The Boxer
Without Prejudice
We sat in the stuffy front of the car and contemplated our futures. He was such a bad boy, misunderstood, such a rebel. Manna from heaven to a girl of 16, who liked to 'fix' things.
Making people happy was my second name and this troubled angry man of 22, was brooding and unhappy, a veritable James Dean of moodiness and rage.
I suggested we start going out.
"you don't want to go out with someone like me", He warned.
But I was not to be deterred and we ended up going out for five months or so and learned a lot about each other. I found I could make him laugh and he could make me see reality, as it was.
We moved into a flat with my brother, a tiny cramped one bed room flat in Murrumbeena. I had a single bed and the boys had a set of bunks. We all worked and I did the cooking in lieu of rent.
I was a bad cook, making rissoles one night that looked like plovers eggs and when they tried to cut into them they pinged off the plate.
I was mortified and threw myself on the bed, sobbing, still hearing their hysterical laughter.
But B came in and put his arms around me and let me know it was all ok and I went out in the kitchen and scraped the offending "bullets" in the bin.
And it was Melanie Safka and Jose Feliciano and Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan time in Music. And we played them on the old record player, time after time.
We all went to the farm every weekend, B picking me up from Myers every Saturday, at 12 and we'd be off, to the country. To do our weekly washing and get fed and catch up with B's family.
B always wanted to run beef on it and stop his mum and Dad from the daily chore of milking. they milked over a hundred cows, twice daily. The Poowong Butter tanker coming out to pick it up and take it back to the Poowong Butter Factory.
B loved the farm and so did I and so did everyone that went there. B's Mum was the most down to earth person, who cooked like a demon and always said it was "no good" and all her food was ambrosia.
She used to be a housekeeper to an old man, doing his cooking and cleaning, mending for him. And he told her he loved her cooking.
Everthing was fresh, she grew her own vegies and fruits, an orchard up the top end of the farm, yielding apples, crab apples, cumquats, the vegie garden, tomatoes (Gross Lisse, only ) cucumbers, lettuce, radishes, pumpkins, potatoes planted in the field.
She was a recycler before recycling was even heard of. Nothing going to waste, vegie peelings to the chooks, scraps to the dogs, potato skins for mulch, chicken poo for fertiliser.
The eggs came warm and brown and speckled, ducks eggs too, huge and rich to eat. There were Fowlers vacola jars full of peaches and tomatoes and cumquats and pots of jam and preserves.
Cream came straight from the dairy as did the milk. And she made morning teas every day and afternoon tea. her scones were legendary, light as a feather, sponges, dusted with icing sugar, boiled fruit cake with fudge icing, chocolate apple pie, her roast dinners were the best you have ever tasted.
She had such talent turning food into an art form, in the serving and the preparation. Jelly slice, caramel fudge and Christmas time was outstanding. Pudding prepared months in advance and mince pies that tasted buttery and melted in your mouth.
Summer time she would prepare bread and butter pickles from her own cucumbers, so tangy, soaked in brine amd mustard seeds. Mayonnaise was condensed milk, brown malt vinegar, salt and whipped, it was divine.
Cordial came in concentrated bottles of virulent colours, red, yellow and green/ There was always a crate of Joe's Soft Drinks. My Father In Law liking a shandy or a muscat and lemon.
At Christmas we would all retire to the lounge room with it's covered pool table big enough to seat all of us. There was always Nana Wooley and Uncle Ken, who had never married and lived in a van at the rear of Nana Wooley's house in Chadstone.
The rest of us married couples, kids, Ivan and Kerrie, it was full on and loud. There were always sixpences in the Christmas Pud, dishes of lollies and bowls of chips and nuts.
Then the main meal would be a huge brown crispy, Turkey, chicken, ham, pork, vegetables, gravy and by the time you had finished you just wanted to lie down somewhere, preferably flat and with loose clothing on.
We loved it, there were terrible jokes from the crackers and groaning when the sweets were served. But we still managed something
Tea was cold ham and meats and salad and the whopping trifle would be served and the marshmallow decorated Christmas cake. with silver balls and hundreds and thousands caught up in the snow like swirls.
To Be Continued
We sat in the stuffy front of the car and contemplated our futures. He was such a bad boy, misunderstood, such a rebel. Manna from heaven to a girl of 16, who liked to 'fix' things.
Making people happy was my second name and this troubled angry man of 22, was brooding and unhappy, a veritable James Dean of moodiness and rage.
I suggested we start going out.
"you don't want to go out with someone like me", He warned.
But I was not to be deterred and we ended up going out for five months or so and learned a lot about each other. I found I could make him laugh and he could make me see reality, as it was.
We moved into a flat with my brother, a tiny cramped one bed room flat in Murrumbeena. I had a single bed and the boys had a set of bunks. We all worked and I did the cooking in lieu of rent.
I was a bad cook, making rissoles one night that looked like plovers eggs and when they tried to cut into them they pinged off the plate.
I was mortified and threw myself on the bed, sobbing, still hearing their hysterical laughter.
But B came in and put his arms around me and let me know it was all ok and I went out in the kitchen and scraped the offending "bullets" in the bin.
And it was Melanie Safka and Jose Feliciano and Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan time in Music. And we played them on the old record player, time after time.
We all went to the farm every weekend, B picking me up from Myers every Saturday, at 12 and we'd be off, to the country. To do our weekly washing and get fed and catch up with B's family.
B always wanted to run beef on it and stop his mum and Dad from the daily chore of milking. they milked over a hundred cows, twice daily. The Poowong Butter tanker coming out to pick it up and take it back to the Poowong Butter Factory.
B loved the farm and so did I and so did everyone that went there. B's Mum was the most down to earth person, who cooked like a demon and always said it was "no good" and all her food was ambrosia.
She used to be a housekeeper to an old man, doing his cooking and cleaning, mending for him. And he told her he loved her cooking.
Everthing was fresh, she grew her own vegies and fruits, an orchard up the top end of the farm, yielding apples, crab apples, cumquats, the vegie garden, tomatoes (Gross Lisse, only ) cucumbers, lettuce, radishes, pumpkins, potatoes planted in the field.
She was a recycler before recycling was even heard of. Nothing going to waste, vegie peelings to the chooks, scraps to the dogs, potato skins for mulch, chicken poo for fertiliser.
The eggs came warm and brown and speckled, ducks eggs too, huge and rich to eat. There were Fowlers vacola jars full of peaches and tomatoes and cumquats and pots of jam and preserves.
Cream came straight from the dairy as did the milk. And she made morning teas every day and afternoon tea. her scones were legendary, light as a feather, sponges, dusted with icing sugar, boiled fruit cake with fudge icing, chocolate apple pie, her roast dinners were the best you have ever tasted.
She had such talent turning food into an art form, in the serving and the preparation. Jelly slice, caramel fudge and Christmas time was outstanding. Pudding prepared months in advance and mince pies that tasted buttery and melted in your mouth.
Summer time she would prepare bread and butter pickles from her own cucumbers, so tangy, soaked in brine amd mustard seeds. Mayonnaise was condensed milk, brown malt vinegar, salt and whipped, it was divine.
Cordial came in concentrated bottles of virulent colours, red, yellow and green/ There was always a crate of Joe's Soft Drinks. My Father In Law liking a shandy or a muscat and lemon.
At Christmas we would all retire to the lounge room with it's covered pool table big enough to seat all of us. There was always Nana Wooley and Uncle Ken, who had never married and lived in a van at the rear of Nana Wooley's house in Chadstone.
The rest of us married couples, kids, Ivan and Kerrie, it was full on and loud. There were always sixpences in the Christmas Pud, dishes of lollies and bowls of chips and nuts.
Then the main meal would be a huge brown crispy, Turkey, chicken, ham, pork, vegetables, gravy and by the time you had finished you just wanted to lie down somewhere, preferably flat and with loose clothing on.
We loved it, there were terrible jokes from the crackers and groaning when the sweets were served. But we still managed something
Tea was cold ham and meats and salad and the whopping trifle would be served and the marshmallow decorated Christmas cake. with silver balls and hundreds and thousands caught up in the snow like swirls.
To Be Continued
