there's a brain in the freezer

No, really. There is.



As reality comes to land in the paddock of "facts of farm living", I am faced with challenges both expected and unexpected.



We lost a rabbit today. Went down to feed them and one of the cages was open with only one smug-looking brown hare inside. His mate, the more adventurous black rabbit had escaped through the open gate and had done a-runner-and-a-hopper! As we searched, I couldnt help but make a half assed attempt at looking around, all the time grinning to myself. Images of this giant black rabbit (european hares are massive) gorging himself on the neighbours raddishes, free in the wild, the wind in his tail-muff. Of course, in my imagination I gave him a little blue jacket and called him Peter and as we searched, the little blue jacket gained some black horizntal stripes to honor his time imprisoned.



Neroni, the black farm dog with the million dollar grin and not a lot of IQ was onto the case, unfortunately, and poor ol' Peter was captured beneath some farm machinery soon after his absence was discovered. Oh well. I hope he ate radishes in the mean time.



We bought 8 new chickens yesterday. Im not sure why because we already have 12 that dont lay, so I assume they are for eating (sorry Heath). I am happy to report that I have been told that chicken farming in Europe is only free range. No-one uses cages any more. The chicken farm stunk to high heaven and had I been the Italian RSPCA I would have demanded adequate ventilation but I suspect that pleasentries between neighbours is probably more important here than fresh air for the chookies.



These people eat meat. Their parents still remember the depression and all this fresh air and Mediterranean diet has kept most of them alive well into their 80s and 90s. They throw nothing away, they waste nothing. It seems like the "Rethink, Reuse, Recycle" message is second nature - common sense!! Their health and the health of their families and friends is far more important than fashion and coolness. These people have drawers of new clothes that are unused because they wear the "house" clothes they have to shreds and have the new clothes there for going out.



Sure, they dont compost, but they honestly dont need to - they live on clay, rich in organic matter. Sure they vaccinate their Rabbits, but if they didnt mixamitosis would spread like wild fire. They spend next to nothing on non pershable goods, they hardly go anywhere. I imagine their ecological foot print is next to nothing. They breed, feed, tend to and kill their meat and if you're going to be a meat eater, I'm not sure how you could be any more rightous about it.



I would probably do it a little different, but in caring for the animals, I am seriously in danger of caring ABOUT them. Not cool if their going to end up on the stove and on your plate. Having said that, we are looking forward to the arrival of a flock (?) of baby rabbits. I think rabbit will be off my menu for some time after that.



And yes, there IS a brain in the freezer. Very nutritious, very gross. Maybe they just wont tell me.

Berries and Sunday Lunch

Today I went berry picking at "La casa dei nonni" (the house of the grandparents). Tra-la-la-la-laaaaaa....



I felt like little red riding hood in reverse - that I was taking berries from the grandfolks, not bringing. The berry bush I was to violate was precariously perched on the side of an eight foot drop... on the neighbour's side of the fence! And the big bad wolf? Well there were two, locked inside the vacant warehouse on the same property. Nonna told me to not jump the fence on account of the shoulder high stinging nettles. "Fair enough" I thought, but when our backs were turned, Nonno - grandfather, great-grandfather of 85 years jumps the chest-high spiky edged fence and he's in there picking berries amongst the nettles. Same 85 year old who climbed a tree only several months ago only to fall out of it and fracture a vertebrae. I joined him soon after (it is Red Riding Hood's pleasure to tackle the wild forest after all) and pretty soon we had the berries in hand and the bush berry-less. There must be something in the water...



The berries... I can't remember what they're called... Andrea asked me to pick them to give to Maria Pia - the Rosy and buxom Mother-of-Andrea's-best-mate (and didge player extraordinaire) Manuel. Maria Pia, as well as dealing out Moncalvo's best pastries and cakes (and mum-sized hugs when required) from the family patisserie, she is now turning her expertise to the making of some kind of liqueur with these berries. Good for digesting your meal for you when you've eaten so much your body cant keep up the digestive-acid supply, and I bet it tastes alright too.



That aside, I did nearly pass out onto my lunch-time plate on Sunday - only partly from my usual pasta-related coma. I had no idea that most favoured portion of the chicken among some carnivores is the head and neck. Marilena, after showing me the chook in pan (with head) generously gave it up for Antonello. I felt myself go pale as I glanced at the plate in front of me and the nice portion of white meat, in my mind's eye, took the full, vital and very much alive form of the whole chicken. It was like in a cartoon mind bubble when the roast on the plate comes to life and says "don't eat me. please dont eat me".Home-grown or not, needless to say, I couldnt finish it and I barely looked in Antonello's direction as he dissected the head and neck with surgical precision and crunched down on the beak.



There is a whole procedure that comes with Sunday lunch with the family. Im sure they dont even notice it, but there is a flow, a routine, a pecking-order so-to-speak, although the pecking can really happen between anyone (and it does) but I will write about that another time.



Sissi (the little grey kitten) is fine - she has recently discovered the pleasure of sleeping on beds (a far cry from the ironing table) and has learnt how to climb me like a tree to sneek a peek at whatever I might be up to. She has grown into her "adult" fur and her "big-cat" meow but has a firm addiction to suckling, which I find endearing and annoying at the same time. I have to admit that I am reluctant to stop her in case I cause some irreparable kitty-hood trauma and scar her for life - she might become a vengeful teenager. Or worse... like Cesere.



I dont know how he is still alive. He's limping, bleeding - the wound on the side of his head is bigger and weeping gunk. He's skinny and mournful. He seriously looks like he's just had the sh*t beaten out of him and wants to curl up and RIP.

CESERE

Oh sheet

My dear, respected and trusted friend told me this week that I have been exposed to what, we are sure, is listed in the Geneva convention as a basic abuse of human rights. Thats right. I have done the unthinkable, the unbelieveable. The one thing I swore blind that I would never EVER do.



I just ironed my first set of sheets.



And I could feel every busy modern woman, every lover of free time, everyone I know (except one) in Australia raise up their hands and gasp in disbelief. Why oh WHY would anyone subject themselves to such torture? Why would you actually lengthen the time you have to spend ironing by ironing the only thing that a) is fitted to a flat surface and b) gets all mussed up anyway - and at a time when we dont even notice it - WHEN WE'RE ASLEEP! Or even better... we muss it up when we DO notice it (and why would you be checking if the sheets had been ironed anyway? ;)



Marilena may as well have been dancing circles around me clapping and cheering as I took my first blow (nice Aussie term there) of the blue demonic cotton. The tool, largely foreign to my sweaty grasp sighed a steamy moan. And so did I. I felt like I was betraying my gender, my generation, my COUNTRY! Surely its Un-Australian to iron your sheets! Surely the aussie "way of life" states that it is more beneficial to humanity, to keeping our culture alive, to nurturing relationships and our economy to be sitting out in the sun reading a book or having a glass of Margaret River red with friends? Surely this is the most stupid waste of time... EVER?



But no. Im reassured by both mother and son that one gets a better nights sleep on an ironed set of sheets. My guess is that they both work so bloody hard, they dont give the damn sheets a second thought before they crash into slumber after a days hard slog.



New sheets? Sure I get it - they have that starchy feel about them if you use them before cleaning out the formaldehyde and chemicals they use to make them look pristine when you buy them. Clean sun-dried sheets on a freshly made bed? One of my favourite things ever. But seriously - who gives a damn if they've been ironed. Really. And if you do, you need to get out and dig a hole. Wear yourself out to the point of death-like slumber and quit blaming the sheets for your restlessness.



So Australia, Im sorry. Please dont strip me of my passport or citizenship. It only happened once... I promise. UN - Im ok, just slightly shell shocked and hoping that PTSD doesnt set in and make me do it again. To all the women who fought to vote, who fight to this day - Im sorry. To those who LOVE their sheets ironed - get a grip!



So there!