Just find one thing and do it really well

Every now and again I wake up with the rising of the sun, in the early hours of the morning and start fossicking about. I will pull all my recipe books off the shelves and have many random lists and new ideas happening by the time Glenn wakes up, bulldozing him to the ground with my stories. This was one of those days. Only better since we're now living above ground and not in the cave like slumber of a basement apartment, which I think is pretty cozy but you just can't beat being able to look out the window and enjoy the view from street level.

                                       

Being that I am up and staring out the window at the pouring rain, I got to thinking about the beginning of our trip to Australia, how long ago it felt and also how life was starting to take on a more relaxed feel. Was it because we were on holidays or was it the sun, than maybe a little tropical rain in the afternoon? I don't know, I think it was a bit of both.

For the most part of our trip, we would plan something ever second day or so. Some kind of a structured journey that would end up taking on a life of it's own. We were there merely as guests and spectators. On our first Saturday morning we headed down to Murwillumbah, about 20 minutes inland from Kingscliff, to the markets that were indeed, very Murwillumbah. Just small and quiet abstract.

Between the Byron and Tweed shires, there is enough to satisfy everybodys craving, whether it be tie-dye, brownies with a little something extra, or potatoes just plowed, with the worms still waking up from their dirty coma. There's the old and the new, the old that still think they're new and the just plain untamed. M'bah has it all. It even has the greatest cinema ever, one that hosts rows of chairs at the back than big comfortable bean bags at the front. Yes, it does get better. There is a Hari Krishna pizzeria. You will order your pizza and they will bring it in while you're watching the movie. How good is THAT. The movies are both older and independent films.

The M'bah markets is where we found fig jam. I'm not going to harp on and tell you it was the best in the world, because I know everybody has 'a best in the world'. I will be humble on behalf of the fig jam and say it was very, very kind to us. It was so good that I felt the need to be selfless and leave the last jar there for another fortunate soul. That is all there is to say on the matter.

The man with the fig jam also sold us juicy, red, red tomatoes. He was an old school kind of fella that made me feel like a right knob when I would ask him questions or complement him. It just made me want to by more tasty tomatoes.

When I walked into the markets, which take place in a car park across from the cinema, under trees filled with cockatoo's dropping their half munched seeds on peoples heads, I instantly smelt the samosas and homemade chutneys. I was trying to hold off but couldn't wait any longer.

Just the one kind. One kind of Samosa is all you need. No need to give people choices. Though you did get to choose from two kinds of chutney. Instead of choosing, you really just took both and developed a hearty crush.

Sometimes, being human and all, we are given too many options. Too many things on the plate, so to speak. It's only human nature to want, want, want. Things we know we don't need, but when presented to us, we gobble them up. Take yourself to your local market and see how busy those places are that sell just one great thing. Meat on sticks and grilled, tacos, bowls of curry, pizza, dumplings. The list will never end. The endless list of someone creating one thing only, and making it so great, that people will love it more because they don't need to make a decision.

Bring me my family, I will bring you your food

When one hasn't seen there dad for over three years and is excited to cook for him, a dad that is as old fashioned as a heavy, wrapped up Christmas cake, one decides to make kangaroo fajitas. Of course you say, why not make something that could quiet possibly be the exact opposite of warm and familiar comfort food, food that you want him to taste and think only of his childhood. Food that you want to impress your dad with, show him that you really can make a meal out it. What was I thinking to make this simple, delicious Mexican feast, when for all I know, dad has never set foot in a Mexican restaurant, let alone know what the fuck a fajita is. Thankfully, he thought they were pretty hunky-dory.

To a lot people outside of Australia, you're probably thinking that kangaroo meat is often eaten in most households, and on a regular basis. You would think so, but you would be wrong. This was my first time eating it. Like all food, I'm sure it differs each time it is prepared, so I'm going to say that it was pretty awesome but I really couldn't tell you that kangaroo specifically is out of this world, because it wasn't unlike beef. Only better. Like a strong and healthy loved cow. But it wasn't. It was kangaroo and that's why we're here. We're loving kangaroo's, not cow's. I will love you later cow.

                          

I got the brilliant idea to show off in front of my dad, from my very pregnant and radiant friend Natalia. That night, she was making kangaroo tacos. Why not, I thought. Native and wild Mexican food. Australian style.

Like with many old dogs, I always thought my dad was pretty set in his ways. He knows what he likes and dislikes and is quiet happy to let you know, whether by sound effects or lack there of. He's a character to say the least, a man of few words before a few beers and I'm sure he'll always think it necessary to tell me old stories, in fine detail, about wenchy women he has been with in the past. So I was excited when he didn't ask me any questions about this roaring meal I was about to make him eat.

A roaring meal it sure was. I kept it quiet simple as you would imagine, throwing in some red kidney beans on the sly, since there would surely be protests about them, my dad letting me know he wasn't eating, 'that shit Karen use to eat'. It's nice to know he remembers his former relatives, (my current relatives) by the type of beans they ate. 

All in all, our kangaroo fajitas were wild and tasty. Simple, was how we kept it. Our dinner, our evening, our little family all gathered together eating wild Australian, Mexican food.

Our salad was also simple. Mum had a killer crop of rocket (arugula) that needed to be harvested. Harvested being the operative word. There was so much I thought it would be easier if I went at it with a machete. We ate it almost every time we cooked dinner together. Family rocket is what we will call it.

Though my dad was set to call rocket or any other kind of green leaf we bought over, unless it was iceberg lettuce, 'wood lettice'. So I guess that is what we'll call it. Wood lettuce.

It tasted the way rocket should. The reason it got it's name. It was so peppery it nearly blew a hole out the back of my head. That's just the way we like it. Wood-like and mind-blowing.

For some reason I feel I need to dedicate another post. Since leaving Australia most recently, also being my first trip back since I left three years ago, I have felt a tug of sentimentality. I'm sure this happens as you get older, along with that, the already older people getting even older. So this I dedicate to my very NOT functional family, (I don't want to limit us to DIS functional) whom I never really embraced their awesomeness. I love you family.

You know the place

Everyone has their holy sandwich. Your sandwich, will always be better than everyone else. There is also always a place where you have left and will always want to go back to for the chance to hold your holy sandwich close to you heart once again. And of course, very, very close to your watering mouth. This is the sandwich that you will go to, to rekindle your years spent apart before you even visit your parents whom you haven't seen for three years. For me, this sandwich belongs to Zanzibar.

Zanzibar is a Moroccan cafe in the sometimes bustling front street of Kingscliff. It's been around for maybe ten years by now and has held a very, very fresh and consistent standard of food. There is one menu, which is a massive blackboard to the right as you walk in. Zanzibar is not a greasy spoon, nor is it a hangout for chain smoking nincompoops. It has a bright and cozy North African spin on the place with drabs of school kids swooning around at any time of day.

One or both the owners, husband and wife, plus their two teenage boys, will usually be there, cooking those tasty lamb kebabs or casually sweeping and chatting with faithful locals. This is the place you can decide on what you want, if you're so lucky as to be able to do that, than walk three doors down to the pub, pick out a bottle of wine or a couple of beers, than walk back on up and just perch yourself down 'til heaven is served to you in the form of food. It's really that easy.

 

Just look at that. I'm a whole hemisphere away and it's really not fair that I can't take a bite. Here's what we're looking at. From the bottom up, than inside out.

• 
  
    Big handfuls of fresh tabouli
• 
  
    Slices of local avocado
• 
  
    Crisp, crunchy snow peas, thinly sliced
• 
  
    A thin piece of chicken, grilled and succulent
• 
  
    Pesto. It's really not worthy of calling it pesto unless it's made by two hands

and finally

• 
  
  Turkish bread. Soft and beautifully perfect.

                                      

There you have it, alive with personality.

                                      

There is a saying when it comes to this humble little cafe; Tuesday is the worst day of the week..because Zanzibar is closed. The people have spoken and they speak only of truth. They are also closed Monday nights, leaving a hungry presence sneaking out their from their locked up doors.

                                      

So I now dedicate this post to everyone who has said goodbye to a sandwich they have once called their own, who have had to rely on memory and many trial and error attempts at creating a replica for something that was once always so near and unchanged.

                                      

There's no dingo's down there, bloody dickheads

It's been a thorough six week's since we were free styling up the east coast of Australia, yahooing and boozing it up until the break of day with wild locals and mad hairy men. Actually, I'm telling lies. For the first week, with the exception of falling asleep at dinner in Newtown before 9pm, we were horizontal in our van, dead to the world by the time the sun fell behind the bushes, with nothing but the sound of the sliding door opening and shutting to go wee in the middle of the night keeping us up. As time went on we made it to 10pm quiet a few times and was once even awake until midnight. So there you go, times have changed and life really isn't all about hangovers and floozy's. It's about finding that perfect motorized cart to drive around on, with your fluorescent orange flag whipping around  behind you.

Glenn was dumbfounded at the amount of old bags and buggers riding the roads in their carts, stopping out the front of the newsagent's and pharmacy's talking it up with the next crazy old git, before riding of into the sunset to take their medication and watch The Bold and the Beautiful. Than, one day as we were driving with mum, she's telling us about the 'two seater' cart, as if on cue, the old girl pulled up at the traffic lights, what a beauty; the double whammy. Mum and dad, side by side in their love seat cart. We were in our glory when out jumped the old bloke from his seat, grumpily walked over to the traffic lights and pressed the walk button. I was sad when I didn't get a photo. Oh well, a variety of cart photo's to come in future posts.

Enough jabbering about geriatric transportation, let's get back on the road. Well almost. First you need to know about the time my hair dryer caught on fire. We decided that if we were heading to see my family the next day then we would need to shower at least once in four days. My hair is not beautiful nor likable, unless you're some furry bunyip creature from the southern hemisphere. 

Since I'm not a fury animal, sometimes I do actually need to attend to my hair and Nambucca Heads was the place I was going to do it. Nambucca is on the east coast of Aussie, half way between Sydney and Brisbane. Enough going on there to have a good night sleep and some awesome fresh food.

The feeling of a shower at this point is so painfully close that I was happy to pay $45 for a piece of land to park our ugly van on for the night. It was well worth the money until I attached my tiny travel hairdryer to my adapter, plugged it and was left with an explosive sound quiet similar to a fighter jet taking off. It only took seconds for me to register that I didn't have a really awesome hairdryer anymore, but one that was about to catch on fire from the sparks that were assembling around the outer edge. After I looked around to see if anyone that was showering had stepped out to see if I was still alive, they didn't, I slipped the useless machine into the bin and left with mad, wet hair.

Being no different from any other morning at this point, we were up before the sun and fussed about until there was enough light as to not have to dodge spun out kangaroo's at dawn hopping about on the road. We paid a ten dollar deposit for our toilet key and needed to get it back from the office. Thinking that there would be some night person that sleeps near by would be able to pop over and give it to us, I start banging on the glass door and ringing the bell, quiet obnoxiously, in hope that we could get on the road. Than a cranky man-boy opened his bedroom door adjacent to where I was banging and made me feel like a dickhead for being so rude at this hour of the morning for a measly ten bucks. Quiet true, but ended up paying $55 for a patch of dirt and blown-up hairdryer.

Not to far up the road, just south of Grafton, a place where my friend Heidi tells me, behind closed doors they're a different breed of people, hmmm, Glenn and I find our own special breed of dog. To this day we swear black and blue that we found our very own Dingo. We had been driving really slow for the last couple of K's through roadworks and were day dreaming and looking around at more bush land when we both saw a juvenile dog playfully jumping about. We were uselessly trying to get the camera to prove our discovery when cars started honking and frightened the dog off into the bushes. It may not have been a pure dingo as if it was shipped down from Fraser Island, but it was definitely some kind of wild dog/dingo, one that has us sounding like we were taking the piss. Either way, its was pretty beautiful and mysterious.

Bypassing about a thousand places I wanted to stop and take Glenn to along the coast, we were only a couple of hours from what would be our home for the next month, so we gunned it until we arrived at Byron Bay, where I was sad to find out my love for the place was lost with the past. A happy lost. However we did find our way to revisit The Rails Hotel for a coldie, with the absence of local entertainment boozing it up in the park next to the beer garden. The Rails is the old train station that was utilized into a mighty fine pub when the trains stopped stopping at Byron a bunch of years ago. Check it out if you're about there. Less skanky backpackers and more mangy locals. It's a ripper.

I'm pretty happy we've arrived in Kingscliff. It's been a fast tracked journey to get to this point, so now i'm going to settle back and enjoy telling you my story. There are many, so please keep coming back to see what happens next.

A good night mooning

Has anyone ever been to Newcastle? The Newcastle in New South Wales, north of Sydney? Well, besides on just one occasion many shady moons ago on a night when fiasco's seem to happen, I hadn't been there. This was my first wonderful experience in Newcastle, so pleasant in fact that Glenn and I made excitable plans to move here when it was time leave America. Note that since than we have decided to move elsewhere, at no fault to Newcastle. One of those days when the sun is shining hard and bright and quiet frankly, life is good.

Newcastle is a port town, a place of industry, where you look out to sea and as far as your eye can make out there are massive cargo ships waiting there for hours and days to lug themselves to shore. When you look to towards the west, the horizon is dotted with a world of coal. It's the working man's town, a proud community you could say.

After no food the night before, food has become the hour of power. Going from extremes such as overpriced, flavorless lettuce, to, how the fuck are we ever going to decide, we opted to cross the road to a little ray of light shining on the ever so tasty and local health food store.

Know this: you will rarely visit a cafe in most of Australia and not have the option of Turkish or Lebanese bread. I'm beyond baffled most of the time when I enter a cafe in America and I only see bread that I don't want to eat. It's mighty fine bread most of the time, don't get me wrong, it's just that Turk and Leb are outstanding.

I guess I'm just going to have a crack it myself. I'm not a baker my any means, patience is stuck in the oven on high and is burning into crunchy parts. You will hear about it though, just for shits and giggles.

When you're wandering and climbing the streets in Newcastle there is a constant changing contrast with what you'll see down the next one. Unfortunately, like almost every piece of land on the east coast of Australia, vacant or not, there are various groups of hellish fat cats, developers I think is their name, that seem to be tearing down places of character and erecting eye sores in place their place. My point being, Newcastle is no exception. The alluring houses and buildings that are still standing instantly take me back to a place that I never existed in.

 

Little terrace houses that get you picturing round, sweaty mamma's baking and beating down floury bread and making buttery, family sized meat pies.

It just so happened that a splendid fellow whom is courting my dear aunt Karen, was visiting his parents in the area, and offered to take us on a little mini tour of his childhood town. Thanks Neil. So after climbing to what had to surely be the highest point in the greater Newcastle area, we met him down the road for a little show and tell.

After playing silly buggers with a lost shopping trolley we all found our way to the ocean. Thanks to the thousands of convicts that were dropped ashore more than 200 years ago, the walk out to the light house and beyond is a pretty good one. Thanks fellas.

 

After a little more driving, stop, get out, take a photo, get back in, drive again, Neil dropped us off at our ugly van and we followed him out of town toward Lake Macquarie for the night. One of those massive lakes where there are entire townships dotted all the way around with perfect sunsets that cause embarrassing oohs and aaahhs every 20 seconds when the color changes slightly.

As the sun slowly set in the sky, my blood sugar levels and sanity were fading with it. As tears of hunger started to roll down my face we desperately searched for edible food. Cooking was not happening tonight. After driving 15 minutes down the road and deciding it felt to much like a haven for serial killers, we headed back to the spot Neil originally showed us. We also found Indian food. In the midst of stores housing fashion from past decades and restaurants seating people struggling to keep their eyes open, there she was. One massive tandoori oven eating his master alive.

 The only very wrong thing about camping out in a van on a quiet, but a main road at that, with locals going for evening strolls and late night drivers pulling in near for snuggles by the water, is that you end up looking like a kangaroo in a head light with your pants around your ankles when you need to go to the toilet. I'm usually quiet happy to drop my dacks if I need a toilet when there isn't one, but mooning strolling families is not one of my highlights.

Goon-a-fortune

There's only one thing left to do when you've got a road map, an ugly van, stale cruskits and seventeen bottles of over priced water; hit the road. It just feels so good. Spending weeks pottering around Sydney would have been easy to do, but the open road was calling.

 We really only crawled out of Sydney, since we headed to the northern most tip of the Sydney beaches, oooing and aaahing over the drive towards Avalon and Newport, where we spent the night at the foot of the Newport Arms Hotel. It was the sort of overnight van camping spot that is so good, you can't help but look around, waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes when you're doing a wee saying, 'piss off, bloody tourists'.

Thankfully, that didn't happen. Instead we were greeted by a friendly

 local with his weathered hand, dangerously reaching brown bag rippage, around his third long neck. Come on Aussie, come on.

If you've ever been to the northern beaches of Sydney, the far end, you'll know that on both sides of the road there is water. One for the view of cliff side mansions facing the Pacific, the other for their boats on the Pittwater Estuary side.

 So when a local market holder told us about this great little pub over looking the water in Newport we thought he must have known what he was talking about. Instead of small and old we got big and new, not good for the traveller in a dying van.

 What is good for the traveller in a dying van is a bottle shop, a big, wide bottle shop that has rows and rows of cask wine assortments.

When the food is just not cutting it, the kind of food Sydney weekenders flock for, and you're laying back in your faithful heap of crap with million dollar views, one can only make the assumption to crack the goon bag, pour, than watch the sun fall from the noisy sky.