Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Ten

What Happens Next

You can’t beat country hospitality.  If this were a Melbourne train, they probably wouldn’t bother to make the announcement, just leave the passengers twitching, wondering why the bloody train has stopped this time.

But being a country train, they pay you the courtesy of announcing, Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for the delay.  This is due to the train having a little bit of interaction with a cow – even though it’s unnecessary to announce it, that fact having first been discerned by all from the Mooooooooo! (presumably the bovine equivalent of, Oh fuck!  A train!) then again by the cow body parts flying past the window.

Given the improbability of flying pigs, I would have thought flying cows impossible.  There you go.  Live and learn.

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Nine

The Beginning of The End of The Middle

I am going to my mother's for her birthday.  I pack a suitcase, go out for a little while to meet my mother at the doctor’s for her appointment.  When I get back, he is playing loud music and has left the toilet seat up.

He must think I had gone for good.

The music can be heard throughout the house.  Thirteen years, I didn’t know he liked his music loud.

He is celebrating.

***

And still (or should it be just the same) I am dishing up (it always irks me that he says serving) our cottage pie for dinner, and the moment I see that one corner houses a particularly golden, crusty pocket of potato, the dish is turned, a precise excision made: carefully I lift this little piece of daily art and cradle it, lay it gently, in all its glory and in all its loveliness, onto his plate.

Not for the first time I consider, it isn’t what he does for me that I’ll miss: it’s what I do for him.

Modern psychology apparently calls this co-dependence.  My grandparents called it love.

Because they knew nothing of modern psychology, they clocked up forty-nine years until death they did part.  Love is a dying art.  Love is a dying heart.

In thirteen years, I wonder if my other half and I managed to actually get together in the first place.

Lesbia Harford said it: Blessed then is the moment of love’s parting, when those two strong souls we sought to slay, recover.

I’m not feeling too blessed.

***

I’m trying to put together a pudding for after dinner when the not-other-half arrives home, comes into the kitchen, tosses a bag on the bench where I am working, says, there’s a muffin there if you want it, departs, goes upstairs, returns, tosses a cardboard box on the bench, says, that’s for you as well, then goes upstairs again.  I glance at the bag, wonder what has brought this on, wonder if it is a muffin he has bought for himself then found he didn’t want, and go back to working on the pudding.  My electric beater has died so I am attempting to cream butter and sugar with a stick blender.  This is stupid and I wouldn’t be doing it except my lovely greengrocer has made me a gift of some passionfruit, which I will not waste, am therefore attempting to make my favourite citrus and passionfruit pudding in difficult circumstances.  I can’t concentrate because the pain from my back is screaming at me. 

Pumpkin Pasta with Fennel Sausage, Pine Nuts, Chevre and Parmesan Croutons.

This is a fun variation on pasta with garlic bread.  With bread and pasta combined, it won't win any fans among the carbohydrate police, but hell, if you eat like this you'll be twice their size so won't have any problem bouncing their miserable bony arses clean off your front verandah.  Now, if you're a really clever pumpkin and follow the method in the same order as below, you can get away with using one frying pan for this – provided it can be used on the stove top and oven.

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Eight

More Middle

It’s a great life if you don’t weaken: another saying of my grandmother’s.  Sarcastic bugger, my nanny.

I do the nastiest, most vicious, bitchiest thing I can do to my former agent: I send her an email thanking her for her time and effort.

Maybe she wasn’t a very good agent.  But she was all I had.

***

I’m due for another pap smear.  That must make me forty-two.  It took a health scare at thirty-eight for me to make a start on a twenty-four year old dream.  Now my relationship appears to be floating face down in a still pool.  Be careful what you wish for.   I wanted a writing life without distraction.  It looks like I’m about to get it, and get nowhere, at the same time.

***

My mother has come to visit.  She doesn’t want to lead me off the path of non-smoking righteousness.  So when she goes outside to have a cigarette, she makes a point of walking a distance away from the window and disappearing further down the yard behind a tree so I don’t see her.

She goes to this effort with every cigarette.  And then she comes inside and leaves her cigarettes on my desk.

I first become aware of this when the eyes in the back of my head nearly topple me over backwards in their eagerness to draw my attention to the packet of cigarettes on my desk.  The eyes in the front of my head want to see what the eyes in the back of my head are looking at so they spin my head around one eighty degrees to have a looksee.  The boogie-man’s-coming-to-get-you photo on the packet features a brain having a stroke, with blood bursting out of the grey matter colourfully.  My mind processes this as, Ooh goody –  cigarettes and a yummy jam doughnut!

Who do they think they’re kidding, hey?

Red Wine Ragu

If anyone suggests to you that it's okay to use cheap wine in cooking, shoot them.  They're a waste of the earth's oxygen and there isn't a snowflake's chance in hell that any jury acquainted with ragu made from good wine will convict you.  

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Seven

 The Middle

My agent wants to drop me.

I had sent her an email about a publisher I had stumbled across.  Perhaps, I ventured, if the publisher currently considering my book declined it, then we could try here?   She looked up their website, sent me a very enthusiastic message enquiring as to whether I would like to submit to them directly, sans agent; she would withdraw it from the publisher she sent it to, and that way, I would get to keep all royalties without paying an agent’s fee.

At first I am puzzled, and I blush when I read her email.  Have I given some offence by making this suggestion, I wonder?  Is this her way of telling me that if I think I know better than her, I can bugger off?  I consider my reply carefully.  I tell her I am more than content to wait to hear from the house my novel is currently with, and that she has already earned her commission.  It takes her a long time to reply, and she sounds disappointed.  Well, okay, she says, Let me know if you change your mind.  

And then I know. 

Stupid Bachelors

Sign I saw painted on the back of a truck today:

"Some men are wiser than women.  They're called batchelors."

Autumn Sale & Royal Doulton Giveaway!

15% off Autumn sale & Royal Doulton giveaway!  Buy your copy of the one and only all-in-one cook's organiser,The Cook's Toolkit by Clever Pumpkin for $55.25 (with free postage!) and we'll automatically enter you into the draw to win one of four fantastic Royal Doulton prizes.  

Parmesan Toasts with Chevre, Fennel Sausage & Olives

Find the recipe on the Clever Pumpkin website.

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Six

The Change Of Pace Is Over – Back To The Story Proper

I swore I wouldn't do it to myself again.

I had learned my lesson.  This time I'd rip out a formulaic romance novel with guaranteed to please ingredients – little more than a collection of scenes, screw the writing, I’m not that sort of a girl would be good enough for me this time, I would be that sort of a girl – give them what they want  Fifty/fifty five thousand words quickly written, that’ll do. This is, after all, only a potboiler, something to fund my writing proper.

Then it happens.  It’s not my fault.  On page three, he sticks his head up – an African taxi driver with personality to burn.  The taxi was just meant to get her to an appointment, that was all, but there he is, and I can’t ignore him.  Adisa is his name, and he’s a heart without a home.  It’s up to me to find him one, because he’s special and if I don’t find him a home he’ll wander around in the ether, bewildered and hurt.  Two days for three pages, all because of Adisa, the African taxi driver who is depending on me for life.

It’s started again.  House: self-cleaning. Washing machine: great thuddy nuisance, oppressor in disguise. Food [fu:d] a necessary evil; dinner [din-er] an interruption to work; [pahrt-ner] animate heat other side of bed – mount when work goes well; [ironing board] wonderful extension to desk – why brain not notice this before? [ironing basket] nightmare place; [anti-foaming agent] a food group found in coffee.

Chocolate Coconut Pudding

Simple though it is, this chocolate coconut self-saucing pudding is my favourite dessert on the face of this earth, probably because it comes from that most prolific of chefs: Mum.  Though these days, it seems I'm expected to make it for myself – I'm not quite sure why, maybe it's because I turned 46 on my last birthday, but that's no excuse for a mother to slack off…

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Five

Innocence Be Buggered

God, I was still so innocent.  It makes me so sad to think back on that time now, when adversity still seemed an adventure, when every slight made me rise above it, when I could still think of post office employees as characters, when the licking of a large postage stamp could be considered some quasi little erotic act.  I would soon be disabused of my innocence.

The life cycle of the emerging writer may be characterised thus:

Optimistic.

Bewildered

Drunk

Impotent

Omnipotent

Drunk

Impotent

Omnipotent/Murderous·

New Fiction: The Red Pot

One of my stories, The Red Pot, appears in the latest edition of Etchings (10): The Feminine, from Illura Press.

Sultana Lamb Curry

This is the best damned curry I've ever made – even if I do say so myself, which I do, because when you can cook as well as this, you can swagger all you like.  Please do not be tempted to change the recipe without first trying it; everything has its purpose.  The whole peeled tomatoes are much juicier than diced; the sweet, treacly sultanas balance the tangy tomatoes; the whole spices freshly ground really do another dimension.

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Four

Tips & Techniques for Writers: A Sample Query Letter

Wantabadgery,

                                                                                                New South Wales.

May 10^th, 2009.

Harper Collins Publishing Australia,

25 Ryde Road,
PYMBLE,    New South Wales,    2073.

Dear Sir,

If you allow the inert mass of congealed incompetency that is your submissions department to dally any longer, then I shall surely rot awaiting your response. 

I write again with regard to my manuscript, forwarded for your consideration some twelve months past.  Perhaps you have misplaced it?  I shall do you the service of refreshing your memory.   

Genital Insecurity: Hidden Victims of the Global Financial Crisis

**Warning: this post contains links to images that are unsuitable for… well, God knows they're unsuitable for anyone, but particularly for children under 18.  Just so there's no surprises, the links are to images of sex toys, and in one memorable case, a shark attack victim that later became a sex toy**

Recently I encountered an artificial vagina for the first time (I had no idea that such a thing existed.)  While it's well known that men feel threatened by vibrators (and who can blame them – vibrators are such a fetching shade of pink, after all), it's very difficult to imagine that any woman could possibly feel threatened by something that looks like this.  Am I alone in wanting to pop a little hat, eyes and nose on it?  Am I the only one here thinking about Mr. Potato Head?  And what's with the look of slack-mouthed surprise?  Did Mr. Potato Head wake up one day in the witness protection program and wonder why his mouth was full?

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Three

Conflict (Internal and External)

The question: if a tree falls on a literary agent and a writer smiles, does that mean the literary agent deserved to be flattened?  I am nothing if not philosophical.

2.30am.   A dark and stormy night.  Finally, after all I had to do that day before I could have me some me time, I am at my desk, having me some me wine, trawling submission guidelines.    (The myth of the miserable dissolute writer is just that – we're delighted to be dissolute.)

Bed.  Teeth pulled in purgatory without the benefit of anaesthetic.  Either would be preferable to this deep sea exploration of the literary agent bowel from the date end up.  Never will you encounter a mob so inclined to bitch, bleat and bemoan the privilege of earning their living off your back.  So many were so appallingly brutish, boorish, demanding of homage or just plain repellent that I –  blissfully ignorant, little knowing that I would have little choice, crossed the most transparently awful off my list, thusly noting: Not in this lifetime, over my dead decomposing fucking body – and kept going,  flipping the bird (virtual) and margarita (actual) at the most conceited and trivial, secure in the belief that if only I kept wading through the mire, I'd find a polite and welcoming pony.  Not in this paddock.  Uh uh.

Caramel Ducks: A Small Dave Allen Tribute

There are brown ducks and there are white ducks, and in my neck of the woods, the brown ducks and the white ducks hung out in different parts of town, until recently.  For reasons known only to their good feathered selves, these ducks have, with a single shag, overturned the prevailing ducky apartheid and now we have brown and white ducks.  Their back feathers are actually a mouth watering shade of caramel, although the photos don't do it justice.

Who knows what their reasons were?  Was it a political statement?  Pure lust?  Or do opposites attract in the duck world, as in any other?  Did a society princess duck get into the schnapps, waddle to the wrong side of the tracks only to find herself knocked up?  We'll probably never know the answer to these questions, but as I chased these beautiful belligerent shits around trying to get a good photo, their caramel backs reminded me of a Dave Allen joke:

Sister Mary is racing around the convent corridors.  Having overslept, she is late for mass.  Rounding a corner she encounters another nun on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor.  "Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?" the nun giggles.  Sister Mary flushes deeply and scurries on.  Bang!  She smacks headlong into another nun.  The flustered nun pulls back and laughs, "Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?"  Sister Mary bows her red face and runs on, round another corner where a group of nuns take one look at her and chorus, "Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?"  She rushes away.  Glancing over her shoulder Sister Mary draws a deep breath, relieved to be away from the laughing nuns.  When she turns forward again, Mother Superior is standing before her, inspecting her feet.  "Sister Mary," Mother Superior demands, "What are you doing with the Bishop's shoes on?"

Postscript: The next time I saw these ducks, I was without a camera.  They were perfectly content to waddle around not six feet away from me, the shits.
.

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part Two

~ The Antagonist ~

Big Publishing doesn’t like to think for itself.  That’s why God invented literary agents.  You could say literary agents are tools of the trade.

I don't know what I expected.  It wasn't what I found.  (You have to submit to literary agents?  You mean, I don't just choose one?)  It's them versus us, them being writers and us being the agent/publisher – that single beast of two heads, one mind and half a heart. 

The Prosecution would have you believe it is writer's paranoia which casts publishing as a citadel.  Don't you believe it.  Death is preferable to allowing a breach in the perimeter.  Thou shalt nots: submissions with typos will result in swift death – only if there aren’t too many, in which case, slow death – the misspelling of an agent’s name will unleash the righteous and wrathful god of rejection, addressing an agent by their first name will provoke gang warfare, and any number of lesser offences will bring a bevy of heavies to your door, intent on kicking a troublesome writer’s head in.

Sister, Who Died and Left You In Charge?

Despite the ever increasing number of women going out to work, year after year study after study reveals that women continue to shoulder the lion's share of the housework – as much as 85% more than men.  The Daily Mail reports that women still spend three times as long on domestic chores such as cooking, cleaning and washing than their husbands or partners.  Almost one in five men do nothing around the house at all, only rarely changing a light bulb or feeding the dog. 

Now more than ever, with a record number of women juggling the balancing act between family, career and housework, it's vital that we take the most efficient approach to housekeeping.  These six simple tips will make housework a dream:

Trial of the Romance Novelist: Part One

Praise for

Trial of the Romance Novelist

'Thank Christ there wasn't more of it' ~ Frank Moorhouse

'We'll give you money to leave us alone – cash, and lots of it'  ~ Southerly

'Awful, just awful' ~ Heat

'Not only roman a clef but also roman a these, all the more remarkably bizarre for being told from the vibrator's point of view' ~ Jane Gleeson-White

'Jean D'Arque is not to be missed.  If you see her, shoot her ~ Carmel Bird

'Memorable for many reasons – none of them good' ~ Island

'Please, just fuck off' ~ Meanjin

PMS: You've Gone Too Far If He Needs CPR

While research indicates that 75% of women experience PMS, it is listed as a 'rare disease' by the US National Institutes of Health (NIH).

The Victorian Government's Better Health Channel suggests that most women suffer from PMS, and advises that the best way to manage PMS is to keep a diary and cut back on caffeine and alcohol in the two weeks prior to menstruation.

Further, Research shows that women who are in a relationship with men experience worse PMS than lesbians[1] and that most men are indifferent to their partner's suffering, preferring to treat PMS as a big joke.

The Better Health Channel advises: Manage your stress in whatever way works for you,

so here's a list of essentials to help you do just that.

Chamomile tea is a very effective calmative.  Keep a boiling cup on hand to catapult at the bastard in your life.  Alternatively, fill a cauldron and ask him to get in (NB You might have to promise him sex afterwards to achieve this.)

Lavender oil can be wonderfully soothing if you break the bottle and hold it to his throat.

Tampons: Used to write PMS IS A RECOGNISED MURDER DEFENCE, ARSEHOLE on the wall.  Just see if the fucking dishes don't get done.

Censorship or Common Decency?

The success of erotic novel 50 Shades of Grey raises some interesting questions in light of recent moves by PayPal to enforce its terms-of-service obscenity clauses.

According to ebook distributor Smashwords, PayPal has issued an ultimatum to remove all titles containing bestiality, rape or incest under threat of account cancellation should Smashwords refuse to comply.  The internet is aflame with speculation that the move will lead to the banning of every book from the bible to Gone With The Wind.  Smashwords is calling on indie authors to rally against this "censorship". 

As an indie author with a book published on Smashwords, I couldn't be happier with PayPal's crackdown.

Indians, Pirates, the Mob & Elance

The first time I uploaded an ebook for sale, it sold inside a minute.  My second title sold a copy within seconds – not long enough for anyone to read the blurb, much less a sample – and the penny dropped.  Somewhere out there, before my baby drew breath, its bastard twin was being conceived – quite possibly rewritten to the highest standard of Bangladeshi English. I am the mafia Don Ranjeet and I am going to shoot you with Vishnu's curses and cannolis, another one thing.  You dirty ratfink, is that vindaloo in your pants or are you just happy to see me?

Never Give Up

Fortune may favour the brave but that's hard to remember when life is kicking you in the nuts.  Here's twenty-one  relentlessly optimistic reasons to remember that when you're at rock bottom, the only way is up.

• In her youth, J.K. Rowling was a Bay City Rollers' fan, proving that early bad taste is no barrier to subsequent success.
• Stephenie Meyer is a bestseller, proving that subsequent bad taste is no barrier to early success.
• It only took one cow to burn Chicago down.
• John Howard became Prime Minister.
• The greatest love songs are inspired by the worst heartbreak.
• Pauline Hanson's parents didn't drown her at birth.

Julia Gillard vs Mike Willesee

Last Sunday 'veteran' journalist Mike Willesee asked Prime Minister Julia Gillard whether she cried much.  I'm soooooo disappointed The Big J didn't grab his scrotum, give it a good squeeze and say, "No.  How about you, Chuckles?  Hey?  How about you?"

A question better suited to Bob Hawke, methinks.

.

Nomination: Book of the Year

Out now on Smashwords: Men's Guide To Trouble Pussy

The blurb: 'Since the beginning of time, there has been man and woman. All women came with pussy. Its official name is “Vagina” and its purpose range from sexual activity, child birthing, and uterine secretions (that time of the month). Its power is almost limitless. It has shaped world politics, literature, music, and mental illness.'
_______________________________________________________________________________

Yes, well.  Mine's also a Certified Practising Accountant.

.

Cocky In A Glass

Many years past, I had an old cat named Ali-Tut.  "Love" doesn't begin to describe what I felt for that old cat.  The word hasn't been invented to describe what I felt for that old cat.  I raised her from a baby kitten, feeding her and her sister Speedie from an eyedropper.  She was with me from before I was a teenager, and she lived to be almost twenty-one. 

Old Tuts had her own sheepskin on the couch, but being a cat, of course she slept anywhere she pleased, frequently taking up more of my single bed than I did.  More accurate than a heat-seeking missile, she always knew where her best bet was between the sheepskin and my bed.  This she would ascertain by inserting one paw beneath the doona to see if the electric blanket was on.  Thus we passed many happy years, until I awoke early one morning to a tutt tutt tutt tutt tutt tutt sound, when I rolled over to see Ali-Tut contentedly lapping from my glass of water.  Three things immediately filled my mind:

1. An image of Ali-Tut with a bird in her mouth.
2. An image of Ali-Tut cleaning herself most fastidiously, paying particular attention to her arse.
3. The question of just how many years she had been drinking from my glass of water as I slept.

Well I might have loved that old cat more than life itself, but I stil didn't want the tongue that licked her arse lapping from my glass of water. 

It had been many years since I've thought of the incident - that was until yesterday,

when undertaking my usual morning ritual of removing my empty chamomile cup and (usually untouched) overnight glass of water to the kitchen, I discovered this:

A cockroach floating in my glass of water

The Romance is Over: Edward & Bella Twenty Years On

Daylight is now available as a free download.
~Contains gratuitous swearing, violence and one offensively small appendage.  Not suitable for Twilight fans.  Not suitable for children under 40~

Download as a PDF (for PC) or, for a book-type view in the absence of an e-reader, Adobe Digital Editions can be downloaded free.

Download

Clever Pumpkin's Lime Maple Summer Berry Puddings

Recipe here

2012: Lock and Load, Bitch.

Q.        How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?

A.        Just one – but the light bulb has got to WANT to change.

With that in mind, I have made only one New Year's resolution, and that is to be brutally honest with myself.

This means acknowledging that my deep and abiding love of chocolate will never change; because – hell's bells – I don't want it to. This new honesty compels me to admit that my love of ice-cream verges on the erotic, as does my deep salivating desire for summer berry puddings, beer-battered fish and chips (served with ice-cold beer) deep-fried arancini with fresh lemon, baked stuffed potatoes, snow-white chevre cheese, Italian fennel sausage, sauteed rosemary potatoes, lemon curd and chocolate coconut pudding.

In my heart of hearts I know my love of fresh fruit is owed only to its relationship to cheese and wine, as I know that the best way to serve healthy guacamole is with a side of Mexican banquet dripping in cheese, sour cream, and overflowing with tequila and lime laden margaritas.  Sniff all you want – at least the lime is good for me.

On that subject, I resolve not to fall off the wagon.  This I will achieve by not climbing on the damned thing in the first place.  Truthfully, I'd sell my mother down the river for a pina colada – and on Mother's Day, to boot.

Bad Books Blow Up The Brain

A most interesting article penned by Random House CEO Gail Rebuck charts the effect of reading on the brain:

'Psychologists from Washington University used brain scans to see what happens inside our heads when we read stories. They found that "readers mentally simulate each new situation encountered in a narrative". The brain weaves these situations together with experiences from its own life to create a new mental synthesis. Reading a book leaves us with new neural pathways.

'The discovery that our brains are physically changed by the experience of reading is something many of us will understand instinctively, as we think back to the way an extraordinary book had a transformative effect on the way we view the world. This transformation only takes place when we lose ourselves in a book, abandoning the emotional and mental chatter of the real world. That's why studies have found this kind of deep reading makes us more empathetic, or, as Nicholas Carr puts it in his essay The Dreams of Readers, "more alert to the inner lives of others"

Okay, so what happens to the brain if the book is as badly edited as Twilight or The Da Vinci Code?  Britain's Institute for Bibliophilic Brain Studies found the effect of bad writing and editing on the brain to be equally dramatic:

'Exposed to half an hour of The Da Vinci Code, brains were seen to shrink dramatically.  In an attempt to escape further reading, several brains liquified and exited the skull by way of the ear canal.  One brain pulled a gun it had concealed behind its left frontal lob, blew a hole in the book (via the host's left eye) then put itself out its misery.  In the case of Twilight, all brains followed a uniform pattern: each formed new neural paths which flashed the words Good God, where was your editor, woman? over and over again.  Remarkably, the words show up on the MRI film.'

Literary Journals vs The Homeless

It never ceases to amaze me: the number of people who wouldn't piss on the homeless if they were on fire who suddenly find their social conscience when writers' grants are announced.  Wouldn't that money be better directed elsewhere? they sniff.  Like, to the homeless?[1]

My former other-half one night proposed this analogy: Well I like to throw stones.  Should I be paid to throw stones?

Suffice it to say, the evening did not end well for him.

That literature is not popular is the reason it requires funding.   As to why it should survive, the answers are manifold: all human endeavour deserves its chance at life. Some would argue that a painstaking endeavour undertaken with so little commensurate reward is more deserving, not less. We all benefit from a culture where diversity is both tolerated and encouraged, whether we appreciate directly the subject of that diversity or not.  The world would be a far poorer place if only the most popular pursuits survived.  Further, esoteric pursuits can sometimes blossom into the wider world.  If Steve Jobs had not acted on curiosity and intuition pursuing an obscure interest in calligraphy which had no practical application in his life, then the revolution that is desktop publishing would never have been born.

On Writing "Grace"

Buy or sample

Four women are about to start a mob war – and nails WILL be broken.

Some epiphanies looks like diamonds.  Isabella Albrici's diamond shaped epiphany begins when her womanising husband, Domenic, frames her and her best friend Teresa for his diamond smuggling operation to save himself from jail.  Prime targets for the prison's resident psychopath, they'll be lucky to survive jail, even luckier to survive if they get out – thanks to Domenic, 'the family' thinks Isabella is an FBI informant.  The big house ain't no fun house, but for Isabella and Teresa, it's the safest house there is – until the evidence keeping them there suddenly goes missing.

Ladies, you are free to go.
Ah, if it's all the same to you, maybe we'll just stay where we are.
No chance.  Close the door on your way out.
Ah shit.  Thanks very much.

Some epiphanies are shaped like diamonds – others like bullets.  Sometimes grace is received; sometimes grace has to be earned.  For years, these mob wives have lived off the wages of sin, now the path to redemption is clear: they gotta whack their old men.

Welcome to the inaugural general metting of the first chapter of the New Jersey Mob Suffragette's Whack Club.

Salut.

J.K. Rowling vs Literary Agent Christopher Little

After years of dealing with literary agents and publishers (or as I think of them, the agent slash publisher – a single beast with two heads and one heart, or at least a place where the heart should be) it's nice to know I'm still not so inured to their bullshit as not to be able to feel chagrin, indeed, ire.  Thus, I was forcibly reminded recently on reading this article on the subject of J.K. Rowling's parting from her agent, Christopher Little, described as the man who had stood fiercely and loyally by Rowling for years.

It is indeed news that Rowling had at any stage been under siege requiring the fiercely and loyally standing by thereto, or that Little's reaping fifteen per cent off the back of Rowling's charmed life – charmed by her own talented hand – could possibly be seen as wading into battle.  It wouldn't be thus interpreted by most – outside of publishing.  Ah, but then I'm reminded we are dealing here with a creature that inhabits a rarefied world, much like the richly imagined world of Rowling's childish characters.  It doesn't take long before we get to the agent slash publisher's well-worn conceit, the old I made you what you are.  Here we go:  

Pumpkin Arancini & Best Ever Pumpkin Risotto

Find the recipe here.

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Cheryl's Blueberry Slice

Recipe here.

Rosemary Sauteed Potatoes

Ah Christmas. You spend a week in the kitchen preparing for it only to have everyone start whingeing about eating leftovers from Boxing Day. The trick to using up all of those beautiful meats ~ ham, turkey, chicken, pork ~ is to mix things up a little bit but with a minimum of effort. Everyone likes cold meat with hot potatoes, so coming up to Christmas we'll be featuring some simple yet winning ways with spuds to help you out.

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Curried Rice Salad

This curried rice salad tastes every bit as good as it looks.  Don't be alarmed by the amount of curry that goes into the rice cooking water.  The resultant curry flavour is surprisingly mild and is balanced beautifully by the orange rind, which is simmered in boiling water to bring out the flavour.  You can use any seasonal vegetables (snow peas or sugar snap peas are wonderful additions) and you can substitute the mixed dried fruit with sultanas, but please try it with the mixed dried fruit at least once.  It adds some gorgeously nuanced flavours.  Don't be tempted to omit the orange rind, that's what makes this so special.  This salad is a perfect addition to your Christmas table.

George Clooney & Me

What happened was this: I was walking down the street when I saw George in his backyard, looking for his cat.  Puss, in the way of cats, was in the front yard, completely ignoring George's calls.  So I called out to George, letting him know that puss was round the front.

He came through the house and out the front door, smiling broadly, and took puss and me inside.

George and I stood in the kitchen, shooting the breeze, neither of us acknowledging the fact I was buck naked.  George kept his eyes trained on mine, as I did his, even though my boobs were looming large on my horizon.

Thought Of The Day: People

There's two kinds of people in this world: those who think there's two kinds of people in this world, and those who beg to differ.

Spring Babies

Man oh man.  Turns out baby ducks are as belligerent as swans when you're trying to take a
shot of them.

Out Of The Closet

I've decided life's too short to hide your spices in a cupboard, even if that does make them last longer.  They're far too pretty.  Maybe that means I'll never get a gig on Master Chef, and maybe I don't care.  I like my spices where I can see them.

Swans: Flipping The Bird

Last week at Lakes Entrance I discovered that swans make for thoroughly belligerent photographic subjects.  They'll swan around in front of you quite happily, looking ever so pretty and graceful ~ picture perfect, in fact ~ for hours, but the moment you produce a camera they'll go all celebrity-on-crack staggering out of a nightclub confronted by the paparazzi ape shit on you.   The sight of a camera is to swans what the word "gun" is to the US President's CIA protection detail.  Actually, I think swans probably move faster. 

Frank!  Frank!  Someone's trying to take your photo mate!  Turn `round quick and swim out of shot!  Heh heh heh that'll stuff `em.

There she is again!  Quick Frank ~ stick your head under water, mate!

And come up again with snot running from your nose to stuff up the shot!   Who's a pretty boy, now, hey?  Ha ha ha, you're a bloody riot, Frank!

New Advice Column from Clever Pumpkin

Due to popular demand, Clever Pumpkin is launching a new advice column, covering everything from personal dilemmas to household advice.  Our first letter comes from Rebecca South, of Toorak, Victoria.

Dear Clever Pumpkin,

Lately my husband's eye has begun to stray.  Whenever we're out, I catch him looking at other women, usually much younger and more attractive than me.  I'm planning on rekindling his interest with an overhaul – Botox, laser treatment, boob lift, vaginoplasty, collagen lip injections, anal bleaching, liposuction – the lot.  I'll be launching the new me with a romantic dinner at home.  I've already bought the racy lingerie, candles, etc.  Now all that remains is to cook him a special meal.  What would you recommend?

Something small calibre with a bloody big silencer.  Why would you go to the effort of cooking for the bastard when it's easier to pop him?  Hey, here's an idea: if you shoot him straight through that wandering eye of his, he might just get the message.  And geez, you live in Toorak so if you bump him off it seems to me you have everything to gain and nothing to lose – and, as an added bonus, you won't have to wash the dishes afterward.  A word of warning though, in the event you decide against hitting him yourself: DO NOT be tempted to hire a hit man from the pub – they invariably turn out to be undercover policemen.  At least, that's always been my experience.  Oh and I almost forgot: eucalyptus oil is a wonderful stain remover.  It takes out just about any damned thing.