Does Anyone Remember Paul Harvey?

     Today as I was driving home from the grocery store I heard a song on the radio.  I don't even know the name of the song, but I knew it was the theme song for radio, talk-show host, Paul Harvey.  I feel bad for whoever wrote the song and lyrics, because the song isn't remembered because of it's spectacular (or rather boring) music or rhythm.  It's remembered as Paul Harvey's theme song.  
     I remember it was a big deal in our family when Paul Harvey died.  It was almost as tragic as when he no longer had an airing on News Talk 750WSB, or was it 640AM?  When I was little, as in five or six, I remember riding in the back seat of my dad's Toyota and listening to "the rest of the story."  I didn't know or care what any of those boring guys were talking about, but I did know that we weren't allowed to listen to Neil Boortz; he had a potty mouth.
     As I grew older though, I didn't mind listening to Paul Harvey so much.  It reminded me of all those good memories I have riding around with Dad.  I used to love going to the city dump in Morrow, Georgia to drop off our trash.  Even though it was a terrible smell, it was so much fun because there wasn't enough room for me to buckle my seat belt in between the two disgusting trash barrels.  I think we even have a picture of me sleeping with my head resting on a particularly nasty rubbish bin; no doubt Dad had tuned in to Paul Harvey on the way home. 
     I remember our second 2,354 mile (I googled that number) road trip from Georgia to California and the one AM radio station we could pick up somewhere near Colorado was a life saver, because Aaron and I could stop arguing long enough to listen to Paul Harvey.  It kinda reminds me of the classic picture of a family huddled around the antique radio listening to the news and spending quality time.  You don't see that anymore these days. 
     I remember one Wednesday night we all went to McDonald's after church so the kids could play on the playground.  That was always so much fun up until some random kid ruined it all and they took out the ball pit.  The only fun thing left to do was see how long of a train we could make on the slide, and inevitably losing the caboose because someone's legs weren't strong enough to stay linked.  The grown-ups would talk politics, sometimes, and I recall someone giving my dad a book by Paul Harvey.  That was huge, because then we all got to see the man inside the radio.  He didn't look at all like he sounded so I pretend I haven't a clue as to what he looks like.
    You're probably wondering why of all the sights and new wonders here in Australia did I choose to write about Paul Harvey.  I just thought it was odd that his theme song was on the radio; give me a break.  It's the little things that send you on trips down memory lane and then you sit and look how much different the present is.  Maybe you have similar memories just because of the little voice from the radio; maybe you have a Saturday morning cartoon that brings back the good times, or a TV show that you always watched with your family.  Maybe somehow you can relate to this blog post and how one tune on the way home from the grocery store reminded you of a million memories.  To all of you who don't have a clue who Paul Harvey is, my most humble apologies.  To all of you who can hear his voice right now...

"This is Paul Harvey...Good Day!"

Chicken Vindaloo?

     I'm usually really nervous about new foods in foreign countries. Thankfully, Australia is a modern European country and I don't have to worry too awfully much. After all, they have McDonalds, and everyone knows that as long as you aren't in America, McDonalds isn't so bad. Besides, I've lived in Russia and had to experience some pretty nasty concoctions. I realize half the world thinks caviar is a delicacy, but let's face it people, fish eggs are disgusting.
     My family can tell all sorts of stories on me when it comes to being picky. I'm not so bad anymore, in fact I can eat pretty much anything that's set in front of me without gagging. That wasn't the case when I was a child though, and I can remember traveling to church meetings with Dad and Mom asking for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because Elizabeth won't eat anything else.  The worst part was I wasn't keen on pb&j unless the jelly was grape flavoured.  
     Honestly though, things have been pretty normal as far as cooking and eating things that I'm used to here in Australia. The only thing that I haven't been able to find, granted I haven't been on a diligent search, is dry pinto beans. Growing up in Georgia, with a mother from Arkansas, makes one of my favourite meals cornbread and beans so obviously I'll be conducting a search party soon.  Also, the ranch dressing and mayonaise you find on the shelf isn't like the ranch dressing I'm used to.  The mayonaise here is more like miracle whip; gag me.  I've found a way around these small details, and my lessons in converting to the metric system are coming along quite well seeing as how my first week of cooking depended wholly upon using grams and ounces and setting the oven to 150* C rather than 350*F. 
     All that to say, we went out for Indian Friday night.  I've had curry before, but things are always different when they are authentic.  My first thought was to get something spicy.  When you're brain is trying to function on not crying because you feel like you could shoot a thirty foot flame out of your mouth, you usually don't focus on the way something tastes.  I asked for Chicken Vindaloo, but because their were other people at the table sharing in my dish I was pointed to a separate section on the menu.  We finally settled with a lamb curry, a mild chicken curry and a pumpkin potato curry.  I'm sure you're waiting for me to tell you how revolting it was, but you'll be disappointed, because it was all delicious.  Keep reading though because it gets better.
     I was up all night.  I'll save you the finer details, but it will be a while before I eat Indian food again.  Actually, come to think of it, it kinda reminds me of cornbread and beans. Sorry, that was unnecessary.   It's just that once again I'm reminded of that look Jamie gives me when I turn my nose up and say, "I don't like that."  Call me picky, but when a curry comes out of the kitchen with a sick, green colour I have a slight tendency to wonder what's wrong with it.  Keith tells me the rule in Africa is: don't eat anything that isn't cooked, but I learned a long time ago that just because a dish has reached a certain temperature doesn't mean it's met a certain taste. 
     Things have calmed down though and Jamie's uncle invited us over for Mexican.  It was scrumptious even though we're thousands of miles from the Rio Grande.  I did notice a similar colour between the guacamole and Indian curry, but give me a break, this is guacamole we're talking about.  Avocados are green, but I have no idea how you get a chicken dish to turn green. 
    I've decided to take it easy for the rest of the week.  Just because I'm thousands of miles from traditional southern cooking doesn't mean I can't cope.  Jamie hasn't been complaining too hard about my cooking so I'm sure things will be fine.  Plush, I've just planted my first garden and picked my first apples so as soon as I get my grandma's recipe for apple pie I'll have forgotten all about my bad experience.   
    

Message in a Bottle

I've never really been what you would call an animal lover.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I like animals, and for as long as I can remember I've begged to have my own dog.  My Dad finally gave in and let me and my youngest brother have a pet hamster once.  We named him Phil because at the time my Dad was addicted to the movie "Ground Hog Day."  Obviously a hamster is a long stretch from a dog, but we loved Phil and since hamsters only live for approximately two years, Dad didn't have to worry about us moving off to college and leaving him with the rodent.  Sorry, all of that is inconsequential. 
What I was leading up to was: I can remember traveling and staying with all sorts of people, and every once in a while you would come up on some little old woman whose whole life revolved around her cat, or a family with an ugly, yappy dog that ruled their house.  I've never been that sort of person; I'm sorry.  Recently though, I have accrued a wonderful husband and two, silly dogs.
We are a happy group of four.  Felix is top dog, except for Jamie of course, and he still hasn't figured out where I fit into our pack.  Sally, a beagle with sad droopy eyes, has become my dog whilst Keith and Anne are in Africa.  The dogs love to go for walks around our neighborhood and say hello to all their canine friends.  By the time we make our rounds, the whole block is a sounding toll of yip-yaps and howls. 
Felix and Sally are happy to stay in our back yard and sleep during the day and play at night.  Everything was going so well and they had just accepted me into their lives when Sally, the naughty beagle, ran away with Felix, her accomplice.  Somebody, we won't name names, left the back gate open so it was no surprise the silly dogs took their chance for a weekend holiday. 
Jamie was quite distraught.  The dogs left Friday and as of Monday morning we still hadn't seen any sign of them.  This was when I realized just how attached I am to our foursome.  Suddenly, the little old woman who dotes on her cat wasn't such a pitiful image anymore.  I began to worry that maybe we would have to get a new dog, but that there really wouldn't ever be two dogs the same as Felix and Sally.  Are you crying yet?  You should be...
After much weeping, sackcloth and ashes and gnashing of teeth, we received a phone call.  A lovely couple who had been on a holiday camping trip had packed up their belongings and driven in search of a phone signal just so they could call the owners of two wondering dogs.  Apparently, Sally had sniffed out the steaks they were grilling and upon finding the vacationers the dogs were happy to lay, exhausted, for the rest of the night.  Jamie jumped into the car and drove some six odd miles to pick up our escapees who were found laying like two pitiful, heaps of fur.  Sally didn't even recognize Jamie!  Their paws were quite worn out and a long scratch across Felix's belly spoke of a merry kangaroo chase.  Judging by their rib cages they hadn't caught the roo.
The dogs have been home for a few days now and things are the way they should be.  The poor things did receive a bit of a scolding, and probably the worst part of their punishment was the shampooing and scrubbing.  I think they weren't too upset to be home though especially since I've been going to spoil them every half hour to make up for their absence.  I'm sure the next door neighbors are happy to hear them barking again, and our evening walks are back to a quaint foursome.

A Day in the Park

     Jamie has been so busy trying to job hunt, and I've been working on visas and whatnot so today he took me out on a date.  Probably my favourite spot in all of Perth is Kings Park.  This park is especially significant to me, because not only is it a stunning view of the entire city, but it is where my romantic husband proposed to me.
     I packed the perfect little picnic lunch complete with polka-dot tea pot and cheesecake for desert, and on the way to "our spot"  we stopped at the bakery for some sandwich rolls.  Delicious.  Even better was our pit stop at the antique store where I found the daintiest, dressing table chair.  Of course I bought it, who could have passed it up, and I resolved to sit in the car with no further detours.
     Jamie and I usually have an extremely difficult time in the car.  Ok, I'll not exaggerate, we don't scream at each other, but we do often sit in silence whilst the other person's favourite song is almost finished playing.  You see, we have quite opposite tastes in music.  That's a conservative statement seeing as how country music isn't even a genre in Australia.  Give me a break people; I thought Keith Urban was from Australia.  Who knew his citizenship was on the line when he became a famous country singer at the Grand Ole Opre.  Excuse me, I digress...
     Today was different; today we sat a listened to our small list of mutual favourites and had a lovely ride into the city.  I remembered to wear extra sunscreen this time.  My first lesson about the hole in the ozone layer (I'm being serious!) just above Western Australia was experienced my fist week here, and now I've taken on the kindergarten theme song Slip, Slap, Slop.  In adult tongue this means Slip on a shirt, Slap on a hat, and Slop on some sunscreen.  By the way, if you don't wear a hat to school you aren't allowed to play during recess.
     The sandwiches were scrumptious, our afternoon tea hit the spot, and just as I remembered, "our spot" was breathtaking.  On the way home, we stopped to look for some writing paper and I got sidetracked at this great summer clothing sale.  Shopping is so expensive here.  How shall I describe it?  There isn't a Wall-Mart here.  They have Target, although it isn't owned by the same company, but the import prices are sky high.  $75 and up for a simple dress, and the part that makes me giggle is the larger the size the larger the price.  Talk about discrimination!
     On the way home we pass through a small town named Byford.  On particularly lovely days, the senior citizens gather at the Byford Country Club and play lawn bowls.  A small white ball is placed at one end of the lawn and everyone tries rolling their numbered ball closest to the the white one.  I was content to sit in the car watching them play and wondering just how long before someone trying to angle their ball would sprain a hip or lose their dentures when they squeal with delight and do their victory dance.  I used to say I wanted to be part of the Red Hat Society when I retire, but I've change my mind.  When I retire, I'm going to spend my Tuesdays at the country club playing lawn ball.
I need to go get dinner out of the oven.  We're having casserole tonight.  I want to leave you with a phrase that's been stuck in my head pretty much all day.

"Here's lookin' at you kid."

A Day in Underland

I'm so proud of myself; I've just successfully created my own blog for my friends and family in the U.S.A. to follow.  I really don't know much about computers, but there's really not anything that e-How can't help you with.  Today will be my first post for all those people who may or may not be interested in my daily life or keeping up with what I do.  I can already tell you that there will be days I don't post anything, and even worse, there will be days when you'll wish I hadn't posted anything.

I want this blog to be a sort of diary for me.  You don't have to read this; in fact, I can hear my brother, Aaron saying, "Who really cares what she did in her garden today!"; that's all perfectly fine.  If you don't like what you read then go get lost in your busy and terribly important life.

I've recently watched the new "Alice in Wonderland" by Tim Burton, and for some strange reason I feel that I can relate to poor Alice.  She has suddenly been thrown into a world that is upside-down, topsy-turvy, scary, maddening, and yet somehow fascinating.  Since my recent move here to Australia, I've discovered so many differences you wouldn't normally think about, but that make a huge difference.  By the way, the toilet doesn't flush in the opposite direction in the Southern Hemisphere; that's just an urban myth.  I'm not saying I'm "gone bonkers" like the Mad Hatter, but it's those times when the girl at the cash register throws your change back at you because it took you forever to count out a foreign currency that you just want to go stand in a corner and whimper, or report her to her manager for being ugly.  

It's those times when bus drivers wag their finger at you because you didn't indicate which direction you wanted to go in the round-about.  Trust me, there is a whole new thought process behind driving on the left side of the road.  It's when you go to hang your clothes on the line just like everyone else in the neighborhood, but you think to yourself, "there's no way I'm hanging my underwear up there."  It's when you go to buy seasoning for your roast beef and the woman standing next to you in the aisle needs a translator because you just asked her what size roast to use for eight people.  My personal favourite is drinking hot tea when it's a scathing 110*F outside.  Don't let me forget the part where you have to convert 43*C to Farenheit.  

I could go on, but you get the idea.  This page will probably turn into the place where I vent some frustration so as not to take it out on my unsuspecting husband.  If you've gotten this far in the reading then I commend you.  I shall now adjourn, and as the Mad Hatter himself would say, "Welcome to Underland."