I have just served my Blue Heeler the last bowl of home made patè left over from my birthday party - he is doing his best to finish it. Good dog.
I am feeling kind of strange about this birthday. It was a really big one.
The birthday after which no youthfulness can be pretended unless you go for plastic surgery, a punishing regime at the gym and a much younger boyfriend. It is the end of the penny section…the beginning of the slow (I hope) road to never never.
You have choices at such moments in life. You could shut the door, turn out the lights and go to bed for a week or you can bugger the consequences and shout from the rooftops.
I chose life. I chose to have a really big party.
When I say big I mean about 50 people. the dollars were never going to stretch to catering for 200 at a trendy bar.
With my options limited, I decided that at this particular point in my life, I wanted to re-live some of the magic of my childhood. I wanted a party like my grandfather’s parties - outdoors, people, music, Italian food, laughter - a certain love of life and living.
He celebrated his birthday on December 24 so they always seemed like magical parties. At one of these parties my father decided to blow fire as a party trick. Amid all the fizz and excitement of the party itself, this was one of the most awesome moments of my childhood…unforgettable.
A hard act to follow, but I was going for a close approximation of the full Italian festa.
My son returned from the UK for this very big birthday. He wanted me to mark the occasion with more than a jug full of gin and tonic and a few old cds playing in the lounge room - a tempting thought.
But I girded my loins and set about planning a “do” as we say over here.
Several weekends beforehand I was cooking items for the Italian antipasti…homemade polpette, two kinds of pasta sauce…but to really make it happen I took time off work, just to cook.
The menu … antipasto platters for 50…polpette, salami, marinated funghi and carciofi, baked capsicum, olives, patè, cheeses, hummus…lasagna, pasta…barbecued chicken, Italian sausages, squid, salads…and for dessert…trifle and home made cassata in cones.
I am telling you now, it was a monumental cooking effort and topped with the anxiety that there would be enough food and that the food would be good enough, I had to wonder how my grandmother did that kind of cooking year after year…party after party…with not a hint of stress. She was a legend.
The day came, the tables were laid out in the garden with check cloths and candles and candle lanterns in the trees. I hired a piano accordion player. Unfortunately he did not stick to his brief and the Italian and French cafe music I had requested turned somehow into the “chicken dance” and accordion renditions of modern pop songs. Very disconcerting for me, but my guests just loved the fact that he was there. They did not mind his detached German style. I wanted “Its Amore” played at my feet. I wanted joy and passion and I got the wrong song sheet…story of my life really.
So it is over now - they ate, they drank, they had a really good time - I ran around a bit like a chook with its head cut off - spoke a few words to people and awoke the next day with a headache from stress - not overindulgence - there was no time for serious drinking.
The problem is the party did not change anything - it was still a landmark birthday - I am older and that is no longer exciting. I still have to work out what happens next. I mean in between now and the big full stop.
It may be all a bit maudlin but unless your life revolves around TV and the latest celebrity scandal, its hard to avoid the shadow of mortality that hangs around a mature birthday.
So what is the tactic moving forward? At the moment I am wondering if the younger man might actually be the go…a Spanish pool boy maybe.
Think I’ll go out into the garden and see if there is a spot for a pool.
In the meantime, here’s a glimpse of birthdays past, when I was a little girl and everything was still wonderful.
Birthday
I watched the meat grinder
as little curls toppled into bowls,
waiting to be dressed with salt and pepper,
then deftly primped
and patted into pockets
of cream colored pasta.
Birthdays began with food,
a busy bustling of
sauces on the stove,
biscotti in the oven
and dishes in the sink.
We corralled carpenter’s horses
into the garden, then settled them with
table tops and white linen.
Amid the vines, a crop of
colored globes grew overnight,
ready to ripen as the sun set.
Revved up by the music of chinking glasses,
we tumbled in and out of chairs
tasting panini and olives while
on the run from cheek-pinching
fingers and lipstick kisses.
Lights from the Christmas tree
twinkled meekly inside the house
as the blue, black night backdropped
a million stars - some leaving early,
shooting off to other parties
when no one was looking.
Pink-cheeked men let loose
merry, belly laughter,
rocking back and forth
in their wooden chairs.
A host of happy Santas
telling stories of faraway places
A music man settled on the
verandah to capture the spotlight
and ladies drew up their skirts a little
to dance around him,
summer moths drawn to his melody.
He appeared from out of the darkness
bolder than my father
but looking just like him – a crisp
white shirt matching his smile,
black hair waving at us like a flag
to get our attention.
Breathing in through his nose
he kissed the air and a blazing fire ignited,
a single sizzling candle
frothing forth,
all the love in the world.
I have just served my Blue Heeler the last bowl of home made patè left over from my birthday party - he is doing his best to finish it. Good dog.
I am feeling kind of strange about this birthday. It was a really big one.
The birthday after which no youthfulness can be pretended unless you go for plastic surgery, a punishing regime at the gym and a much younger boyfriend. It is the end of the penny section…the beginning of the slow (I hope) road to never never.
You have choices at such moments in life. You could shut the door, turn out the lights and go to bed for a week or you can bugger the consequences and shout from the rooftops.
I chose life. I chose to have a really big party.
When I say big I mean about 50 people. the dollars were never going to stretch to catering for 200 at a trendy bar.
With my options limited, I decided that at this particular point in my life, I wanted to re-live some of the magic of my childhood. I wanted a party like my grandfather’s parties - outdoors, people, music, Italian food, laughter - a certain love of life and living.
He celebrated his birthday on December 24 so they always seemed like magical parties. At one of these parties my father decided to blow fire as a party trick. Amid all the fizz and excitement of the party itself, this was one of the most awesome moments of my childhood…unforgettable.
A hard act to follow, but I was going for a close approximation of the full Italian festa.
My son returned from the UK for this very big birthday. He wanted me to mark the occasion with more than a jug full of gin and tonic and a few old cds playing in the lounge room - a tempting thought.
But I girded my loins and set about planning a “do” as we say over here.
Several weekends beforehand I was cooking items for the Italian antipasti…homemade polpette, two kinds of pasta sauce…but to really make it happen I took time off work, just to cook.
The menu … antipasto platters for 50…polpette, salami, marinated funghi and carciofi, baked capsicum, olives, patè, cheeses, hummus…lasagna, pasta…barbecued chicken, Italian sausages, squid, salads…and for dessert…trifle and home made cassata in cones.
I am telling you now, it was a monumental cooking effort and topped with the anxiety that there would be enough food and that the food would be good enough, I had to wonder how my grandmother did that kind of cooking year after year…party after party…with not a hint of stress. She was a legend.
The day came, the tables were laid out in the garden with check cloths and candles and candle lanterns in the trees. I hired a piano accordion player. Unfortunately he did not stick to his brief and the Italian and French cafe music I had requested turned somehow into the “chicken dance” and accordion renditions of modern pop songs. Very disconcerting for me, but my guests just loved the fact that he was there. They did not mind his detached German style. I wanted “Its Amore” played at my feet. I wanted joy and passion and I got the wrong song sheet…story of my life really.
So it is over now - they ate, they drank, they had a really good time - I ran around a bit like a chook with its head cut off - spoke a few words to people and awoke the next day with a headache from stress - not overindulgence - there was no time for serious drinking.
The problem is the party did not change anything - it was still a landmark birthday - I am older and that is no longer exciting. I still have to work out what happens next. I mean in between now and the big full stop.
It may be all a bit maudlin but unless your life revolves around TV and the latest celebrity scandal, its hard to avoid the shadow of mortality that hangs around a mature birthday.
So what is the tactic moving forward? At the moment I am wondering if the younger man might actually be the go…a Spanish pool boy maybe.
Think I’ll go out into the garden and see if there is a spot for a pool.
In the meantime, here’s a glimpse of birthdays past, when I was a little girl and everything was still wonderful.
Birthday
I watched the meat grinder
as little curls toppled into bowls,
waiting to be dressed with salt and pepper,
then deftly primped
and patted into pockets
of cream colored pasta.
Birthdays began with food,
a busy bustling of
sauces on the stove,
biscotti in the oven
and dishes in the sink.
We corralled carpenter’s horses
into the garden, then settled them with
table tops and white linen.
Amid the vines, a crop of
colored globes grew overnight,
ready to ripen as the sun set.
Revved up by the music of chinking glasses,
we tumbled in and out of chairs
tasting panini and olives while
on the run from cheek-pinching
fingers and lipstick kisses.
Lights from the Christmas tree
twinkled meekly inside the house
as the blue, black night backdropped
a million stars - some leaving early,
shooting off to other parties
when no one was looking.
Pink-cheeked men let loose
merry, belly laughter,
rocking back and forth
in their wooden chairs.
A host of happy Santas
telling stories of faraway places
A music man settled on the
verandah to capture the spotlight
and ladies drew up their skirts a little
to dance around him,
summer moths drawn to his melody.
He appeared from out of the darkness
bolder than my father
but looking just like him – a crisp
white shirt matching his smile,
black hair waving at us like a flag
to get our attention.
Breathing in through his nose
he kissed the air and a blazing fire ignited,
a single sizzling candle
frothing forth,
all the love in the world.
I have just served my Blue Heeler the last bowl of home made patè left over from my birthday party - he is doing his best to finish it. Good dog.
I am feeling kind of strange about this birthday. It was a really big one.
The birthday after which no youthfulness can be pretended unless you go for plastic surgery, a punishing regime at the gym and a much younger boyfriend. It is the end of the penny section…the beginning of the slow (I hope) road to never never.
You have choices at such moments in life. You could shut the door, turn out the lights and go to bed for a week or you can bugger the consequences and shout from the rooftops.
I chose life. I chose to have a really big party.
When I say big I mean about 50 people. the dollars were never going to stretch to catering for 200 at a trendy bar.
With my options limited, I decided that at this particular point in my life, I wanted to re-live some of the magic of my childhood. I wanted a party like my grandfather’s parties - outdoors, people, music, Italian food, laughter - a certain love of life and living.
He celebrated his birthday on December 24 so they always seemed like magical parties. At one of these parties my father decided to blow fire as a party trick. Amid all the fizz and excitement of the party itself, this was one of the most awesome moments of my childhood…unforgettable.
A hard act to follow, but I was going for a close approximation of the full Italian festa.
My son returned from the UK for this very big birthday. He wanted me to mark the occasion with more than a jug full of gin and tonic and a few old cds playing in the lounge room - a tempting thought.
But I girded my loins and set about planning a “do” as we say over here.
Several weekends beforehand I was cooking items for the Italian antipasti…homemade polpette, two kinds of pasta sauce…but to really make it happen I took time off work, just to cook.
The menu … antipasto platters for 50…polpette, salami, marinated funghi and carciofi, baked capsicum, olives, patè, cheeses, hummus…lasagna, pasta…barbecued chicken, Italian sausages, squid, salads…and for dessert…trifle and home made cassata in cones.
I am telling you now, it was a monumental cooking effort and topped with the anxiety that there would be enough food and that the food would be good enough, I had to wonder how my grandmother did that kind of cooking year after year…party after party…with not a hint of stress. She was a legend.
The day came, the tables were laid out in the garden with check cloths and candles and candle lanterns in the trees. I hired a piano accordion player. Unfortunately he did not stick to his brief and the Italian and French cafe music I had requested turned somehow into the “chicken dance” and accordion renditions of modern pop songs. Very disconcerting for me, but my guests just loved the fact that he was there. They did not mind his detached German style. I wanted “Its Amore” played at my feet. I wanted joy and passion and I got the wrong song sheet…story of my life really.
So it is over now - they ate, they drank, they had a really good time - I ran around a bit like a chook with its head cut off - spoke a few words to people and awoke the next day with a headache from stress - not overindulgence - there was no time for serious drinking.
The problem is the party did not change anything - it was still a landmark birthday - I am older and that is no longer exciting. I still have to work out what happens next. I mean in between now and the big full stop.
It may be all a bit maudlin but unless your life revolves around TV and the latest celebrity scandal, its hard to avoid the shadow of mortality that hangs around a mature birthday.
So what is the tactic moving forward? At the moment I am wondering if the younger man might actually be the go…a Spanish pool boy maybe.
Think I’ll go out into the garden and see if there is a spot for a pool.
In the meantime, here’s a glimpse of birthdays past, when I was a little girl and everything was still wonderful.
Birthday
I watched the meat grinder
as little curls toppled into bowls,
waiting to be dressed with salt and pepper,
then deftly primped
and patted into pockets
of cream colored pasta.
Birthdays began with food,
a busy bustling of
sauces on the stove,
biscotti in the oven
and dishes in the sink.
We corralled carpenter’s horses
into the garden, then settled them with
table tops and white linen.
Amid the vines, a crop of
colored globes grew overnight,
ready to ripen as the sun set.
Revved up by the music of chinking glasses,
we tumbled in and out of chairs
tasting panini and olives while
on the run from cheek-pinching
fingers and lipstick kisses.
Lights from the Christmas tree
twinkled meekly inside the house
as the blue, black night backdropped
a million stars - some leaving early,
shooting off to other parties
when no one was looking.
Pink-cheeked men let loose
merry, belly laughter,
rocking back and forth
in their wooden chairs.
A host of happy Santas
telling stories of faraway places
A music man settled on the
verandah to capture the spotlight
and ladies drew up their skirts a little
to dance around him,
summer moths drawn to his melody.
He appeared from out of the darkness
bolder than my father
but looking just like him – a crisp
white shirt matching his smile,
black hair waving at us like a flag
to get our attention.
Breathing in through his nose
he kissed the air and a blazing fire ignited,
a single sizzling candle
frothing forth,
all the love in the world.
