Dodge Trout and Tomatoes

   


'Look, you can rack ya flamin' tomatoes in the Ford, but you've got Buckleys with the Dodge. It's full a cement. It's chocka, and I, for one, won't be movin'it. ' 

And so began another foray into the cultural and highly suspect world of tomato drying.  'And what's more, it's the only  place where I can keep me cement dry, so you'll have to find some place else. What's wrong with the Mitsubishi, or the bloody Fiat.  Or aren't they foreign enough for you flamin' gormays?' 

Lately, it seems everyone who is anyone is in the process of being overtaken by a mad quest to dry tomatoes. There seems to be no limit to the ingenuity the impassioned tomato drier will employ in pursuit of this current culinary holy grail. Look around you in the better parts of town, and you'll see what I mean. There's hardly a northern window ledge with space enough for an additional piece of fruit, and the pressure for quality drying space has peeled off into rural areas. Old fridges, abandoned chook houses, washed-up  washing machines,..all these have their devotees, but the true aristocrat, the creme de la creme of tomato driers, the upwardly mobile gourmet will always go for the derelict Dodge over the  failed Ford.   

Now I'll admit your Dodge full of cement is a difficult prospect  to overcome in pursuit of the production of perfectly desiccated tom, but there are limits. I mean, there are stories circulating concerning certain soulless individuals, bereft of all horticultural and culinary integrity, using the odd abandoned Ford in yet another pathetic and nefarious attempt to dupe  the hapless consumer. How can we maintain quality in this business if we lower our standards!

 And are they true, these reports? Do they hold water? You bet they do.! I've seen the advertising campaign. Huge signs suspended from Zeplins, billboards positively lining the highways into even minor tomato drying  townships, dubious competitions designed to entice the gullible to abandon the dear old  Dodge and take on the 'fabulous' Ford.  You know the lines. More space in the boot; totally stain-proofed upholstery, spare racks on the roof,  full climate control, blah, blah blah. And that catchy jingle 'If you can't afford a Ford, dodge a Dodge'. .....But, and here's the thing: they leak don't they. Totally useless in the dry tomato trade. I ask you to please consider.. 'have you dried in a Ford lately?!'

Nevertheless, the problem remains. How can you use your copious amounts of superior Dodge dried tomatoes? Well , it's the trout season again, and our local waters are beginning to fish well. I have it on impeccable authority that the best anglers are currently using a small dry nymph fished wet, late in the day, preferably from the roof of the Bentley. If you can ever trust the word of a fisher, there are prodigious numbers of quite extraordinary trout being taken in this manner, and as we have established that there is no shortage of tomatoes in the aware kitchens of the Orange area, allow me to present an innovative approach to dealing with both these happy circumstances.
You too can appreciate just how well   trout goes with garlic enriched  dried tomatoes as a seasoning for  steamed rice, Italian parsley , crushed almonds and finely chopped ham accompanied by a bone dry Riesling or well made young Mugdee Semillon.  Simply skin the whole trout, add lemon juice to the body cavity, and turn the beast in a couple of beaten eggs and a little seasoned flour. Next, pan fry a fist-full of well chopped mushrooms adding the garlic tomatoes, ham and a generous  cup of finely crushed almonds, a splash of your selected wine and the fish. Cook quickly, and serve with the finest of hand cut potato chips and a crisp mixed green salad.  Yes folks,  Dodge trout and tomatoes, it's the only way to travel!

                        

It's FOR SALE!!

A wine auction is as good a place as any to observe democracy in action.

To me it represents the very pinnacle of the western market economy, and therefore demands certain forms of behaviour which I usually reserve for  socio-political debates and visits by insurance salespersons. First of all there's a good deal of lying amongst the parties.  The vendor lies about the description of the goods, the auctioneer always initially over-estimates the value of the lot, and the seasoned  bidder spends most of their time in the auction room sitting firmly on his or her hands,  pretending for all the world that they have very little money to contribute to the preacher's plate should it ever come their way. It's a grown-ups game of liar's bluff.

 There are the usual large sweaty persons in expensive silver suits and calculating hair pieces circumnavigating each lot as it comes up, giving the impression, unlike we poor suckers,  that the place doesn't own them. They seem to barely move when nodding a wink the auctioneers way, and have the impressive ability to conduct an intensive bidding session against Joe Public without Joseph ever really being aware as to who his opposition actually is. It's only after your average Joe has lost his nerve, that he realizes  the successful bidder for the '58 Grange was Flash Jim, the well dressed,  moderately obese cove with the plastic smile and the slim line mobile phone tattooed into his ear.  The horror of it all is that the parsimonious purchaser is usually  standing right next to him.  By then of course it's too late, and the next bargain is up for examination so Joe reconciles himself to an all out attack on the very rare '48 Grange in lot 61.

The auctioneer is usually  a fairly straightforward style of a chap with little to distinguish him, (and it's always a him) from the tentative congregation except the growth in his throat which moves with impressive speed at ever increasing pitch as each anointed lot reaches its crescendo.

A  note here for the uninitiated. You can always tell when a parcel of booze is having difficulty reaching its undeclared no-reserve price. The auctioneer will stop in full flight, pause, and in collusion with his flanking spotters, carry out a manoeuver designed to ease the extra dollar from the desperate pockets of you and me. The spotter on his left with the loud iridescent pink  baseball cap will throw both hands into the air, and in passable harmony with the boss, aria the following magic phrase.  In an underlined and boldfaced tribal chant they will demonstratively recite   'It's FOR SALE!!!"   Now this may seem a pretty clumsy statement of the bleedin' obvious, but it never fails to get the case of Chateau ordinare 1973 Marsanne (perfectly cellared in an air-conditioned brick veneer room in Dubbo since 1979) across the line.

And what of the token  public servants (haven't you noticed they always travel in pairs) who represent The Department of Fair Trading during the liquidation of the former Prime Ministers collection of  Japanese Cabernet and Californian Chardonnay. At the commencement of the auction they are reverentially introduced to the assembled congregation, and make quite a picture in their striped pink shirts, grey ties and matching Departmental suit coats. They remove and clean their designer glasses and after the mandatory tug of the designer stubble on their shallow chins , they're away, shouting 'yo' and flailing sweaty armpits just like real spotters. The fact that they are usually slightly out to lunch at the business end of each bidding frenzy, and invariably point to Joe, when everyone else knows it's the suited gentleman with the mobile tattooed to his ear who really won the bidding, is of little consequence.

They are both on a mission from god and provide a colourful addition to the auction pageant, spending as they do, enormous sums on 'refreshments' during the course of the day. This necessary intake of fluids  over the course of  the humid  and stressful stretch of overtime,  usually results in them performing the   Departmentally approved striptease, reaching as they do by afternoons end, the rolled up shirt sleeves and open necked casual collar look so indicative of the real working classes.

And so it goes. There's the odd bargain which slips through, and the intensity of bidding on the very very rare '48 Grange undoes the whole front pew of Joes, but on the whole, everyone gets what they deserve. The suited gentleman hangs up his ear phone, collects his '58 Grange and changes banks. The auctioneer  collects his 5% from the owner of the Dubbo Marsanne, Joe and flash Jim alike, and everybody believes the lie that they each leave with their own personal bargain.

Now isn't that what I think true democracy is all about!.   

Darlinghurst Drag

I suppose none of us really appreciates the everyday experience. I had occasion last week to spend a few precious moments re-creating in the tranquility and transparent peace of beautiful downtown Darlinghurst.

Now your Darlo' has a number of characteristics which get fair up my nose, and I expend an inordinate portion of every waking hour conspiring to avoid its harrowing byways and toll-ways. And yet, far too often lately, I find myself enduring the early morning warble of the lesser bearded twit and its fellow traveller, the aptly named lunatic drongo. (Genus: Jackhammerus; family: greatnusianceia). It's a continuing disappointment to my fellow ornithologists that old Jackhammerus is so regular in his habits. He has long since ceased to be any sort of observational challenge in the often demanding world of trench renovation, and because of his characteristically harsh mating call, is infinitely more identifiable than the rarer, yet closely related, Supervisor bird, (Engineersareus bellyacheai).

In fact, because of his boring regularity, the metropolitan branch of the Australasian Ornithologists Union has done away with Greenwich Mean, and now takes its cue from the 7 am call of old, infuriating Jackhammerus. You see, it doesn't seem to matter to him that your normally tranquil country nights' sleep has been continually interrupted by the hauntingly threatening wail of the Ambulance falcon, or the bone-shaking rumbling nocturnal dance of diesel Booby. Come 7am, it's their turn, and not a second short of a 9am tea break is going to stop them. At times like this, there may be mitigation in genuscide.

This observation apart, there are more pressing concerns for the residents of the central west;, re-Darlo. As an unintended consequence of some poorly targeted, bottom-up funding of inaction research at the Burdekin Hotel in Oxford Street, the resident committee for the Trans-geographical Placement of Pub Foundation Stones (CTPPFS) has stumbled across a curious and worrying anomaly. Apparently, the Burdekin Hotel is on the move. West. Yes folks, it's heading our way!.

And that's not the all of it. To date, the CTPPFS has established a worryingly positive correlation between movements by the local Blood-House and the rest of Darlinghurst. What this means, and I don't want to cause any panic locally, is that there is mounting evidence that Darlinghurst (and its manifest ornithological irritations) is heading west. Of course, we will all be relying on the sturdy Cornish stock of Lithgow to form the first line of defence, but there could well come a time when even Lucknow will be called upon to justify its name. Heaven help them if they ever squeeze past Orange. Cumnock awaits!

Luckily, courtesy of the Californians, there has recently been a breakthrough in the advance detection of such unnatural seismic social disasters. No more do we have to be awake to the unexplained nervousness of horses or the erratic baking performances of normally calm flocks of CWA matrons. No more the skittish behaviour of winery dogs and their owners or the unexpected observation of an irregular wobble in the trajectories of the Planets. No, no more. It's all become much more straightforward.

What west coast research seems to have identified is what's called, in twitching circles, the advance scout phenomenon. Much like the well documented interplanetary visitations during the late 50's and early 60's, the pattern seems to be to send an advance party to the selected area in order to prepare a report for the exploratory organisation. However, unlike  politicians and persons from Mars to which we observational types west of the Great Divide have now become daily accustomed, your Darlo interloper has a much more devious approach to infiltration. What he does is adopt the image of a local. The attempt is to remain hidden in full sight. You know the sort of thing; Drizabone, big black hat, moleskins,  RM boots, Landcruiser Ute. He also likes to display his affinity with animals, and will often single out the meanest lamb in the mob for his special roping skills.

But don't be fooled friends there is one surefire, dead giveaway, partners. The shades, folks, the shades. You see the sunnies and you knows the truth. All may appear normal, but, be warned. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, so look behind the shades and you'll see what years of attacks by Jackhammerus greatnusianceia can do to the human body. If a void can be described as full of shattered pain, that's what you'll see. It's an everyday experience in Darlo, and it ain't pretty.

All social restraint is abandoned, said Steve, as he toppled into the barrel of Pinot Noir

It is my wont, in these balmy days of leisure and lunacy between the late terror of vintage and the approaching monotony of pruning, to take in the odd consumer (sic) wine tasting. Now those of you who have been party to such rituals will understand that my use of the word "odd" is a pejorative of the mildest kind and any observations here are certainly not necessarily directed at you. After all, you do know there is a difference between a spittoon and a water jug and after the final swig, what IS normal about a wine tasting?

When you think about it, the very concept is a slight-of-hand given that your fellow tasters spend not a little time judging you on your ability to spit the stuff out. And what meets their judgmental eyes? Not for you the pathetic open-mouthed forward arching dribble over the impossibly narrow antique silver goblet (improbably imitating a real spittoon), no, not for you. Yours is a purposeful venerated jet which fires cleanly and precisely from your delicately pursed lips into the very middle of that narrow impossibility every, single, time.

The ease with which this is accomplished says more about you as a worthwhile human being than it could ever possibly say about the quality of the wine under examination. Not that there is any sort of public acclamation with each successful execution of such a feat. No, all you're likely to sense from your fellow tasters, is a slight elevation in the angle of an occasional dandruff dusted eyebrow, or, if you are really lucky, the ever so slight flash of a gold tooth as their unforgiving lips reluctantly part.

However, to every down side there is an upside, or as they say in the classics, you can lead a journalist to a cliche, but you can't make it think.  The upside is that, with each splash free spit, you will feel a palpable sigh of relief amongst the anxious kitchen staff arranged white and black in battalions along the linen encrusted walls of the executive room of the Nobs- Rest Motel B.Y.O. Brasserie.

But to the tasting proper. If it's a mass event with a discrete number of wines in a specified order of tasting within a pre-determined time, the early progress will be genteel and ordered; a studied glimpse at the tasting guide, a measured swirl of each wine, a short sharp inhalation of the bouquet on offer followed by a gargle of the stuff itself. A cryptic annotation to the "official" notes is the final ritual step. You know the sort of thing. Scratch out "complex" and insert "oxidised"; substitute "honeydew" for "smoked oysters"...ignore "finesse" and pass the bottle.

Actually, the Riesling type styles appearing as they do early in the proceedings, often receive an inordinate amount of time and consideration. Is there the whiff of apricot betraying a battle with Botrytis; do the aromatics lean more or less toward the lime or the citrus realm of things; is there enough weight and zing in the palate to balance the complex aromas which greet your first sniff?  Yes, early on each taster gives their all and, with the exception of the badly suited gent upstage right of the fortified section, the Irish linen embroidered table cloth beneath each spittoon remains, for a time at least, pristine. (Apparently, St Vincent de Tokay somehow has no need for a spittoon).

And yet, as Ethyl begins her magic, things are about to change. There's still some control come Chardonnay time, even enough leeway in the light reds to excuse the occasional accidental splash leaping out of the rapidly filling silverware, but by the turn of the full-bodied Cabernet based reds, all pretence is out the window. Time is running out, the well-dressed jostle for position, and the effects of earlier indiscretions are now in full view.

The Irish linen is developing indigestion, while the remaining bread sticks and chunks of cheese lose identity in a sea of random red wine. The tipping point in such social occasions is when St. Vincent de Tokay is discourteously forced downstage left where he contents himself with the contents of the remnants of the Riesling table. A full scale attack on the fortifieds is about to begin. By now, not one taster knows the whereabouts of, or has even the vaguest need for the spittoon. It, like the previously starched-white linen supporting it may as well be in Ireland.

As the tasting enters the straight, all social restraint is abandoned. As Muscat after Tokay after botrytised Semillon barely touches the palate on the way down to a fate worse than dearth, the minutes flash by. Yes friends, it's value for money time. The Plimsoll line, lately representing the absolute maximum poured into each glass is subject to permanent inundation. The tasting guide mutates into a latter day shopping trolley used as it is to swat competitors aside while maintaining a bee-line to the next sticky. All pretence of order and sobriety is well and truly down the proverbial. That's what St Vincent and the Irish in me really likes about choreographed wine tastings. In the end they are great social levellers which teach us all to be more tolerant of those more fortified than ourselves.