The Things We Do For Love

Big Mac, aka Funburger.

*

As mentioned previously, I have a girlfriend, Andromeda. Being single for almost five years before that I got used to doing things my way; not having to socially compromise on anything, always being able to choose what's on the telly and what music is playing when I do the housework, and eating what I want and when I want.

Whilst Andromeda is happy to eat whatever I prepare or suggest (when we go out), left alone to her own devices, she has pretty junky eating habits. Like all cliche girls, chocolate is its own food group in her diet, as are these hideous packeted food-drinks called 'Up n Go' (I had one sip and nearly spewed - it tasted like soggy weetbix that had been left on the table for a whole day, in the sun). She also likes Red Bull (I had one sip of that too - all my teeth decayed by 10%).

She also likes McDonalds. Which is a problem, because I've maintained a blackban on McDonalds since 1989 (though I did have a long macchiato from Maccas in 2007, at 2am, on drugs, drunk, and attempting (and failing) to pick up a chick who happened to want a Cheeseburger at that time).

I have been proud of my 22 year blackban, irrational as it is. I don't think McDonalds is any more evil than any other franchise of anything, but like Nike, Nescafe, Microsoft and USA, being the biggest at some enterprise means being the principal target of anti-capitalist ire, but I'm sure that Le Coq Sportif, Moccona, Norton and Norway would be just as evil given half the chance. I eat Hungry Jacks occasionally, but not Maccas - that's irrational, but sometimes, it's nice to just stick to something, no matter how inconvenient it is so as to feel some sense of discipline, or achievement. I set myself a boundary, and kept to it.

But recently, at a dinner party, I made mention of my 22 year ban on McDonalds, and Andomeda said to me, "...that's because you're anti-fun!"

I argued that the eating or non-eating of McDonalds had nothing to do with 'fun', and that indeed, I am a LOT of fun even with the absence of Maccas - hell, the other night, I read Jack London's 'Call Of The Wild' on my I-phone in three hours whilst stroking her hair when she was asleep! I'm a lot of fun! But she wouldn't be deterred. She, somewhat wrongly, but a lot rightly, pointed out that my lifestyle, with the exception of when I have a few drinks under my belt, revolves around arty musings, political debates and lazing on the couch watching sport.

So, two nights ago, we drove to Colac to do a big grocery shop (because there's so many poor people there, the groceries are real cheap - kalamata olives at $7.99 a kilo!) and planned to get fish n chips, but it was shut. "I want McDonalds" she said so I went to the drive through (which they spelt 'thru', which nearly made me crash), and she ordered a cheeseburger, some chicken nuggets and a watered down coke, and before I knew it, obviously with the 'anti-fun' jibe rattling in my head, I heard myself order a Big Mac and medium fries.

It was like riding a bike. One bite into the Big Mac and I thought, "I remember this". An hour later, when I felt nauseous, fat, sickly and lethargic, I thought, "I remember this as well".

I was right to instil a ban on that crap food for 22 years, but here's the rub: I enjoyed it. Sort of. I enjoyed not having to get out of the car, and to be fed, cheaply and quickly, with food that whilst disgusting on almost every measurement, was good for both my appetite and my relationship. Also, I proved I was capable of 'fun', and now that I've proven it to her, I can give Maccas another 22 year wide berth.

A Restaurant Review

This better not be mid-strength!

I've never done a restaurant review before. Partly because I don't really know enough about food to make an informed comment (although I do know what I like) but mainly because people who review restaurant are usually arseholes.

I eat out regularly, perhaps once a week, almost always within walking distance of my house (there are a plethora of places in my immediate vicinity - Windsor, Prahran, St Kilda) and almost always with the Missus and the Kid.

On Friday night perhaps we made the mistake of venturing too far from our immediate locale to a mid-priced Italian bistro. In short, we crossed Commercial Rd into the fashion (shithouse) end of Chapel St. The South Yarra end. The yuppy end. The tourist end. (My Windsor bias is showing).

I should've been warned off by the phone call I made to enquire about opening hours.

Me: Hi. What time are you open tonight?

Guy on Phone: Mate, we're open until 10.

Me: Yeah, but what time do you open?

Guy: Whaddya mean?

Me: I'm not sure how to phrase it any other way.

Silence.

Me: Will you be open at 6?

Guy: Of course!

As if I was supposed to know.

Me: Should I book?

Guy: Nah.

Bad signs. But we went anyway.

We were the first to arrive - fair enough, it was only about 6.15. For some strange reason, they were playing techno house beats, loud. Sure it was Friday night in Chapel Street, but it was just past 6 and we were a family of three, clearly not about to head out to a club, drop Es and throw back shots of Sambuca. I would have preferred old style Italian music, even a live piano accordion player. Perhaps a hurdy gurdy and a monkey

I immediately ordered a Peroni, then took the kid to the toilet up greasy old rickety stairs which threatened to give way. Upon returning to the table something unacceptable had occurred. The waitress had brought me some sort of light or mid-strength beer which was also low-carb. It was labelled Peroni, sure, but was not real beer. It was some sort of Italian Pure Blonde (the very worst beer ever made). An abomination. I didn't complain. I never complain before the end of the meal for fear of the spit. The Missus, incidentally, had received the same thing.

Then I ordered penne and spicy meatballs. Instead of penne I received spaghetti. No big deal and the meal was pretty good and certainly spicy. The Missus ordered a medium rare porterhouse steak and received a well done porterhouse steak. Not a trace of pink to be seen. So much for chefs being precious about steak.

The Kid, fortunately, received his cappricciosa pizza and apple juice without incident.

So, in summary, of the 6 things ordered, 4 were wrong. The blame would lie partly with the waitress, partly with the chef and partly with the manager (for even stocking mid-strength, low carb beer in the first place).

Luckily the food tasted good and the staff very friendly. The place is called The Old Pepper. And I give it 5/10.

Bullshit & Song of the Week

What's made of iron and gets dipped in curry?

Jesus Christ I hate it when companies advertise products which claim to be healthy when, in fact, they're not. Marketing products such as Special K, Nutri Grain and Milo as healthy foods is misleading, inappropriate and, quite simply, fucking wrong.

When spruiking Special K, Kelloggs target women with implictions that they'll get thin and miraculously obtain long, slim legs if they eat that shit. Special K is not made with wholegrains and therefore has very little fibre, contains 14.5% sugar and 536mg of sodium per 100g. It's not healthy, it's not nutritious and, incidentally and editorially, it tastes like shit.

Nutritional Value*: 2/10
Taste: 1/10

Nutri Grain is aimed at young boys and men. The implication made through the marketing is that they'll grown up to be fit and healthy or, if you like, 'iron men'. Fuck off, you creeps! It contains 32% sugar, 600mg of sodium per 100g and also contains highly processed grains which severely lack in fibre. They actually add vitamins and minerals. They add them! Isn't it easier to use healthy ingredients in the first place? Like corn, oats and wheat? Kelloggs, you are a bunch of cunts.

Nutritonal Value: 3/10
Taste: 5/10

Then there's Milo. Marketed in a similar way to Nutri Grain, it contains 47% sugar and 10% fat. They also add vitamins and minerals and, like icing on the cake (or milo on ice-cream), they use palm oil and have a track record of doing so**. It's not healthy but at least this one tastes ok.

Nutritional value: 3/10
Taste: 7/10

There are many, many more products that fall neatly into the above category. "Breakfast bars" for example.

#

Meanwhile, here's beardo legend Steven McBean from Black Mountain with some real rock n roll:




* Personal ratings subject to bursts of anger.
** Palm oil is an ecologically unsound ingredient which is grown in areas of cleared old growth forest in Malaysia which continues to reduce already fragile Orangutan habitat. They also use palm oil in Kit Kats.

Me v. McDonalds!

While I was growing up my parents were convinced that McDonalds was a tool of American imperialism and refused to take us there.

When an adult I wasn’t all that into to their style of fast food anyway* with the net result that when, on the rare occasion The Boy forces me to that particular establishment, I am somewhat flummoxed when confronted with the McDonalds menu.

This, in turn, leads to the sort of laughable misunderstandings, much loved by a certain type of indie film.

Witness this exchange from the other night.

Me: “Ermmmmm. Ummmmmmmm. I believe I’ll have the ‘super happy fun meal’, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick: “whaftawhaftawhafta fries with that?”

Me: "Sorry?"

Bored McDonald’s chick (slightly louder): “whaftawhaftawhafta fries with that?”


Me: “Yes, I believe I will have a medium portion of chips with that, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick: “whaftawhaftawhafta medium fries?”

Me: “Yes, medium chips sounds lovely, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick (clearly deciding that I’m a dickhead and she wants me out of her queue): “whaftawhaftawhafta drinks as well?”

Me: “OK, can I see the wine list, thanks?”

Horrified McDonald’s chick: …………….
……………..
……………..
“We’re not allowed to sell alcohol, sir!”

Me: “OK, I’ll just have a Coopers Ale then.”

Honestly, I might as well be wearing a pince nez and frockcoat.

*Much more of a kebab man**, me.

**Especially after a couple of Coopers.

Me versus wild!

Osso bucco ahoy!

I recall reading somewhere* that the ultimate test of those super-fit, SAS types is to be parachuted naked into the wilds and live off the land for a set time.

If I was parachuted naked into the wilds of Melbourne, I’d probably be attested for indecent exposure.

If, however, I was parachuted fully clothed with $150 in my kick into the wilds of Melbourne, I’m pretty confident I could find my way to the Italian Waiters Club and organise a slap-up feast and a couple of bottles of red.

There’s something in that for us all.

Also – can we just accept we’re shit at soccer and move on?

It really will save a lot of time.

*And if people would hurry up and fix my fucking glasses, I could look it up.

Detox This!

This Ain't Detox, It's Fruit

The body does not need to detox. There is no accumulation of 'toxins' that we have to rid ourselves of. The liver and the kidneys are excellent organs which eliminate bad things from our body readily, quickly and efficiently*.

By all means stop drinking heavily or eating fatty foods or consuming large amounts of caffeine - they can be bad for you. But your body isn't storing any toxins**.

If you're fat and you don't want to be fat, go on a diet. If you have high blood pressure, reduce your amount of caffeine and salt. If you have high cholesterol, perhaps that second pie isn't doing you any favours. If you're constipated, eat more fruit and vegetables.

But don't detox. Because there is no such thing. And certainly don't buy products that 'assist the body to detox'. Because there is no such thing.

"I'm on a liver cleansing diet."

"Why?"

"I do it every year."

"But why?"

"To rid my liver of toxins."

"What toxins?"

"From the food and alcohol I've been consuming."

"But what toxins?"

"Like alcohol."

"But it doesn't accumulate. You stop drinking and it goes away."

"What about the unnatural stuff in food?"

"Like what?"

"Preservatives and stuff."

"Again. Your body doesn't accumulate them. Maybe some preservatives are bad, but just stop eating them."

"But that's what detoxing is. You stop eating the bad stuff."

"No. That's called a healthy diet. Detoxing suggests that there are toxins stored in your body until you eat 43 guavas, a pound of ginger and a small shrub."

"What star sign are you?"


*Unless you have severe liver or kidney disease.

**I have clearly included no references, however Google 'detox myths' and rejoice in the outcome (unless you disagree with me in which case either Google 'Why Detox' or go fuck yourself).

World "Eat a Chop" Day to follow.

Self-absorbed bourgeois across the nation are gearing up for World Vegan Day; a celebration of narcissism, conspicuous compassion and appalling halitosis.

Independent film maker Marcus Hall said he was looking forward to the day, provided he could stay conscious that long.

“It’s really great to mingle with like minded people and assure each other what wonderful, special people we are,” he said.

“True, some people might regard this as a self-important wank-fest that doesn’t actually achieve anything practical; but those people are yucky and probably don’t even live in North Fitzroy.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to bath in my own urine.”

Organisers are using the image of the gorilla, citing the fact that it has an herbivorous diet but is known to have upper body strength at least six times greater than that of humans. Event organisers are said to be impressed by its strength and ability to live harmoniously with the natural world.

The fact that it’s a completely different fucking species and therefore completely useless for the purposes of comparison has been rated less highly.

Prominent meat eater and actor Sam Neill said “Have you ever been in the same room with Vegans? Phew, the smell!”

Mr Neill added “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to eat an entire cow.”

Hold the Onions

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the King's horses and all the King's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again

Ok, I was tempted to blog about the suggested alteration to this classic nursery rhyme from 1810 but, as you can see, it's already been done and, anyway, it's probably just a beat up and, anyway, I really don't care that much because we've been down this road before and we've all got annoyed about it - perhaps even angry - and we're probably mostly over the ridiculousness of these acts of stupidity and the ludicrousness of these crimes of absurdity.

After all, are kids really going to be offended, scared or saddened by some dimwit (and clearly fictional and largely comical if we can make a judgement from the picture above) egg taking a tumble off a wall and smashing his protective shell into smithereens, and thereafter dying a horrible death while being picked over by the King's four and twenty blackbirds (ok, that's a different nursery rhyme but I'm imagining a Tarantino or Altman-esque screenplay where nursery rhyme characters' lives intersect)?

I mean, there's even a moral here: kids, don't climb shit cos it's dangerous. Eggs are, after all, things to be eaten (and that's apart from their very important role of providing a cosy, gestational home for foetuses). I personally like mine fried with a side of bacon and mushrooms and liberally seasoned with pepper. Eggs, not foetuses. Preferably on thick, heavy, European style toast if it's available. And I'll sip a flat white while I'm about it thanks very much waitress and do that walk as you head back to the kitchen that's the girl.

But it got me thinking about nursery rhymes in general. Many of them revolve around death, injury or violence. Let's look at Jack n Jill. Two stupid kids climbing shit, falling over and cracking their skulls open. Ring a Ring a Rosy is about dying horrifically from the Black Death. Goosey Goosey Gander? A guy gets thrown down the stairs for not saying his prayers. I suspect Perseus and Boogey could entertain us with a grandiloquent discussion about the merits of this one. A baby crashes to its presumed death in Rockabye Baby. And then there are the sudden beheadings in Oranges and Lemons.

This all occurred to me as I recited nursery rhymes to my son in attempt to get him to sleep last night. No wonder he has nightmares.

Man on the moon

We recently had a space party for LittleSquib's 6th birthday. Note my pathological Bree Van de Kamp attention to detail

Invites

Pull-out invites with 3D paint rivets



















Music

Our dvd played NASA space footage on the telly on mute while a thumbdrive belted out a space compilation:

Bad Moon Rising (Credence Clearwater Revival)
Black Star (Radiohead)
Far Out (Blur)
Calling Occupants Of Interplanetary Craft (Carpenters)
Dancing In The Moonlight (Thin Lizzy)
Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me (Elton John)
Drops of Jupiter (Train)
Goodbye Milky Way (Enigma)
Farewell Rocketship (Children Collide)
Outer Space (Freezepop)
Here Comes the Sun (The Beatles)
My Star (Ian Brown)
Kelly Watch the Stars (Air)
I lived on the Moon (Kwoon)
Spacewalk (Lemon Jelly)
Life on Mars (Bowie)
Man in the Moon (Voice of the Beehive)
Man on the Moon (REM)
Moonshadow (Cat Stevens)
Wandering Star (Portishead)
Rocketman (Elton John)
Sleeping Satellite (Tasmin Archer)
Space Oddity (Bowie)
Starman (Bowie)
The Whole of the Moon (The Waterboys)
To the Moon and Back (Savage Garden)
UFO (Sneaky Sound System)
Under the Milky Way Tonight The Church)
Walking on the Moon (The Police)

*Decorations

A helium astronaut, stars, and a Saturn pinata in the lounge room
















A **zipperobe TARDIS and outer space (made from garbage bags) in the spare/guest room























Food
Gingerbread astronauts and rockets













Fruit rockets and cheese star biscuits



















Cake
Zappo the Alien, another Women's Weekly classic, right up there with Princess Shazza



















Loot Bags

Note that the badges on the loot bags match the cake (how deranged can one person be?). Contents: freeze dried Giant Sandwich, mini Mars bar & Milky Way bar, chocolate space sticks, glow-in-dark stars, spinning UFO top, earth marble, space jokes, astronaut figurine



















Activities

Included alien mask making



















LittleSquib was dressed as a dalek
























One of her presents was 'I can be a Space Camp Barbie'. Space needs more pink










Squiblo wore a retro rocket scarf




















* The decorations stay up for BigSquib's sci-fi space party at the end of the month
** For overnight guests to hang their clothes in

Why? I really want to know.

Why do people watch reality television? Is it voyeurism? Is it a desire to see the underdog win? Is it because they think they might see real talent, or real personality? Is it an opportunity to rub one's hands together in glee at the traumatic politics of a group of people from diverse backgrounds coming together in a high pressure environment? Is it to see people succeed? Is it to see people lose? Is it because there's nothing else on and books, music, films, conversation or rooting aren't an option? Fucked if I know. What I can say is this:

Up until recently I had never, ever - and I mean it sincerely - I really never have, I promise, seriously, without falsification, embellishment or exaggeration, watched an entire episode of a reality television program. Never. Ever. Never had the desire. Never had the interest. Never thought I had the time. However...

I somehow got caught up in the MasterChef brouhaha. I like cooking. I'm interested in it. I cook at home. I cook reasonably well, if not a little conservatively. And despite the myriad cooking show options available, I found myself tuning in. Sure enough, after a few episodes, I was hooked. I know everyone's names, I have favourites, I have enemies. I wish for the demise of some, the success of others. I get tense prior to eliminations. I scoff at bad meals and cheer for the great ones. I plan my own dinner to be ready on the dot of 7pm, so I can sit with the missus with plates on laps and watch the whole drama unfold. And talk about it as if we personally know the contestants. As if it was of great importance. As if the future of mankind depended on it.

The thing is, I see it for what it is. I know how these shows are made. I understand that it's all contrived to maximise ratings. I know there's the token Asian, the token spunk, the token black man. I hate the incessant repetition, I hate the bad editing, the melodrama and the cliches. I hate the hypocrisy, the product placements and the inane and superfluous semi-host (er, the 3 judges are men, better get a woman in there, even if she is vacuous).

But I watch it anyway. Religiously. What have I become?

Weekend Food Wrap

Friday Night:

Hungry Jacks. I had to pick my sister up from the airport at about 10pm, and she had warned me that she demanded a 'Melbourne Pizza' before arriving at Mum and Dad's (she lives in Townsville). I ate a light snack at tea-time, saving space for this pizza. Thing is though, her flight was delayed by more than an hour and the pizza was thusly cancelled. I had no food of substance in the house, and all the restaurants were closed, so I had to get something on the way to the airport. Whopper with cheese and regular fries was my selection. I get US food-chain take-away probably once or twice a year, and even then it is only Hungry Jacks (haven't had food at Maccas since 1989). Jesus it's awful food, and almost impossible to eat whilst driving. Oh there was special sauce on my shirt. There's something in the burger that is ice-cold, something lukewarm, and something piping hot, and all of it tastes like pre-packed and ill-conceived 'generic burger taste'. What is it? Salt? MSG? How can a beef patty with salad, cheese and bread taste so... I dunno, unlike the sum of its parts? Why do people like this food?

Saturday Night

Dad's 70th birthday. It was fun and odd at the same time. We went to a Posh Restaurant and there was mum, dad, me and my two older sisters. We worked out it was the first time since the late 70's that the five of us, the family unit, were fully together and alone (without spouses, grandkids etc.). We even all went in the car with dad driving and us three 'kids' (39, 47, 49) in the backseat fighting. Anyway, minus the drinks, dinner for five at the Posh was $450 and for that we got, well, you know, food. Dad and Crazy Sister had snails. I had oysters, some spring rolls and some roast lamb with 'herb filling' (which I think was breadcrumbs with rosemary, chives and salt). Mum had a shepherd's pie. We had cake for dessert. The food was okay, but $80 a head? Meh. I guess what you pay for is the ambience. The maitre'd, the waitress who tells you her name, the decadence of looking at a menu with no prices, the 'antique' pictures (awful paintings of knights and ballet dancers) and fuck-awful pastel walls. You get better food for $10 in Chinatown, and a superior ambience. I'm a snob, but not a food snob. I don't get paying $80 for dinner.

Sunday Night

Back home late and feeling lazy, I cooked an eye fillet under the grill, doused it with salt, picked it up in my hands and ate it like a savage. I lightly steamed five brussel sprouts and ate them like lollies, also with my hands. Then I had vegemite and cheese on biscuits while watching an SBS film, along with a mandarin and a bowl of muesli (yes, at 10pm). Posh restaurants and US food-chains be damned. I like making it up as I go along.

What did you eat?

The Weight Wagon

So Oprah’s fallen off the weight wagon. That truly is a shame because she helped Obama get where he is today (actually, where is he!) and I want her to be happy.

I never watch her show so I really don’t know what it is she does to achieve her status as world’s most famous and admired woman. Luckily some of her stuff seeps into international – well, western – consciousness such as the Tom Cruise couch jumping routine. Couldn’t live without moments like that. Anyway, it’s never good to see people get fat, especially when they don’t want to be. Sadly this is, I assure you, the vast majority. Even Oprah was "embarrassed".

She blames her thyroid. At least she didn’t blame big bones. I appreciate that thyroid issues can contribute to weight gain. Also, people have varying metabolisms which means some people gain weight easily while some people can barely gain weight at all. But here’s a simple little equation I’ve devised:

Energy consumption > Energy expenditure = Weight gain.

Phew, I think I solved it. After much thought, I think that’s it. No more fad diets, no more lite ‘n’ easy, no more avoiding carbs, fats, meat, dairy, whatever the current thing is we're supposed to avoid. I can boil it down to an even simpler statement: exercise more, eat less. You heard it here first.

Ok, ok. Maybe you think I’m over-simplifying things. But you know, I’m really not. Yes, people who have slower metabolisms have to work harder. That’s true. Sorry, but that’s your lot. You have thyroid problems? I’m sorry to hear that, but you have to work a little harder too. You have big bones? Nobody has big bones. That’s not bone hanging over your jeans.

Exercise more. Eat less.

I’ve done it myself. Lost 20 kgs. How did I do it?

I exercised more and I ate less.

The "slow food" movement shits me.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to open any “quality” publication these days without coming across some pompous bore droning on and on about “slow food”.

As implemented in Melbourne, “slow food” basically seems to consist of some self-satisfied bourgeois demonstrating their environmental credentials by gathering with other self-satisfied bourgeois to woof down “horse intestine stuffed with larks’ testicles” or whatever the hell this nonsense is supposed to consist of.

In the end, of course, it’s all about conspicuous consumption; showing to your friends how enlightened and cosmopolitan you are without actually doing anything practical for the environment like – you know – not driving young Felicity to her trombone lesson in the family four-wheel drive.

And isn’t it funny how the regions targeted for “slow food” are the usual foodie wank-objects; Italy, Spain, France. How come we never see “slow food” festivals for the northern European countries?

“Well Sven, what do we have for ‘slow food Norway’?”

“OK Jacinta, we have picked herring that’s been marinating in its own slime for six-months, matched with some yellow pickled vegetable and washed down with a spirit we make from rotting potatoes.”

“Sounds delish!!”

Not that I’m a great fan of “slow food” in general.

Some of its principles are;

“Lobbying against government funding of genetic engineering.” Why? If genetic engineering is safe – why not use it, why this blanket ban?

“Lobbying against the use of pesticides.” Well, why not genetically engineer plants to be pest resistant so you don’t need pesticide? Problem solved.

“Preserving and promoting local and traditional food products, along with their lore and preparation”. FTW does this mean? Human societies change all the time, that’s what makes them human and that includes food. Should we preserve “local and traditional food products” from 1350 AD, from 1750 AD, from last Tuesday?

I like food as much as the next bod*, but honestly chaps – don’t you have anything better to do with your time?

*Although probably not as much as Witchie.

Cooking with Ramon!

*Ring, ring*

Me: “Hello, Ramon here”.

Julia Gillard: “Ramon, Julia Gillard here”

Me: “Jules! Comrade! How’s it going?”

JG: “Oh, not too bad comrade, not too bad, what with me being the acting PM and everything. Look, I’m after your advice.”

Me: “Fire away”

JG: “I’ve got a big dinner party coming up. The boss and Therese are coming around for a bit of a nosh-up and I know you’re a wiz in the kitchen. Any tips you can pass on so I don’t make a complete arse of myself?”

Me: “The secret to great cooking is to reach a comfortable level of inebriation early in the afternoon and stay there. I like to have a bottle of Coopers Ale to hand while assembling the ingredients. It calms the mind and cools the head. Peel a potato, have a beer, get the peas ready, have a beer, that sort of thing. Then, just before you serve up, I like to gulp down a couple more belts of the house red.”

JG: “Cripes, thanks comrade. Last time we had them over, Therese knocked back a whole bottle of cooking sherry and spent the rest of the night groping Kev under the table. It just got embarrassing; Tim and I didn’t know where to look.”

Me: “Happy to help Jules. Anything for the Party.”

JG: “You’re a mensch, Ramon.”

Bloop, bloop, bloop - another one bites the dust.

Don Smallgoods was founded in 1940-something by the very successful butcher / abattoir owner, RJ Gilberston (some of our older readers may remember his chain of butcher outlets). Named after his beloved football team and suburb (Essendon), he changed the menus of ‘ordinary working families’ (c) K. Rudd.

Who hasn’t been to a party where Don kabana, stras, salami or frankfurts were served? Amongst Australian readers, I assume none. Before old RJ founded the smallgoods manufacturer, processed cured meat was, just like soccer, garlic and spaghetti, for ‘wogs’, but he put thinly sliced strasbourg on the everyman's plate (next to the Coon cheese squares and those sickeningly sweet green cocktail onions).

Cut forward 60 years later to today, where the current owners of the brand, George Weston Foods Limited, have announced that 620 people (many of which do not speak English) have lost their jobs. Of course, marketing and HR departments get to keep their jobs, but the manufacture of the smallgoods looks like it’ll head off-shore.

They have promised to offer the sacked workers, “transition program employment assistance” – I speak English fluently and I don’t have any idea what that means, so god help their migrant workforce.

“They were incredibly sad and disappointed that this is the decision that's been made and we took them through the reasons for the decision," he (Don Sutton CEO) said. Mr Sutton said Don Smallgoods had suffered about $80 million in losses over the past nine years ...

If that’s the magnitude of the financial loss then yeah, that’s what has to be done, and I feel genuine pity for the workers. But the reason why I’m posting on this dry corporate matter is because I know a bit about this joint.

Here’s my version of events. RJ Gilbertson founded a top quality company and it was highly profitable. His descendants largely hate each other’s guts and the company got bundled up in the 80’s and sold off in bits because greed was good back then and none of the family could get along properly. History is full of examples of families falling apart when money gets involved. You want your grandchildren to all get along like kissing cousins? Well, if you’re a millionaire businessman leaving your company to your children, I tell you, no fucking chance.

Some of them still live handsomely on the proceeds of the sale but the company itself has gone down the drain because large multi-national companies quite often have no idea how to run a boutique family business which should not have been sold in the first place. Much of a company’s equity exists in the ether and can only be understood by people who personally care about the product and helped build the company.

The Gilberston name is still revered in Essendon - at the club, and throughout the streets, but old RJ, who by all accounts was a top bloke, is turning in his grave tonight.

I’m not a knocker of modern society. I think the world, despite pollution, gets better year by year. But one thing modern society can’t seem to handle is ‘family businesses’. Another Aussie icon bites the dust.

Is Don, Is Broke.

What's cookin', average lookin'.

Yum!

As a leading figure in the blogging community*, I often receive emails from people anxious for my words of wisdom**.

“Ramon”, they say “how can we lead a good life? How do I get girls to like me? What’s the secret to the perfect roast chicken?”

To which I reply – vote Labor, good luck with that and good quality stuffing***.

I prefer to make my own stuffing and in the interest of boosting meat consumption I offer this recipe which will make even the toughest bird a feast for mind and stomach.

You will need;
One cup of chopped parsley,
Two cups of breadcrumbs,
A teaspoon of mixed herbs (I like to use sage and thyme)
Salt and pepper,
30 grams of melted butter,
One beaten egg,
One chopped onion and
One bottle of Coopers Sparking Ale.

Mix everything except the Coopers in a bowl and spoon it into the chicken (it helps if the chicken is dead). This will make enough stuffing for several chickens, so I like to put the remainder into a clean plastic bag and pop it into the freezer, where it will keep quite nicely.

Pour the Coopers into a glass and drink.

Some people like to put additional salt, pepper, butter and thyme onto the chook before popping it into a moderate to hot oven.

Part cook the potatoes before putting them into the roasting pan with the chicken and cover with a good quality olive oil.

There you have it. Roast chicken and potatoes, done to a turn..

* This is a lie.
** This is also a lie.
*** Some people might say this is also the answer to question two but I have no time for that sort of smut. Good day, sir.

UPDATE

Shit, I forgot. You also need to add the grated zest of one lemon.

The lemon is important.

It adds an extra level of yumminess.