Fast money

I have a penchant for fast food. I pretty much love most things that come out of a bain-marie. Crab sticks, hot chips and toasted sandwiches are my favourites.

And I have a confession to make. I really do like crumbed chicken, cheese sausages.

I don’t eat them often.

In fact the last time I had one was at the end of ’09,  at Roebuck Plains Roadhouse.


My beloved just about had a coronary; it was a side of me that he had never seen. My deep dark secret. I justified my choice by claiming the worst hang over I’d EVER had (It was pretty nasty) and I have never again ordered one, such was the severity of the scolding.

Having just confessed all that, I’m a little bit miffed by my absolute horror at the number of people driving in and out of a certain fried chicken shop next door to my office. It starts at about ten o’clock in the morning and doesn’t let up ALL DAY. I’m not even sure if it’s open at ten- people could be queuing to get in?

I wish I could bottle the smell that wafts through the air conditioner in the morning, as the children who work there change the oil. I would distribute little vials all around Geraldton.

Guaranteed, no one would eat there again.

My horror is partly at the number of people eating there so early in the day, but, at the risk of sounding a little bit uppity, it’s partly at the sort of person eating there so early in the day. I’m sure you don’t need me to paint you a picture, but I have included one with this post just in case you’re not sure what I’m getting at.

Cashed up bogans are partial to sucking on a fried leg, however in the main, from my astute observation, it looks as though it’s the low income earners in town who eat there.

This miffs me too.

The only reason I can think of as to why they’d shop there rather than across the road at the very nice family run and significantly CHEAPER fish and chip shop, which also does fried chicken, is that next door you do not have to get out of your car.

I don’t for one second think that I’m living in a glass house, but HELLO lady in your hotted up 1992 Commodore with your “Fuck off we’re full” bumper sticker and noisy exhaust! You NEED to get out of your car.

But rather than encouraging Commodore lady out of her car to burn off even a couple of those chicken calories, this town is working hard to facilitate her.

Geraldton proudly boasts (and when I say boast I mean BOAST) the state’s first ever drive thru ATM? I thought it was a joke when someone first told me, and I thought, “Poor Geraldton, everyone giving it such a hard time!” But no my friends, it’s no joke, we are in fact too lazy to stand at an ATM and punch a few numbers in.

So as the forty-fifth commodore of the day pulls into the drive thru next door for lunch, via the ANZ ATM no doubt, I ponder my lunch options.

I really do fancy a toasted chicken, cheese and mayo sandwich from across the road.

But I have no cash and will have to walk about five hundred meters up the road to an ATM.

Don't forget the Gascoyne!

I had a birds eye view of two historic events during 2010, both declared natural disasters.

My year started at work, in Toodyay, covering the aftermath of the bushfire that destroyed almost 40 homes, businesses, farms and local infrastructure.

I finished the year at work in Carnarvon, covering the flooding of the Gascoyne River, which inundated hundreds of homes, businesses and destroyed farms, stations and local infrastructure.

While the Toodyay fire happened more than a year ago, the recovery continues, both practically for those who continue to rebuild their homes and emotionally for those who continue to rebuild their lives.

The clean up and recovery from the Gascoyne flood has only just begun, and it won't be a quick process.

For those of us who don't live in the Gascoyne, it's easy to forget what happened there only a matter of weeks ago. Carnarvon has disappeared from the front page of the newspaper and it no longer gets a spot on our nightly news. (Though it must be said the ABC Local Radio coverage continues!)

Most of us have enjoyed a Christmas and New Year celebration since then.

And now Queensland is dominating the headlines, as that state braces for its worst flooding in history.

While there's no doubt that Queensland will need the help of the entire nation, to clean up and rebuild, let's not forget the people of the Gascoyne, who contribute so much to this fabulous, but at times, cruel, state of ours.

Donate to the Perth Lord Mayor's Appeal.

Helens' Fruit Cake

This is Helen. She looks a bit fruity in this picture! In fact she does fruity well... she makes a ripper fruit cake that's a staple of the Matthews family Christmas.

When I was little, and if the truth be told, not so little, I would go through the fruit while it was left on the stove absorbing the grog and golden syrup and pick all the cherrys out.

I also like eating the creamed butter and sugar.

Once the cake's baked, it's especially nice with a thick spread of butter on it, a nasty habit my father taught me. Others enjoy it with cream or icecream. Mum reckons it's best by itself with a cup of tea.

Here 'tis- in old fashioned measurements.

2 1/2 pounds of mixed fruit

2 tablespoons of golden syrup ( or honey)

3 (or more) tablespoons of brandy, sherry or rum

3/4 cup of water

1/2 teaspoon of salt

1/4 teaspoon of cinnamon

1/2 pound of butter

1/2 pound of brown sugar

5 eggs

10 ounces of plain flour

2 ounces of self raising flour

2 teaspoons of mixed spice

3/4 teaspoon of nutmeg

Place fruit, golden syrup, brandy and water in a saucepan and boil for two minutes. Pour onto a bowl, cover and stand overnight. ( Here is the opportunity to steal the cherry's!)

Cream butter and sugar, add eggs one at a time.

Sift dry ingredients then sift half of the dry ingredients over the boiled fruit mixture, mix lightly, then blend into creamed mixture. Add remainder of flour and blend well.

Line an eight inch tin with baking paper THREE times. Bake at 150 degrees celsius for two and a half hours.

You could bake it in a terracotta flower pot, then turn it upside down then cover it in icing...then you have a christmas bell! If you are going to bake it in a terracotta pot, only bake at 120 degrees celsius.

Wedding Weight Woes

In recent months I've tried a range of weight loss techniques in order to fit into a wedding dress that at the time of purchase was a size and a bit too small for me.

The ladies at the shop try their best to convince me to, at the very least, order a 14. I even sign a form saying I won't hold them liable if I don't fit into the size 12 dress when it arrives FOUR months later.

The problem is, the dress arrives THREE months later, meaning I am four weeks and five kilos out in the weight loss regime.

(Please note I use the term regime fairly loosely.)

The first five came off quite quickly. Root canal gone wrong, three stints in hospital, allergic reaction to pain killers, throw up for a week and presto. Five kilos gone. And a tooth to boot!

During this tooth nightmare, I discovered laxatives. A handful of laxatives does the trick on the scales. The only problem is that when you work in an open plan office with one female toilet, running back and forward ten times an hour starts to look suspicious.

I've tried the high protein no carb diet, which again is good for the weight loss, but again, not so good in an open plan office. One more tin of sardines and my colleagues will lodge a grievance against me.

Speaking of grievances, I will be launching one against said bridal frock shop. A letter arrives saying my dress is in store ready to be paid for in full, a month early, and I can collect it Monday to Friday between 9 and 4.

Well, I live in the country and the dress is a month early and I'm still five kilos overweight, I'll just collect the dress at my convenience.

Snotty shop lady: It must be paid for in full within seven days of it arriving in our store.

Kate: I'll pay you over the phone then come and collect it next time I'm in Perth.

Snotty shop lady: No you must try it on and check it before it can be paid for.

Kate: Well I live in Geraldton and work full time so it will have to be on a Saturday in a few weeks time.

Snotty shop lady: No it must be this week and it can't be a Saturday. You'll have to take a day off work, there are too many people in the store on a Saturday, someone might step on it or touch it.

Kate: Lady, it's just a dress. I can't take a day off work just to pick up a dress.

Snotty shop lady: THIS MY DEAR IS NOT JUST A DRESS!!!

After a while she got my drift and I tried it on and paid for it on a SATURDAY. And it fit too, which I was quite smug about.

I just can't sit down in it or drink or eat anything while wearing it.

So for the next two months, it's air & water. And no alcohol. And probably a bit of exercise.

So much effort for one single day!

To look good for a bloke who had no problem conning me up, and as it turns out falling in love with me, when I tipped the scales at 83 kilos.

I've said it once, I'll say it again. Our priorities are all arse about. (A sizable arse.)

PS. That's not actually me in the photo...

Redemption?

Two of my all time favourite famous people are Benny Cousins and Johnny Cash.

I adore Cash's music. So much so that we've named our new dog after him. Now we have Cash and Dusty, after Slim. Let it be said that Dusty pre dates me so I had no hand in naming him.

Likewise I have adored Benny Cousins since I was fifteen years old. I am a West Coast devotee, but it was certainly Ben's good looks, hot bod and charisma that got me hooked at 15. It's an addiction I've been unable to kick since, despite the circus of the past ten years.

I can't say I adore him now, but I can't write him off.

I feel heartbroken after watching "Such is Life" last night. Say what you will about Ben Cousin's, watching his father speak about his ordeal was emotional and distressing.

And my distress and sadness is heightened, because I honestly wonder how Ben Cousins is ever going to survive post football. When you've adored someone for almost 15 years, albeit from a far, it's sad to face the reality that perhaps their ultimate demise is inevitable.

My hope comes from Johnny Cash. Perhaps the most influential singer song writer in history.

A drug addict.

Johnny Cash's story was one of extreme talent, extreme success and extreme wealth. His story was one of struggle for survival and ultimately one of redemption.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if Ben continues to walk the Johnny Cash line until the very end.

Like father like daughter

I'm turning into my father. (See picture.)

If it was his admirable attributes I was acquiring then I wouldn't be concerned in the slightest.

He is a man of honesty, integrity, loyalty and passion.

But, I fear, that his dark side is becoming my dark side.

I, like my father, am the quintessential bad sport.

You see, football, is determining my state of mind, and my state of mind tonight, is poor.

To say the least.

And what's worse, is that I'm less concerned about my side losing three on the trot, than I am about the arch enemy winning three on the trot.

While I know deep down that it's sheer arsey luck that the opposition have won their first three matches and that they will, inevitably, come crashing down to earth, I still hate to see them succeed.

Even for five minutes.

And mark my word, that's what it is. Five minutes. Not a second more.

What's more, I absolutely detest people who support my team, but say, "Oh well at least it's another WA team doing well. "

It's club football. Not state football. You dickheads

For the love of god learn some integrity. And while you're at it, some loyalty, honesty and passion.

Thank you and goodnight.

Credit where credit is due

Goon, boxy, chateau de cardboard, plonk or lady in a boat.

There's no denying it, the trusty old cask wine holds a special place in the heart of most Australians whether they admit it or not.

Australians drink more than 180 litres of cask wine a year.

I know it's not terribly high brow of me to blog about goon, but following the death of its inventor Thomas Angove last week, I thought a few words were in order.

South Australian winemaker Thomas Angove died aged 92. He invented the wine in a box in 1965.

What a legacy he's left.

My own personal experience occurred in 1998 somewhere in the Perth Hills. I say somewhere in the Perth Hills because after half a carton of fruity lexia I had no idea where I was.

It's been said that "fruity lexia makes you sexier." So true. I was HOT that February night. It's just a shame I was the only one who thought so.

The sexy theory wasn't the only one I'd worked on that day. "Eating's cheating" is another one that's ringing bells.

I was in Year 1o and at a party held by a boy in my class. For a teenage girl with low self esteem cask wine was a panacea.

I've never forgotten the kindness said year 10 boys sisters showed me that night. Holding my hair while I threw up in their parents bath.

Not that I've had a chance to forget. One of them is now married to one of Woody's best mates. (Perth. Capital city or small town?)

But my point is, who doesn't have a story similar to that? I reckon there's plenty and many worse than mine.

How many children have been conceived after a night on the goon? (I may have even been one of them? Or it could have been West Coast Coolers, not sure?)

Even now, many of my amazing women friends (although not my Kimberley mates- cask wine is banned there) have been seen doing the bottle shop walk of shame, quickly ducking into the bottlo after work, then ducking out again eyes down, cask tucked under the arm, praying they don't see anyone they know.

So as I sit here sipping (swigging) my glass of Vasse Felix white, thinking I'm all grown up, I salute you Thomas Angove.

May you Rest in Peace. And may the wine be plentiful!