Rummage

Scones, and no, I'm not off mine

Here's my Friday present to you and yours. Ever since we started frequenting the Lynwood Cafe in Collector, a darkened room and an enormous plate of scones with jam and cream features highly on my fantasy list. Then I found this article with a range of recipes for scones including the heretical lemonade scone and the belch-worthy Flo scone. I was reborn.

For the record I've tried the CWA recipe with smashing results, (gawd love the CWA). I made them five minutes before lunch and we wolfed them with gusto for dessert. Next time I'm going to lose some salt and introduce a wee dram of sugar. Lemons are courtesy of my neighbour, (any good recipes out there?), and the scooter comes courtesy of last year's Christmas cracker. Hope the weekend's a rippa.
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Belated Presents

..for a beloved grandmother.

Bloody Cross

I'm tendering these images as exhibits a through c in the case of Public School Children versus the State in The Inadequate Provision of Reading Materials.

Cute as the pictures are and I am loving the t-bar shoes and the rockin', heidiesque skirt number, this is NOT what I want my five year old to be coming home with for reading practice.

In 1967, the date of publishing, I was no more that a faint glimmer in my mother's eye. 41 years ago, people. Now I don't know about you, but I'm fairly certain that there have been some quantum leaps in language curriculum materials in the last 41 years. Not to mention a significant amount of bra-burning to overturn some of the gender stereotypes at play in the late 60's.

So why then does my daughter bring home as part of the school reading program a text that suggests to her that girls frock up and head to the shops with Mummy during which time boys kick back at home with Dad for a spot of tinkering under the bonnet? Good lord!

Some might consider I'm being overly critical but I spend good time trying to untangle some of the disney princess mythologies without having a school-mandated text contradicting me. And I haven't even mentioned issues such as contemporary relevance, critical literacy, and multi-cultural themes.  Can you tell I'm a little cross?

The prosecution rests.

"Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing." Toni Morrison, Beloved

If My Five Year Old Was in Charge of the Interior Design...

"I drink glass after glass of love
Neither does that wine finish nor my thirst"
Bayazid Bestami

My Heart Wanders

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Op Shops: A symbol of Divine Intervention

You thought I chucked it in the bin didn't you. Despite the aforementioned claims of cut-throats and disembowelment closely followed by an all-night bender, the quilt has lived to tell the tale. That's not to say that I didn't cast a lingering glance at the cough medicine.

What do they say? From adversity springs antipathy telepathy lunacy ...Anyway something comes from it - in my case it was a pocket. Got a wee rip in your fabric? Nae bother. Whack a pocket over it for favourite toys to nestle in and then claim it was all part of the cunning plan.

What's with the pom-poms? Just a little something I whipped up during nap-time. I'm a devil on the pom-pom maker. Which brings me to the title of this post. I think I spotted evidence of the divine in my local St Vincent De Paul's yesterday. I've been channeling Laos Hill-tribe women with their fantastic headpieces and embroidered frocks during the making of this quilt - and I've been thinking pom-poms, one at each corner as a cultural nod in the south asian direction. So blow me down, I'm peering into the Vinnies dusty toy basket and there amongst the great unwashed was a Laos Hill-tribe dolly. I swear. And  she was agog with pom-poms about her person. Call it fate or divine intervention, I'm going to finish this quilt and the Laos dolly can go in the pocket and all will be right with the world.

PS Don't you love the dress?  - got it for $1 in the self-same Vinnies.

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Who Turned Out the Lights?

Due to the spontaneous combustion of the post I have just painstakingly written, the following will be a series of photos from the weekend sans my words of wisdom. In other words I can't be shagged to do it over. Devastating, I know.

"I used to drink it. I used to have the same lunch every day, for twenty years, I guess, the same thing over and over again."

Who'd have thought I'd meet Warhol at a car-boot sale?

Five dollars later he was on his way home with me.

If Wishes Were Horses..

A friend gave me this tiny genie lamp a few years ago now. I give it a good rub every now and again in case a dusky and muscular god is lurking in the depths. Nothin' doing thus far but I'll keep you posted.

If he did make an appearance, the following would be my wish-list to date:

This spectacular building from the maestro
One of these
A Hell of a lot of this
Meeting him
And having a drink with them
(I'm going for it now)
Having a voice like her
Writing a book like this and being cool enough to know that I will never top it so I'll stop right there, thank you very much
This, bien  sur
And finally, I think I'd kick back with these fine individuals.

Have a damn fine weekend.

PS Check out Claire's celebrity spotting post and read through the responses. My modest claim to fame is there but it pales into insignificance beside Leah's mighty list. I'm not sure if I'm more impressed by the Nick Barker episode or the kinship tie to John Denver.
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