a secret.

            There’s nothing remotely secret about Aussies on holiday. Thirty-odd years ago, being far too gutless and unmotivated to do the solo backpacking thang, I booked myself on a coach trip around Europe. It was basically me, and a couple of dozen retired couples in either beige safari suits or lavender twinsets with matching hair, who allegedly drove BMWs and had put their children through private schools. It begged the question – what were they doing on an economy tour with moi, and why was their behaviour akin to that of petty criminals on day release from a minimum security detention facility? For these people were absolutely without shame.

            Throughout Europe, lavish smorgasbord breakfasts were part of the deal. We’d come down each morning to a vast array of food which boggled the senses. More varieties of bread, fruit and cold cuts than you could imagine in your wildest breakfast porn fantasies – and gollygosh – invited to partake of all we could eat!

            But evidently, that wasn’t enough. The Rampaging Wrinklies stuffed bread rolls furtively up sleeves and trouserlegs, poked individual jam portions into every available orifice with gay abandon and, still dissatisfied with their booty, lined their socks and pantyhose with slices of cold meat. Terrified they might die of starvation during the afternoon, they lurched from the dining room with handfuls of baked beans and melon slices, having stripped the table back to a barren white cloth and a few odd empty plates. ‘It’ll save us having to buy lunch tomorrow,’ they assured eachother, nodding sagely. ‘Everything’s so DEAR.’

            Nor did they have the decency to be embarrassed. It was a matter of pride to compare notes in the bus – and not just regarding food. Each morning, they regaled eachother with rollicking tales of pilfered pillowcases and Gideon’s Bibles – their suitcases would have chimed with a symphony of looted ashtrays had they not been well padded by contraband towels. As we drove off I would keep a nervous eye out behind for signs of gendarme, polizzi, The Bill – or whoever the local constabulary might happen to be.

            Nor were the Criminal Crumblies ever on time for departure. Many a morning the rest of us waited on the bus while the driver went to bang on the door of Ronnie and Doris, slumbering blissfully under the sordid weight of yesterday’s illicit croissants.

            Having remained aghast and honest under duress, what happened to me at the cheese factory wasn’t fair. The man assured us his gouda was export quality, perfectly legal to take back into Australia. We believed him, and bought up big. Not half an hour from the factory, the Greedmongering Geriatrics decided they’d consume theirs on the bus. Huge wheels of cheese were dragged out from under the seats and the back rows (where the naughtiest oldies sat) became a veritable munchfest. Dentures were cemented together and constipation became the buzzword of the day. I looked on in scorn. Until Customs.

            Once there, the Pillaging Pensioners finally came into their own. They stood around smugly, their own gouda safely lodged halfway down their alimentary canals as my cheese was confiscated. Oh, quelle fromage!

            ‘Serves her right,’ they were probably thinking. ‘Self righteous, cheese-saving cow.’ And off they went with their ashtrays and towels, home in their BMWs to wash the smell of salami from the sullied gussets of their Bonds Cottontails …

.oOo.

 

Creative things to do with an unwanted school lunch …

Want to read something scary? Something REALLY scary?             Back in prehistoric times when I worried about such things and wanted to do better, I was flicking optimistically through one of those women’s magazines, trying to discover the elusive secret of how to be an ‘other mother’. The kind who spends ‘quality time’ with her kids, knits undergarments out of organic fibres which make your personal bits itch – and does dinners from scratch.             It jumped right out at me – as these things do when you’re not feeling very confident in your role as the epitome of good motherhood – and believe me, it was scary all right. A smug little feature entitled ‘Creative things to do with a school lunch’. For someone whose most creative activity with food is to eat it, it came as a bit of a shock to see what ‘other mothers’ (the nurturing, loving, ‘from scratch’ kind), allegedly crawled willingly from their beds at 4am to fling together.              Nope – no sign here of the smeary vegemite jar with buttery knife stuck in it – nary a glimpse of uncreative things like last-chance speckled bananas or tryhard homemade biscuits which either come in the Break Your Jaw or Pile’o’Crumbs variety. Here before me, triumphantly glossy, was presented Nirvana for the kindergarten lunch set. Gourmet constructions burst obscenely over the edges of brightly coloured lunchboxes, complete with strategically placed red gingham napkins and minute monogrammed condiment shakers.             The first suggestion (to ease us into it gently), was pita bread pockets filled with smoked turkey, slivers of avocado and fresh rocket – with just a dash of cranberry sauce. And if (whoops, silly me), I’d neglected to spend the night smoking the turkey and crushing cranberries with my bare (albeit detoxed) feet, the article assured me it would be quite acceptable to substitute smoked salmon with cream cheese and sundried tomatoes – (but don’t forget the lemon wedge, wrapped in foil and tucked into the side of the lunchbox).             Excuse me? And what, pray tell, do the teachers think as they chew on day-old bread with an avant garde processed plastic cheese slice poking rakishly from between the crusts?             Laughing in the face of danger, I flaunted convention. First Child was sent to school with cheese and vegemite. Second Child preferred lemon butter – and nobody ever died. Third Child declared only Nutella would do – no butter, and don’t cut the bread. It has to be slapped together just so. No care or responsibility taken. In fact – she’d make it herself. Just to ensure it was done properly. Fourth Child is a boy. Say no more – as long as it’s remotely edible. Queries of, ‘Did you eat your lunch?’ always brought replies of, ‘Yup’. Nobody ever thought of pumping their stomachs to verify it.             Then one awful day which will forever remain etched in the memory, I accidentally sat on the end of Child Three’s bed – probably while I was in there asking whether she’d eaten her lunch. There was a ghastly, Stephen King-esque kind of rustling noise from beneath the doona – I knew damn well it was something I didn’t want to know about – but in best horror story tradition, was compelled to uncover. Trembling, I pulled back the sheets – and there they were. Drum roll, please, as we proudly present in a bedroom near you … The Lunches of Tragedy! Lined up neatly along the bottom of the bed were seven little square packages wrapped in greaseproof paper and encased in individual Hercules bags. Black ones, green ones, furry ones – take your pick, there was something to please everyone.             She said, ‘Well, you shouldn’t have been spying on me!’             I said, ‘Hadn’t it occurred to you the sheets might have needed changing before the end of the millennium?’ She glared balefully. I’m not that kind of mother. I never again went in a child’s room after that. They’re grown up now – living away from home. Or maybe not. Maybe they’re still in those rooms, mouldering away with two decades of unwanted lunches.             Oh – and for the person who wrote that article … what I’d like to do with your creative lunches would be very scary indeed … .oOo.