By the light of the silvery moon

There's something about the French that always appeals to me. And it has nothing to do with love! Except that I have always loved this story told to me by my friend about her mother-in-law. (Well not technically a mother-in-law as my friend is not married to her 'frenchman'...) But her stories of Maman gathering wild herbs by the light of the silvery moon have always stayed with me. I can't imagine that happening here but then living in such an urban environment just gathering parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (isn't that a song?) from the garden is as far as I go. And I suspect that is about as far as most Aussies go. But not in France. 

In the village of Vence - I bet this person goes herb hunting!

One of my favourite blogs that I follow is written by an American who has lived in France for 25+ years with her Frenchman (husband this time...). Her post was entitled "Some smoke weed, others eat it" Well that got me interested! After all there are so many cooks now putting all sorts of weird and wonderful weeds and water plants into our modern cuisines. 

So here's Corey's post in her blog Tongue in Cheek (join up she's a serious brocanter)

2011 Wasn't that yesterday? I am beginning to think that when I close my eyes a whole century goes by, and then I wake up to today. Odd.

Anyway in 2011 I wrote a post about Annie and her weed salad. I am reposting it here now.

Yesterday on my walk I noticed those weeds underfoot... I thought of Annie, how she loved to walk, did so every day until recently. I thought about how she collected her "weeds" for her salad and to cook them as well. I thought about how the weeds of spring are in full force and Annie is sitting in her home not able to pick them.

So today I took a plastic bag with me to collect weeds....

But first her is Annie's Weed Salad Story (how many of you remember it?)

My friend Annie makes weed salad.

She gathers the weeds in a field.

Weeds.

She eats them.

And tells me, "..they are good for you, high in vitamins."

Weeds that I walk on without given them a thought.

Bitter weeds.

Weeds with names such as:

Salade de Chasseur, or Hunter's Greens in English.

Fenouil, or Fennel's first shots. Not to be confused with older, later in the season's more substantial growth.

Pissanli (I won't tell you what that sounds like in French... oh dang I have to tell you... It sounds like Peeing in the Bed!) better known as: Dandelion! Bitter is what it is!

And the fourth cutie weed... Much to my shame, I forgot its name.

I went over to Annie's yesterday to cut her hair.

Entering her kitchen there was an overwhelming garlicky aroma.

Annie told me she had made her Weed Salad. I tasted her weeds before without seasoning, and it was not my favorite. Annie reassured me, "...I know you don't like my wild salad...."

"You mean weed salad?""

"Yes, but you should taste it with my vinaigrette."

"Is garlic the main ingredient?"

She laughed, "Can you smell it?"

Annie collects the weeds, then trims, washes and seasons them:

Olive oil, salt, apple vinegar and a fist full of crushed garlic.

I love garlic. I have heard the the reason escargot tastes good is because of the butter and garlic. Weed salad falls in the same catagory. The garlic won me over.

Annie was happy that I am now a fan of her weed salad. I'll never walk on a weed again without my tastebuds watering.... well, that is if garlic dressing is close behind.

And here we go with her follow-up blog entitled The Edible Weed

 I brought in the over stuffed pink plastic bag of weeds that I had pulled up from my walk. Feeling like Santa Claus I beamed as I plunked it down on Annie's lap.

She giggled believing that the overstuffed pink plastic bag of weeds were 100 percent edible. I had to remind her that this was my first solo attempt pulling edible weeds. She swooshed her hand, as if to say nonsense to my doubt.

We started sorted through the pink plastic bag. I pulled up the weeds with the roots, later I discovered this makes for more work. A fourth of the sack confirmed my doubt, we threw them away. The others I cut off the roots, sorted through the sticks, grass, and a few dried leaves. Then I washed and rewashed the edible weeds.

 Annie with her heaping edible weeds. It was if I offered her a little baby Jesus in velvet shorts.

(When in France when something you eat is delicious, French Husband says,  "C'est le petit Jésus en culottes de velours - Like baby Jesus in velvet shorts." Honest to God, that is what he says... I guess it could be better translated as: "Oh My God, this is good!" Obviously, we didn't have the same Catholic upbringing. Jesus never wore velvet shorts in my church.)

Pissanli or dandelion, and *osez which means "dare" in French, which I find funny, "Do you dare eat this?" I do not know what osez is in English. I also picked fennel. These three edible weeds I am sure of... the other ones that are edible I am not so good as finding... yet.

*Correction: Nancy Ravisé-Noel said:

"The osez you were lucky enough to find is actually spelled oseille and translates "sorrel" in English." Thank you.

Annie instructed me to put three fourths of the edible weeds into some boiling water. Edible weeds boil like spinach, they reduce tremendously in size. I put them in a pan of boiling water and turned them gentle time and time again. The weeds cooked about ten minutes. Then I put them in a drainer for over thirty minutes. 

 The lighter leaf is osez. The brown water (the edible weeds were clean) was dumped into the sink.

 The rest Annie had me chop finely, adding garlic, parsley, olive oil and vinegar.

Linda wrote in yesterday's comment section: "I'm convinced that you could eat a rubber tire if you put enough garlic and butter ..."

Isn't that true?

And Mardog asked in the yesterday's comment section, "How much does this weed cost?" 

Seriously?

Now are you going to pick some weeds for dinner?

Now to give you a little background - Annie is her aging neighbour and Corey speaks so lovingly about her. Wise women these oldies are - and gathering herbs particularly by the light of the silvery moon just has to be the real way to do it.So just be careful where you walk - you may be walking on your dinner! So happy gathering (day or night)  - oh and don't forget the garlic! Let me know how you go!

The wives of the boule players are all at home cooking their weeds!

Stop press - I'm a grandmother!

How can that be you ask? I'm single, unmarried and have no children! In fact I was once in the not too distant past called a spinster not surprisingly by a now ex friend when describing a cupboard-sized bedroom with a single bed which she had 'dressed' for a photo shoot. She delighted in describing it to me (3 times) as "Jan's spinster room." Wow - who needs enemies when you have friends like that! (Particularly as her bedroom was smaller than mine!!) What is it about the word spinster? It's such a hideous name when a man who is unmarried is a batchelor - the contrasting image is amazing. But I digress!

My pretty pond and fountain welcomes me outside the front door (with possum spikes at the front!)

When I first moved into my home just over a decade ago (the one with the big bedroom!) I was given two goldfish! Frank and Francine lived happily ever after until late last year when Francine disappeared. The culprit - the street cat who was often seen longingly watching them cruise the pond. I was devastated! And so was Frank! He sat on the bottom of the pond and hardly moved. He was depressed and lonely. I just knew it even though a friend of mine said "Fish don't get depressed" as a mother I just knew that he was!  But what to do? First I had to find a way to keep the street cat from helping himself to Frank, my now one-and-only depressed fish. After many musings - and a few visits to Bunnings - I stuck some clear 'keep the possums away' spikes at the front of my pond. 

Grandpa Frank welcomes Fred and Freda

Chatting to a friend one day (I do have two or three who don't call me names - at least not to my face!) she happened to mention "My fish are breeding like rabbits." To which I replied "Could I have a couple of rabbits?" She looked a bit startled but nevertheless agreed. So around I went with a kitchen sieve (washed clean since!) and a bucket and after many attempts I came home with 2 small goldfish. Well suddenly Frank burst into activity and swished around. He had some friends and company (pathetic aren't I?) Well Freda and Fred fish settled in although they seemed to hide until they became acclimatised to their new home. They even sent a text to my friend, their former mother:

Dear Mummy

We arrived at our new home safely

It was a bit scary when we met that big fish

But there is lots of room 

And we have places to hide and explore together

The big fish is surprised 

But we will look after him

I know we will be happy here

We miss you 

Thank you for looking after us so well

Luv Fred and Freda fish

My friend got a bit teary knowing she had been a good mother! Well they must have settled in well because yesterday I was stunned to see a little grey fish happily swishing in and out of the water plants. Google tells me that goldfish thankfully change colour as they grow - when they are first hatched they still have the colour of their carp ancestors but will gradually become the colour they have been genetically endowed with. I do hope that happens as I love the colour of Frank, Fred and Freda. 

Welcome baby Finn

So after all these years I am finally a grandmother - and can compete with all my friends who tell me tales of their two-legged grandchildren. I've always done things differently but never did I expect to be the proud grandmother of Finn!

Poppa Fred (or Momma Freda) have handed on the pretty tail gene to Finn

Both Grandpa Frank, Fred and Freda and of course Grandma Jan are all bursting with pride!

Here a tat, there a tat, everywhere a tat tat!

As body painting - if that's what tattooing is called - it  seems to be becoming almost the norm for the young (well mostly young). I have always wondered how those who are currently so enamoured with their bodies being stained with hideous designs might feel as they get older.

Now I'm not talking about the tattoos for some traditional cultures - they are widely found - after all the word comes from the Polynesian word tatau. I'm talking about the new fashion. 

What a handsome Maori chief

A friend was at a beautiful wedding recently and the plunging bridesmaids dresses were 'highlited' by a back load of tats. Her response "they were hideous and spoilt an elegant affair". Not surprisingly I agree with her. 

Angelina - real or fake?

One arm covered seems to be the new fashion - and the footballers (and even our Cricket Captain) have set the pace. Some bodies are almost covered with the things. And tattoo shops are popping up everywhere. I'm pleased to say that my footy team (Go Cats) is not the leader of the pack when it comes to tats - it must be Collingwood that would win the Tat Flag.

Collingwood player Dane Swan - before he really got going!

Dane - a work in progress!

At White Night recently the outer walls of the National Gallery of Victoria featured a moving display of tattooed bodies. I just can't see anything attractive in them, particularly on women (maybe that is being non-feminist!) Such pretty faces, great bodies and - well to me - ruined flesh! 

Such a pretty girl - Tattooed on the wall of the NGV

The leaves on the trees at least soften the effect during White Night at the NGV (Nathan Dyer - News Corp)

So imagine my surprise and delight when driving along Church Street, Richmond the other day - there was an ad for undoing all that expensive art work. All I can say is that there is always someone who will make money out of 'rush of blood to the head decisions' that one regrets later on. I bet they're busy and will be for years to come.

Go guys!

Do you hate them as much as I do? Do you have a hidden tat someplace?!? Will you admit it!

onesie, twosie, buckle my shoesie!

The good old Aussie Macquarie Dictionary - interestingly I can remember the first issue which was pblished in 1981 - has again been working hard to find some more words to add to our already bursting vocabulary. 

Not surprisingly the 'peoples choice award' went to ..... drumroll..... the onesie. Now to those of you who have been on planet Mars for the last few years - let me describe a 'onesie'. Apart from being hideous most of the time (well actually all of the time) - it is what we old timers would call a 'jumpsuit' - but with a hood. So I guess you would call it a hoodie and a jumpsuit rolled into one = a onesie. 'ies' seem to be the fashion of the day. It should never be worn outside the house - or inside - in my opinion - although granted it does look comfy to watch telly and eat your dinner on your lap!

You too can wear a kangaroo for lounging around while shovelling crisp crumbs into your 'pouch'

You donkey you! What is it about the low slung crutch?

Oh and by the way the Committee's Macquarie Dictionary choice for word of the year is infovore. Never heard of it myself but it means and I quote "noun - a person who craves information, especially one who takes advantage of their ready access to it on digital devices." Now I have heard everything! 

What do you think of this new committee choice addition to our vocabulary? Would you ever use it? And would you use it scrolling your digital devices in your .... onesie?!

Good old Superman - well at least he can hop out of it and be Clark Kent in the zip of an eye!

 

The owl and the pussycat

I was reminded recently of this 'ditty' or nonsense poem by Edward Lear, first published during 1871 as part of his book Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany, and Alphabets. Click here to read the entire poem

A rather fury pea-green boat

 The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
   In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
   And sang to a small guitar
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
   What a beautiful Pussy you are,
       You are,
        You are!
   What a beautiful Pussy you are!

I recently received one of the most charming 'animal' videos in an email recently. I really encourage you to click on it here to view. Sometimes nature shows us how 'uncomplicated' life can be and invites us to re-jig our preconceptions of cats and birds - or should I say an owl and a pussycat!

Now I'm rather drawn to owls since a haunting 'experience' I had when staying in a chateau in the south of France a few years ago. The wind came up in the dead of night so I decided to close the shutters. As I moved to the moon-lit window I was stunned to see an owl swoop towards me and hover just out of reach for what seemed like an eternity as we eyeballed each other.  He/she was so close that I thought he was going to come right into my bedroom. And then he swooped off before returning for a second look! And then with a hoot I can still hear he turned and flew towards the moon! Yes really. It was a most unnerving experience. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing upright! I finally closed the shutters and crept back to bed but sleep alluded me. He seemed to be hovering whilst I tried to dream.

This is the watch-bird watching you!! (dzineblog.com)

I think about 'my owl' often and have even begun a small collection of owls as a reminder of that strange and eerie moon-lit night in the beautiful French countryside. All I can wish for is that he was a wise old owl - I just haven't worked out his message yet - although perhaps it was to say - "please don't sleep in the nude - it's a sight to behold"!! But I'd like to think that it had more meaning than that!

A true story

I received some correspondence recently which included this 'story' and thought I would share it with you.

Harvard University

A lady in a faded gingham dress and her husband, dressed in a homespun threadbare suit, stepped off the train in Boston and walked timidly without an appointment into the Harvard University president's outer office.

The secretary could tell in a moment that such backwoods, country hicks had no business at Harvard and probably didn't even deserve to be in Cambridge. 

"We'd like to see the president" the man said softly. "He'll be busy all day" the secretary snapped. "We'll wait" the lady replied.

For hours the secretary ignored them, hoping that the couple would finally become discouraged and go away. They didn't and the secretary grew frustrated and finally decided to disturb the president, even though it was a chore she always regretted.

"Maybe if you see them for a few minutes, they'll leave" she said to him!

He sighed in exasperation and nodded. Someone of his importance obviously didn't have the time to spend with them and he detested gingham dresses and homespun suits cluttering up his outer office. 

The president, stern faced and with dignity, strutted toward the couple. 

The lady told him, "We had a son who attended Harvard for one year. He loved Harvard. He was happy here. But about a year ago, he was acidentally killed. My husband and I would like to erect a memorial to him, somewhere on campus."

The president wasn't touched. He was shocked. "Madam" he said, gruffly, "we can't put up a statue for every person who attended Harvard and died. If we did, this place would look like a cemetery."

"Oh no" the lady explained quickly. "We don't want to erect a statue. We thought we would like to give a building to Harvard."

The president rolled his eyes. He glanced at the gingham dress and homespun suit and then exclaimed, "A building! Do you have any earthly idea how much a building costs? We have over seven and a half million dollars in the physical buildings here at Harvard."

For a moment the lady was silent. The president was pleased. Maybe he could get rid of them now. 

The lady turned to her husband and said quietly, "Is that all it costs to start a university? Why don't we start one of our own?"

Her husband nodded. The president's face wilted in confusion and bewilderment. Mr and Mrs Leland Stanford got up and walked away, travelling to Palo Alto, California where they established the university that bears their name, Stanford University, a memorial to a son that Harvard no longer cared about. 

People will forget what you said.

People will forget what you did. 

But people will never forget how you made them feel. 

A true story by Malcolm Forbes

In memory of....

Mr and Mrs Leland Stanford- what a gentle handsome couple

Have you heard this story before? I hadn't but I'm so glad that I've heard it now! I hope you are too.

I love her far horizons

A 22 year old homesick Dorothea Mackella (1885 - 1968) wrote the iconic poem My Country (click to read the entire poem here) while she was in England. And to this day it still resonates so much with all Australians.

I love a sunburnt country

A land of sweeping plains

Of ragged mountain ranges,

Of droughts and flooding rains.

I love her far horizons,

I love her jewel-sea,

Her beauty and her terror,

The wide brown land for me!

A friend lives about 2 hours north of Melbourne in a smallish country town. Her home overlooks flat paddocks that we Aussies are so familiar with. Whenever I go to visit we sit out on the deck (another Aussie icon!), drink in hand (another Aussie tradition!), watch the setting sun and marvel at the changing colours of the sky. It really is a wonderful sight. It always brings a tear to my eye. This country of ours is a land of big skies, far horizons, wide plains, ancient rocks and gente low hills. A worn out ancient land. 

Mist rising and nature presenting herself perfectly

 

Heavenly

 

An ever-changing vista - how could you tire of it!

But even in downtown Melbourne the evening sunset can bring a tear to the eye.  Chatting on the terrace one evening (drink in hand) I had to rush in to grab my camera. The colour of the sky blew me away.

Inner urban Melbourne - sooooo beautiful

As Dorothea said "The wide brown land for me!" Are you a skywatcher - particularly with a drink in hand?