Because every blog should include food and sex, right?


Because every blog should include food and sex, right?

I think I’ve got the sex part nailed, so here’s some food. Specifically, my homemade sourdough bread (with a background of gum trees).  This is our daily bread, because it’s quick, easy, cheap, I know exactly what’s in it, and it tastes delicious.

If you want sex with your food, let me point you to an anthology from a few years back, Sex and Candy: 22 Succulent Stories edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Ooh look, it’s at a bargain price at the moment too.

There’s 22 stories of sweetness by some of my favorite authors between the covers (don’t miss “Kneading” by Shanna Germain or “Six Layers of Sweetness” by Donna George Storey).

I have a story in this collection too. “Rosehips are Red” is about the pleasures of making rosehip jelly. These days I don’t live where the wild roses grow (thank you, Nick Cave, for the song), so I’ll stick with making sourdough and grapefruit marmalade. In the meantime, here’s an extract from my story:

The next week we walk the fields again, our gumboots caked with mud. We skirt the field the farmer has plowed for winter wheat, duck under the barbed wire, and splash through the stream dividing the wheat from the cow pasture. Sammy, our retriever, crashes through the stream. We hear his bark, and the whir and clatter of a startled pheasant.

The low autumn sun burnishes your hair; the sunlight is weaker than the warmth in your eyes. I can see the rose hedge from a distance. The soft, pink petals are gone, trampled into the grass by the cows, but as we get closer, I can see the ripe, red pendants studding the hedge.

“Rosehips!” I exclaim, and snap one from the briar.

A thorn embeds itself in the fleshy part of my thumb, and there’s a drop of blood as vivid as the fruit. You meet my eyes and lift my hand. Your lips close around my wounded thumb, lapping the blood, soothing the puncture with your warmth. I close my eyes and remember those lips on other parts of my body: on my face, on my skin, on my breasts, between my legs. I remember your tongue and its wet, hot glide.

I cup the gravid fruit in my hands and a finger caresses its rotund shape. “Will you still love me when I look like this?” I ask.

We return the next day to harvest the hips. We bring two plastic ice cream tubs to put them in, but we forget the gloves. The briars catch in my hair, tug on my shirt, embed themselves in my fingers. You roll up your sleeves—it’s your favorite shirt, its moss green matches your eyes—and the tiny thorns scratch a pattern of weals on your forearms. They’re only superficial, they can’t hurt.

Green-eyed people are faery people, changelings left behind when the faeries steal a human child. Green eyes remind me of the ocean: they can be stormy and dangerous, or languid and gentle. Like you.

You bend to pick the rosehips from a low hanging patch of briar, and your shirt comes apart from your jeans, revealing a pale strip of flesh. Fine golden hairs cover your skin. I know how you love me to brush them lightly, with barely-there fingertips. It makes you catch your breath and shiver, as if those faeries that left you behind have danced across your flesh. I move closer, bend forward and let my long hair brush over your skin like their wings.

You’re startled, and jerk upright, and your shoulder connects with my chin. We both reel, rub our bruised parts, and then laugh at our clumsiness. My tub of rosehips falls to the ground unheeded as we drift together, arms finding familiar routes around each other’s waists, our hips aligning subtly, until I feel the fly of your jeans pressing into my belly. I slide my hips to and fro until it’s not only the fly I’m feeling.

I love that pressure as you swell against me. I love the long, hard ridge of your cock, and my answering rush of wetness. You grasp my hips, pull me closer, and kiss me. It’s a deep, drowning kiss, and I melt.

“Let’s go home,” I say. I want to be in our bed, with your hands on my bare skin.

Busy-ness and slow food

I’ve been running around like a blue-arsed fly this week. Moving housesit, which means the old one has to be left spotless and pets reassured they’re not being abandoned, and then into the new housesit, which means lot of blundering around opening cupboards and saying “Surely they have a kitchen scale/lemon squeezer/coffee plunger?”. This is a repeat assignment so it’s a bit like settling back into a friend’s house. The pets already know and love us, and the view is as great as it was when last we saw it.

This particular house is owned by a real foodie, so I’ve been diving back into his cookbooks and planning our meals around recipes I’ve always wanted to try. Any esoteric Asian ingredient I could possibly want is either growing in the garden or in a jar in the pantry. Tonight will be a slow-cooked braised beef Thai-fusion curry, with the red paste made from scratch. Tomorrow will be Nargisi Kofta (sort of Indian Scotch eggs in sauce) and Aloo Gobi. I’ll be grinding and chopping for hours. Heaven!

Because I’ve been enjoying Harper Bliss’ lists of things she did in a week, here’s mine (although it’s not as exciting as hers).

– Moved housesit. We are now back with our dear doggie friends – a Tenterfield Terrier and a Mini-Foxy. Add in a very sweet, very deaf mutt into the mix and there’s endless tummy rubs and cuddles and walks.

– Tried a new sourdough method. More complex, more kneading (air kneading, which basically means throwing it around and slapping it down on the bench).

– Had a fight with the boss in The Job That Pays Me Every Week. We called it a draw, and he’s been VERY nice to me all week. Which shows that it pays to stand up to bullies. Probably not the most intelligent thing to do in pay review week though.

– Made a big batch of Tomato Kasundi.

– Talked to the accountant. Now waiting to hear the damage.

– Had cortisone injected into my knee. No exercise for a week. 🙁

– Joined the new gym that has opened up 2 minutes from The Job That Pays Me Every Week. Step Aerobics starts Wednesday! Oh, but I’ve missed that. They also have a great boxing set up. Perfect for the lunch hour.

– Thought about writing something. Didn’t. 🙁

I feel so virtuous!

I have just climbed Mt Cooroora. Before breakfast.

It’s only 4km return (that link lies) but it’s a volcanic plug that stands 485 metres. Most of the “walk” is a scramble up rocks, the odd bit of concrete step, 3 flights of metal stairs, and some extremely slippery shale. There’s a chain to hang on to for the worst bits, but it still breaks your balls.

They have a King of the Mountain Race every July. Participants start and finish in the township of Pomoma and so add on an extra 2 or 3 kms to the distance. The record is 22 minutes. 22 freaking minutes for a near vertical race. I am beyond impressed. It took us about 1 hour 45 minutes return.

Of course, then we came home and ate hash browns, fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and a huge plate of tropical fruit, so any virtue in mountain climbing before breakfast is overruled.

And then I made Tomato Kasundi.


50g fresh ginger, peeled
50g garlic cloves, peeled
2 green chillies, split and seeded
1 large onion, peeled and roughly chopped
1 tablespoon black mustard seeds
2 sprigs curry leaves
1 tablespoon turmeric
2 tablespoons ground cumin
1 tablespoon paprika or chilli powder (or a combination)
1 tablespoon dry mustard
½ cup vegetable oil
½ cup brown malt vinegar
1½ kg roma tomatoes wash and roughly chopped
1 cup sugar
1½ tablespoon salt

Blend ginger, garlic, chillies and onion to a paste in a blender.

Heat a large pot and add half of the oil and mustard seeds and fry until they ‘pop’. Add curry leaves and stir as you add them as they will splutter. Add the remaining spices and garlic and chilli paste and cook another minute or until fragrant.

Add the remaining ingredients and bring to a boil. Reduce heat; simmer, stirring occasionally, for about 1 hour or until thick and ‘jammy’.

Spoon into sterilised jars with a layer of remaining oil on top. Cap and store — improves with age.

Now, if I could write something my day would be complete!

Bacon and Bunya Quiche

This is what I made this morning:

Bunya Nut and Bacon Quiche
Pastry: 1 cup self raising flour, half a cup finely ground bunya nuts, 2 tablespoons butter or margarine, 1 tablespoon chopped parsley, a squeeze of lemon juice, salt to taste, enough water to bind. Mix all the ingredients together to make a soft dough and roll out for a quiche. Bake blind 15 mins.

Fill with bacon, sauteed onion, fresh thyme, chopped bunya nuts, and beaten eggs and cream. Season to taste, bake at 180C for about 30 mins

And because NO ONE on this list will have access to bunya nuts (which are a native pine nut which grows only in SE Queensland) if anyone is so inclined to try this you can substitute almond meal for the ground bunyas in the pastry, and ordinary pine nuts in the quiche.

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