The longest day

Well well well, suddenly it is June, and officially here it is the start of winter. This traditionally heralds the beginning of numerous Facebook updates from the UK proclaiming the apparently boiling weather, pictures of flimsy tesco burgers on flimsy tesco barbecues and, more enviously, bank holidays, the onset of sporting blockbusters, and strawberries with very proper clotted cream. Not that food is a problem here – I rather like wintriness and its spell of warming slow cooked meats, red wines and nourishing Asian soups. The dreariest of Sundays is consoled with the roast pork slowly cooking in the oven, the French cheese in the fridge, the red wine sat beside me, and an idea of poached pear and caramel sauce nurturing in my brain for dessert.

Today is winter, but what of May? Extraordinarily beautiful, as the sunny, clear, and mostly mild days spread their lustre over a gradually fading, coat-wrapping Canberra. Flat whites the perfect accompaniment to lakeside ambles and precursor to rosy-cheeked hilltop climbs.

What else happened in May? Nothing out of the ordinary in Australian politics – same old whining despite how good we have it, a budget offering more handouts to working or possibly not working families, a circus of hate and vitriol and self-interest. So calamitous I ventured to Question Time one day, brightened only by the speaker telling off the sniffiest member of the opposition that there was no need to shout, in a very Mum-like way (yes, there are microphones the member for Sturt).

Masterchef number 4 has started, and struggling to differentiate itself from previous seasons, complete with tired clichés and far too much weeping going on far too early in the series. If they’re not whining about how their life is nothing without cooking, they are too busy being incredible arrogant and obnoxious and – in their eyes – the best thing since sliced bread. Or slow baked sliced walnut and date bread with ricotta and maple syrup.

Someone cut my neck open in May. I guess that was a pretty big deal. It happened in Sydney and despite the scary and dramatic undertones of Today Tonight, it was not a result of unending bikie wars, which will no doubt be turned into a TV series with lovable scoundrels and busty groupies (Oh, hang on, channel Ten have already done that). In fact it was a Hurthle cell neoplasm attached to the upper right thyroid, results pending. Without going into too much detail, all I can say is deep gratitude to my carers at Royal North Shore hospital, and those not at Royal North Shore Hospital but willing to drive me almost against their will to and from Royal North Shore Hospital and care for me afterwards.

Thankfully it wasn’t all Hurthle cell neoplasms and nil by mouth while up in Sydney. A few sunny days beforehand provided ideal opportunity for gentle strolls, ferry rides, and food and drink catch ups. It was of course a vital pre-procedure exercise, not only good for the mental health, but necessary indulgence prior to fasting. The highlight was following a pre-admission clinic at North Shore, and the loan of a slightly beat up Barina and sunny afternoon to spur me on to Manly.

Not a bad winter afternoon – clear, pleasant, sedate and orderly, a contrast to the more frenetic, sweaty, bogan-esque summer weekends at the beach. No queues for fish and chips, which I had under the shade of a Norfolk Pine tree. Little congestion on the walk to sun-filled Shelly Beach, which proffered a flat white from its kiosk. And low demand for ice cream, which I lapped up in the beautiful late afternoon light on the prom. Not quite my last supper – that was prosciutto wrapped eye fillet with field mushroom and béarnaise, followed by raspberry crème brulee – but an exquisite couple of hours in which to eat.

And there we go it comes back to food again. I ate food in May and I’m still eating food in June. That is pretty much the summary of this blog post. I suspect I may well eat food in July too – keep reading to find out.