Okay, hands up: Who thinks real men don't hook rugs? That many? Well I'm sorry, I beg to differ:


Way back in the 70s (colours rather give it away, don't they?) Phil was whiling away many a pleasant evening in the making of this beauty. I can see him now, sprawled across the living room floor, long blond hair a-flowing, hooking away to the stereophonic accompaniment of Led Zeppelin, or the Who, or Yes ...

It was, mind you, just a brief flirtation with yarn. A passing affair. It didn't mean anything. Metal is, and always will be, his medium, his mistress, his truly beloved. He remains captivated by her malleability, density, lustre. Enthralled by the joys of shaping, soldering, welding. Bewitched by the promise of alchemy.  I'm surprised he didn't name one of his children Titanium, or Niobium, or Monel ...

So back to the rug. What is it exactly? Any guesses? Whenever I gaze upon it, it transforms into some gigantic abstract insect, wings humming for take-off. But no, that fiery ovoid is not some weird compound eye, but a headlight. Citroen DS, of course. See the reflections on the bonnet?


The design was taken from a photograph, which he enlarged and hand drew on to canvas using the old-school - but ever reliable - grid method. Having never hooked a rug myself, I made some enquiries about technique:
Me: "Must have been tedious cutting the wool into all those exact same lengths."
Him: "I made up a little tool."
Me: "Of course you did ..."

And so, all these years later, it hangs in our shed, patiently awaiting its place in the house.
I've become very fond of it. And in the evenings, bathed in the valencia orange glow of that fantastic plastic 70s lamp (Pomona markets - bargain), it .... well it just makes me happy - orange has that effect.

• For more of Phil's amazing (non-woolly) body of work, visit philwarddesigndotcom.
• For more about real men doing all things crafty, visit Paul at dudecraftdotcom.
• For more about the goddess of Citroens, there are endless stunning images everywhere on the web. Go forth and google.

This is not Tea Cup Ballet. Tea Cup Ballet (1935), by talented Aussie gal Olive Cotton (1911-2003), is a work of art: a beautifully evocative, black and white photograph that transports domestic crockery to the misty landscape of dreams. I've always loved it.


Anyway, there I was last weekend, busily snapping pics of my vintage (C1960s) demitasse coffee cups (if we want to be pedantic). Not to pay homage to Olive - no, no. (I'm the first to admit to having zero technical nous: Those snazzy functions on my Canon G10 are wasted on someone who simply leaves it on auto, points, and shoots.) You see, having decided to Zen the shed a little, I was simply taking some shots to put on Ebay.

But then - as happens when you're concentrating on the object you're photographing, or drawing, or writing about - the more I observed, the more I began to re-appreciate (see that lovely drip of greenish blue on the rim, where the glaze has trickled down?) I thought of Tea Cup Ballet, and Olive,  and how I share her love of domestica.
Observe, appreciate, observe, appreciate ...

"Hmmm," I thought, "Perhaps I won't sell them after all. I'll write about them, and go play around on Picnik, or Big Huge Labs or Picassa, and make a mosaic or two to post on eumundipapersdotcom. And when I'm tired of all that, I'll tuck them back in their matching 1960s Danish-style sideboard. And come summer, when we have guests over, I can serve dainty affogatos in them." Yes, there's a thought: Affogatos. Ooooooh, I wish it were summer already.


Notes:

• Olive Cotton worked in the studio of the rather more famous (justifiably or not - you decide) Aussie shutterbug, Max Dupain (1911-1992), best known for his iconic image of The Sunbather (1937). Read the Wikis and check out the images - if you haven't already.
• Affogatos are iced coffee for grownups. Place a scoop or two of best quality ice cream in your cutest cup, glass or small bowl. Serve with a tiny jug of excellent, and strong, black coffee. Simply pour the coffee onto the ice cream, and eat with a spoon. Best way to chill out and wake up simultaneously.

Yes, I know, it's been a long time between soups. And there's 96 more to go - eeek! Nevermind, we're safely back on track with this crowd-pleasing classic: Pea and Ham. Mmmm ... delicious, nutritious, and oh so comforting. Heartwarming childhood memories with every loving spoonful. It's also the easiest-peasiest (sorry) soup you could ever wish to make. Guaranteed.


There must be hundreds of versions of pea and ham soup out there, but to my mind, this really is a case of the simpler the better. All you need for 4-6 big bowls of steaming, homestyle goodness are:

Pea and Ham Soup
500g green (or yellow, but I really love green) split peas
2-3 bacon bones, or a chunky little hock (Please lobby your butcher for free-range pork.)
1-2 brown onions
a couple of bay leaves
water
Yep, that's it.

Step 1. Thoroughly wash peas in a flood of water, then wash again and again until the water runs clear.
Step 2. Dice onions, then toss in a heavy-based soup pot, with some olive oil, until soft. Add bacon bones/hock for the last minute or two - just long enough to release some rich, smoky flavour into the onions.
Step 3. Add washed and drained peas, plus a couple of bay leaves. Then cover with water and bring slowly, slowly to a simmer.
Step 4. Continue to gently simmer for at least 2 hours. Remember - this is the Zen of soup, so stay in the zone. Keep a tender eye on it. Stir from time to time to prevent sticking or - horror - burning. Should it get too dry, simply add more water and stir. The peas will gradually soften, and blend into a beautiful, eau-de-nil tinted, creamy broth.
Step 5. Remove bones/hock. With all that long, slow cooking, the meat should be falling off in succulent, tender pieces. Gently shred the meat and return to the soup.
Step 6. Serve with crusty bread, red wine, crocheted granny rugs, and a crackling fire.

Tips:

• Nope, there's no need to soak peas overnight: Too much forward planning - a pain in the neck and a waste of time. Careful, attentive, long, slow cooking is all you need.
• Some recipes substitute stock for water. "Pffffff," I say. This soup is stock, with peas added.
• Carrots and/or celery are often included with the onion. Still too much effort for too little result in my book. Some garlic is rather nice though ...
• Thyme goes well with the bay leaves if you have some. 
• Free-range pork: For the sake of your health - not to mention the happiness of the pigs (intelligent, affectionate creatures who deserve to run around in the fresh air and sunlight - just ask Hamlet) please, please lobby your butcher for free-range pork. It's out there - and your demand will increase supply. Read more here at Jamie Oliver - very enlightening. (Locals please note: Eumundi Meats now stocks local, free-range, nitrate free bacon - so please open those wallets and support them). 
• Okay, if you've read this far you must be waiting for:

The Swedish Twist
My mate Lizard (a woman with a slightly unhealthy infatuation for Ikea meatballs) brought me back a little folder of recipes from Sweden, amongst which I found an intriguing version of pea and ham soup:

• Those fun-loving Swedes apparently add "a bottle of beer" with the water. But what size bottle, I ask? As I type, I'm experimenting with half a tallie of Coopers (South Australian husband - besides, it's good stuff). 
• Oh yes, and they prefer yellow peas. Makes sense, considering the flag
• The recipe also suggests serving with mustard. Also makes sense, considering the ham - but how? A big, fat dollop floating in the middle?

Hang on - my neighbours are Swedish. I'll just duck next door and quiz them. In the meantime, any feedback from Swedes or others would be much appreciated.

I'd seen wind farms before, but the sublime Windy Hill, some 3 km near Ravenshoe, made my heart sing. The landscape itself was enough to have me in raptures ("magically pastoral: rolling, emerald green hills dotted with fat, handsome cows", to quote myself), and those soaring, majestic spires, blades whispering in the wind, only seemed to enhance its breathtaking, natural beauty.



And finally, a shot of my favourite waterfall (Australia's widest). Up on the Tablelands, there's a waterfall gushing forth round every bend, yet for me there was something special about this place. In the sharp, early morning light, with no other humans in sight, its raw, primordial beauty was extraordinarily powerful. How humbling, and strangely comforting to find, not 20 km from all that tamed, European-style countryside, a pristine slice of Gondwanaland.