I am an Artist

I am an artist.

That statement seems like a bizarre thing for me to write. I am remembering parts of myself long hidden under fear, obligation, bills, and mountains of laundry. But the real me - my real, authentic self - is a writer, a poet, a singer and a songwriter.

This was recognised by Those Who Matter and at 3 years old I was put into piano lessons. I was encouraged to write. But the encouragement always came with conditions: I had to play classical music, and I had to write things that they liked.

I remember trying to write my first gritty drama when I was about 10 years old. It was hard work, unlike the creative writing I did at school. I sat in my parent's office in my school holidays, writing for most of the day over the school holidays. The heroine was a teenage girl called Juliette, who had a nose piercing and a boyfriend. I don't remember the plot but I remember it was winter in a city far away from where I lived. I remember the cool air and the concrete and something about a skate park, and even though I was living in the tropics when I wrote the story, thinking about it even now evokes the feeling of cold air stinging my cheeks and pulling a scarf up to my chin against the chill of the city. Something serious had happened, and there was angst between Juliette and her lover. I wasn't sure where the story was going to take me, only that I was prouder of the first chapter of that story than anything else I had ever written.

When I showed what I had written to my mother she pursed her lips and said briskly "Well, I think you should learn to spell, because that's not how you spell Juliette. And I don't think you should be writing about things you don't understand, like boyfriends. I'm not impressed, Natelle. I'm not impressed at all."

I didn't write another word of that story. And I never wrote fiction for my own enjoyment again.

The same thing happened with music. At 12, I let my mother know that I no longer wanted to play classical piano, I wanted to learn how to play with chords. Perhaps if I had been submerged in a family of musicians I would have learned how to do this on my own, but I wasn't. I was desperately missing the keys I needed to be able to accompany the songs I was composing in my head. My mother pursed her lips angrily and said in a manner I think she felt was poignant: "A winner never quits, and a quitter never wins." 

I was not allowed to leave my classical lessons. So I stopped playing. Unless I absolutely had to - like at piano lessons - I didn't play. I didn't do my theory. I didn't practice. Finally, at 16 years old, with my talent almost forgotten and my passion for piano dead in the water, my mother allowed me to stop. I have barely touched a piano since, and when my mother finally decided to get rid of my piano last year when I was 34, I was not in the least bit sad. In fact, to watch that instrument of torture be removed from my sight forever was a release. 

This is not a "blame" post. It's really not. I fully support the line in the Savage Garden song that says "I believe your parents did the best job they knew how to do." My family did what they thought was best: protected me from my own gifts. Essentially it was my choice to allow their disapproval to overwhelm me, and I want to state here and now that I take full responsibility for not being strong enough - especially in adulthood - to pursue my gifts with abandon and vigor. However, in order to move on, to start exploring my gifts NOW, I need to work through the reasons they were lost to me for so long. So, with deepest love and respect and understanding toward my family, I am trying to do this now. 

I could go on about why my gifts were lost to me: we were living in tropical North Queensland, virtually alone, with the rest of my family 3000 kilometers away in the Southern most part of the mainland. My brother was a scholar, my parents had responsible jobs and couldn't sing or play a note. I was the black sheep, even though in my extended family there is a strong artistic gene, making me far more "normal" than I realised. 

My maternal Grandmother - who I am apparently very much like - was an artist and a wordsmith, fiercely proud of the artistic gene. My Uncle has been a professional jazz musician for his entire life, and my cousin is a singer and an excellent writer. My aunt, although not blood related, is a music teacher. Had I grown up living close to these influences I think my life could have been significantly different. But I didn't. My father - a music hater and only child - saw their musical professions as an indulgent and irresponsible waste of time. "They should go and get a bloody job!" he would say. That's what they wanted for me: a university degree, and a real job. I was sent to a school with no music, art or drama program, chosen specifically for the fact that I would be unable to explore my artistic desires. Any discussion of studying music or writing when I graduated was duly crushed with ridicule, pointing out that a "Bachelor of Arts doesn't make you an artist!" Not getting a degree was absolutely not an option. And, desperate to make them proud, I tried my best to squeeze myself into the cookie cutter mold they wanted me to be, making myself utterly miserable in the process, losing all sense of self for almost 20 years. 

Now that I am crawling out of the artistic abyss I have buried myself in for so long - poking my head above the ground, squinting in the light that seems both familiar and strangely unfamiliar - I am seeing my youthful self in a totally different light. I thought of myself as void of any tangible ability in anything. I was average at best at maths and science - which were the only two subjects which mattered in my adolescent home - and I both loathed sport and lacked coordination. I was short, a little overweight and not particularly pretty. I am sensitive ("overly sensitive" is what I was told) which makes life complicated when you're also not good at anything deemed important. I was an oxygen thief, as far as I was concerned. Except that I wasn't, and I'm not. I am an artist, gifted in music and writing, sensitive because in order to excel in the arts, to be open to your creative muse, you must feel more than others feel. In order to create things that touch others, you must, yourself, be touched.

I want to qualify this post again by saying, I love my family. And I don't blame them. There are so many complicated, convoluted reasons things were the way they were and are the way they are. I accept responsibility for not doing what I needed to do to be the artist I should have been. 

I also accept responsibility for pursuing my art NOW, and for that I do not apologise. 

Her Name is Anxiety

For many years Depression was my homeboy, hanging around like a toxic friend who made my life miserable and wouldn't go away. I didn't notice his quiet accomplice - Anxiety - mooching in the background. I was on and off anti-depressants from my late teens until my late 20s, but I was 33 when I first met Anxiety on her own.

She is more subtle than Depression. Sly and passive-aggressive. Depression would whack me about the head with a baseball bat, stab my heart with knives, evoking inexplicable, palpable grief. Experiences which should have been small bumps in the road would throw me completely off course, small disappointments were magnified as enormous sadness, leaving me in the foetal position, weeping in what seemed like physical pain.

I knew Depression. As a teen, I knew how to ask for help from teachers and school counselors and Kid's Helpline. As I got older, I knew when to go to the GP or call a psychologist. But those experiences were so huge and all-encompassing that Anxiety was able to weave her black magic around my mind and my heart completely unnoticed, like smoke slowly filling a room without a fire alarm.

I didn't understand what Anxiety was or how she made me feel. I thought it was all me. I believed every lie she told me, every untruth she breathed in my ear while curling her long fingers around my heart, squeezing it, making it thump in my chest and the adrenaline course through me. She would whisper in my ear:

"Everybody hates you."
"You're such a loser."
"You have no friends."

And her favourite, used indiscriminately about anything I want to learn, or do, or try, every time I tried to better myself or step away from what might have been expected by my family:

"You can't. You're not good enough."

She kept me up at night, pacing the floors, drinking tea and crying. She was there the day I withdrew from University six weeks before finishing my Undergraduate teaching degree, too terrified to teach for my six week final placement. "If you can't do it for six weeks," she sneered, "What makes you think you can do it for the rest of your life?" She was there when I was offered a promotion at work to the Leadership Pool. "Everyone already hates you," she whispered. "This will only make it worse. Don't make your life harder than it already is."

She was there when I traveled to Europe, convincing me to hole myself up in hotels and lounge rooms of my extended family, too frightened to step out the door and experience the countries I had journeyed so far to see. She has been there every time my husband and I have decided to leave our home town for a more enriching life in the South-East corner of our state - where we have wanted to live for 13 years - causing me to panic so badly that he gives in to appease my panic. "Better the devil you know than the one that you don't," she tells me. "You'd never be able to drive there, you couldn't handle the traffic."

She's there every time I decide to quit my horrible job. She reminds me how lucky a loser like me is to have a job like mine. "You're nothing. You're lucky you've even got this job - after ten years you're still not good at it. Everyone knows more than you. You're so stupid. Someone will find you out if you leave. It doesn't matter that it's soul destroying - that's penance for being such an imbecile."

I recognize her now. I recognize the rising panic in my chest, the adrenal response for no real reason. I recognize her lies but I've been listening so long that I don't know how to believe otherwise. But I'm learning. I have to. Because I see her somewhere else now, somewhere that is terrifying but that also steels me with new resolve to beat her:

I see her in my son.

Why I am no longer on Facebook

Clicking the front gate shut, I turn around to face the morning. It’s such a pretty street that I live in, especially in our balmy tropical winter. Our street is lined with large trees all the way down; I don’t know what the trees are, but in our warm winter their green leaves fall to the ground & are replaced by thousands of delicate mauve flowers. The morning is a little crisp, but the sun has risen over the horizon & already it is kissing my skin with warmth, a promise of a glorious day.

There is not a cloud in the sky, & as I walk I enjoy the symphony of the morning – the bass notes a low hum of traffic from the main road one block over, accompanied by the shrill soprano of many songbirds who flit about in the purple-pink hues of the large trees.  As I reach the end of my street, I turn left toward the large shopping centre. The smell of morning dew now has a top note of doughnuts & hot coffee, & the hum of traffic gets a little louder.

There is a sprinkler on at the units on Alfred Street, just next to the footpath. Two little sparrows flit in and out of the spray. One is chasing the other, the bird in front glancing flirtatiously over her shoulder before darting into the well-manicured hedge partitioning the units off from prying eyes. Her mate follows, & they are both suddenly gone.

The music from the traffic now features percussion in the form of hissing brakes from a bus, picking up commuters on the way to work in the city. They stream onto the bus, a flurry of bright tops, neckties & slacks, take away coffee cups, & a rainbow of faces representative of the cultural melting pot that our town is increasingly becoming. I reach the traffic lights & wait, watching the traffic stream past me like colourful wet smudges across an oil painting. On the corner opposite waiting to cross in the same direction as me are two colleagues from another area of my building; I don’t know them well, but after 8 years we recognise each other & we smile & wave. Next to me is a young mother with a pram, a little baby with a pink blanket pulled up to her chin & an oversized flower atop her head on a stretchy headband. In my head I challenge my own judgement of the mother, who is smoking – I have no right to judge her. Stop it! Show some grace.

The warmth from the sun is brushing my right shoulder, & the sky seems bluer than before. I hear chatting & giggling behind me, & turn to see a group of children running up from the local school, now also waiting for the lights to change. They are from a local African family – or maybe two families – and their little brown faces & bright white teeth beam back at me as I give them a smile.

It’s Monday, & far from feeling the dreaded “Mondayitis” I am grateful of my close proximity to work, my beautiful, quiet street which is 2 streets away from the biggest shopping centre in town, the interesting cultural diversity of my neighbourhood, & the beautiful weather of the city I choose to call “home”.

A few weeks ago, this walk to work would have been very different. You see, I have disconnected from Facebook, & all social media.

A few weeks ago, I would have walked out my gate, pulled my phone from my bag & walked to work, head bent at the neck, staring at the screen in front of me as though in worship of my iPhone, absorbing my news feed. I would have been oblivious to the birds, to the trees, to the smells & sights around me, enslaved by the device in the palm of my hand, scrolling obsessively through my newsfeed to ensure I get my fill of information before I start work. My mind would have been absorbed in other people’s problems, whinges, polluted by the usual onslaught of Monday Morning Blues memes & whining, information about what others were eating for breakfast or what other people’s children had done before being taken to school. The myriad of emotions – jealousy at the statuses of my SAHM friends posting about their daily plans, thoughts of meal planning from the recipes that pop up from foodie pages, yearning for clothes & boots that I can neither afford nor that are practical for our climate, vicarious triumph at the information from a picture a friend had “liked” showing someone who had overcome some sort of personal adversity to achieve something while I achieve nothing but RSI in my thumb from scrolling, horror at news articles informing me of some tragedy on the other side of the world that, while grim, shouldn’t impact my day or my life.

Because that’s what this is: My Life. And by burying my head in my phone, by reading about everyone else’s lives & engaging in everyone else’s story from the world over, I have disengaged from my own story. My emotions should be tied to MY experiences, not someone else’s. I should be outraged when something outrageous happens to ME – not when an injustice occurs to someone else living somewhere I’m never likely to go. I should be triumphant when I overcome something in MY life, not when someone else overcomes an adversity I will never know & that will never be mine. I should be horrified when tragedy touches ME, & I shouldn’t have to feel it every day when it touches people I don’t know. And I have the right to feel good – not guilty - on a Monday, on my way to work, while my kids go to school & daycare & I assume my responsibility as a working & financially contributing parent & citizen.

So now, I choose to live in the present moment of my own life, to live my own story, & to embrace my moments – the boring ones, the fun ones, the beautiful ones, the difficult ones, the triumphant ones – but MINE. Not yours. Not theirs. Not his. Not hers. Mine.

 

Date and Seed Balls - Crazy Delicious

As a mother trying desperately to keep additives and preservatives out of my kids diets, and to manage coeliac disease and major behavioural problems in my eldest child, not being able to use nuts at daycare (and next year, school) is tough. I can't send anything made of almond meal, or almond milk or cashew nut custards or even a peanut butter freaking sandwich. I'm not saying for a minute it should be overturned or that it's wrong to ban nuts, but it just throws another spanner in the works in the quest to trying to be healthy. I hate that little packets of junk food can be labelled as "NUT FREE" or "NO NUTS" and these are apparently healthy options to take to school (the same goes for the gluten free label, and dairy free and soy free and sugar free and fat free...). Meanwhile the E-numbers & chemicals & white sugar & artificial sweeteners are things I wouldn't feed my dog! I understand why it has been done, and that nut allergies are very severe, it's just a shame because for the majority of kids they are - like eggs & honey - nutritious little power sources of plant based proteins, fats, vitamins and minerals. Still - Namaste to the mothers & fathers of kids with nut allergies, it must be a tough trot and really scary.

Anyways, I alter quite a few recipes by using seeds instead of nuts. And one of my boys' favourites are these date & seed balls. Or bars. You can push the same mix into a tray and cut it into sticks, which my toddler (who tends to stuff the entire balls into his mouth) prefers. I've used this same recipe for birthday parties & as an alternative to cake pops. I make the balls, push them onto paddlepop sticks, and then dip them into melted raw chocolate or carob. Then top with Hoppers safe sprinkles. They are always a hit. But these are the ones I make every week. Adults love them too - I often take them to work for morning teas (and in that case, I add the nuts).

For this recipe, you'll need a high powered blender or food processor. Of course, I use my beloved Thermomix.

INGREDIENTS:

2 cups mejool dates, deseeded
1 cup mixed seeds (and nuts, if they're not for school)
I use a mix of sunflower, pepitas, hemp and chia seeds. Hemp seeds are unbelievably nutritious. Check out the benefits here.  Yes it is illegal to consume hemp seeds in Australia and New Zealand (the only two countries in the world to have such a dumb-ass law). They can be purchased at many health food shops or online. And no, they will not make your children high, nor can they be grown into marijuana.
1/2 cup cacao nibs
1/2 cup shredded coconut

Process seeds and nibs in the Thermomix on speed 8 until they form a course meal (20 seconds or so). Add coconut & process again on Speed 8 for about 5 seconds. Add dates and process Speed 9 until mix is as smooth as possible.

Roll the mix into walnut sized balls & refrigerate. Or push into a tray lined with baking paper & refrigerate, then cut into bars.

Cabbage with Fennel & Chilli - My favourite side dish for pork

As I've mentioned before, we love pork in the Primal house. But not your usual, run-of-the-mill supermarket pork. No sows were raised in stalls in the making of my dinners, thank you very much. No siree. We buy our pork (and goat and beefalo and very soon lamb) from our friends Shane & Julz from the wonderful Backfatters Farm in Ingham. Their pigs are the happiest, heritage breed free range pigs in the world. We have visited them, fed them, patted them and we LOVE eating them.

Having small kids, the go-to meal is often sausages. Pork sausages. And the Backfatters sausages contain just 3 ingredients: pork, salt and pepper. That's it. Yes, you can buy flavoured ones but for my Master 2 and Master 4 the plain ones are the best. They are DELICIOUS. Our eldest has renamed them "bacon sausages", for good reason.

I like to bake my sausages in the oven. Most of the fat drains out of them, which some people wouldn't like. I however can't escape that I work in a very sedentary job, I have limited time for exercise (I fit in two 45 minute runs a week) and enjoy being a smaller size, and too much excess fat makes me FAT. I know a lot of Paleo people would disagree with me or debate this but what can I say - I know my own body. I eat more fat than the traditional "low fat" diets but I do have to watch my consumption. So that's how I cook my snags. OF COURSE, you can BBQ yours, or cook them in cider (yum) or deep fry the fuckers for all I care.

And for my husband & I, I make this kick ass, quick side dish which never ceases to amaze me how delicious it is & how well it goes with pork.

INGREDIENTS:

1/2 a sugarloaf cabbage (or quarter of a regular cabbage, or 1/2 a small red cabbage), thinly sliced
3 cloves garlic, chopped very finely
1 birds eye chilli, chopped very finely
2 anchovies, chopped very finely
1 heaped teaspoons fennel seeds, lightly crushed in a mortar & pestle
1 heaped tsp lard (or ghee, or refined coconut oil)
Himalayan salt, to taste

Heat lard in a pan. Add fennel seeds, anchovies, chilli and garlic. Stir for a few seconds & add cabbage. Cook, stirring, until oil & flavours are combined. Turn heat down to low and allow to cook until the cabbage is soft. If it starts to dry out, add a tiny splash of water (or more fat, if you're that way inclined). Season with salt, to taste.

Paleo Eggplant Bolognaise Lasagne (with Paleo béchamel sauce)

I wish my kids were paleo, or at least grain free. Being that my 4 year old is a diagnosed Coeliac they are already gluten free but they do consume plenty of grains. I hope that I can manage to change this one day, but right now at 2 and 4 I tend to go with anything that is whole & real food & that currently includes grains and dairy. My 2 year old is still breastfeeding and I am currently trying to gently encourage weaning. So anything he will eat (as long as it's not processed or junk food) I generally let him have. It works for our family right now, & I hope that in the future I will reduce their grain intake especially.

So on Sunday nights, we have bolognaise. My boys have gluten free spaghetti, I make sure there is enough left overs for my youngest for his daycare meals for the week, & I make my husband & I this paleo (ish) low carb bake. It's sort of like Mousaka, but I don't use lamb & there is no potatoes, and my béchamel (or white sauce) is made of cauliflower (so it's dairy free).I say "ish" because sometimes I add cheese. It's not necessary but we are not strictly or obsessively paleo & we both tolerate dairy well so I'm comfortable using good quality, full fat dairy in small doses.

I do use my Thermomix to make the béchamel. Generally I try not to hype on about my Thermomix. Most people don't have one & while I ADORE mine, & wouldn't be without it, you could do this with a steamer & a food processor or stick blender.

In regards to the bolognaise sauce, I make mine using 500g grass fed beef (or in this case beefalo) mince, 1 large zucchini and 2 large carrots which I grind in the Thermomix (you could just grate them on a fine grate), I brown the mince, I add the vegetables and then I use a jar of Jensen's Organic Bolognaise pasta sauce. So sue me. I'm a very busy, working mother. If you want to, make it from scratch. I don't have time. I let the sauce simmer on the stove for at least an hour (& often 2 or 3). I then mix half with the pasta for the boys & use the rest for our Eggplant Lasagne. So here is the recipe:

Slice a large eggplant into 1/2 a centimetre slices, lengthways. Melt 1 tbs ghee or grass fed lard & brush onto both sides of the slices.

Place onto a wire rack & bake at 180 degrees Celsius for 20 minutes, turning half way through. You should be left with lovely char marks on the slices (but it doesn't matter if you don't, they'll be covered in sauce soon!).

While the eggplants are baking, break half a cauliflower into florets & steam them until soft. I steam mine in the Thermomix in the rice basket but of course a stove steamer is fine. When the florets are soft, drain water from the Thermomix bowl, put florets inside & process for about 20 seconds on speed 4. Or use a stick blender to blend it into a paste if you don't have a Thermomix. Add about half a cup of water & 6 raw cashews. Also add a tablespoon of home made Thermomix vegetable stock paste (or half a stock cube if you don't make your own vege stock paste). Process on Speed 10 for 1 minute until it is a thick smooth paste that resembles white sauce. If you don't have Thermomix or a high speed blender of any kind (eg Vitamix), use almond milk instead of water & leave out the cashews. At this point you should have a thick sauce resembling béchamel. If it's too runny, add a tablespoon of tapioca starch (you could add cornflour if you're not too strict with paleo) and cook, stirring, until it thickens & resembles the sauce. Add a grating of nutmeg, and you will be surprised at how much like authentic béchamel the sauce tastes.

Now to assemble. In a lasagne dish, lay out about half (or just under) the bolognaise sauce. It shouldn't completely cover the base, just scatter it over. Layer on one layer of eggplant, then add the rest of the bolognaise sauce, and half of your lovely béchamel. Add the rest of the eggplant, and top with the remaining béchamel. If you are strictly paleo, bake it as is.

 

 

We are not super strictly paleo, so I like to scatter some feta over the top. A couple of times, when I've had it (& felt really naughty!) I have sprinkled grated mozzarella over the top. Bake in a 180 degree Celsius oven for around 20 minutes.

 

 

This makes 2 enormous serves, but remember, it's mostly vegetables and only contains the quantity of meat which would be used for two serves of pasta, so don't feel an ounce of guilt for eating it all! 



 

 

I hope this was helpful. Enjoy!

 



The Best Roast Chicken Ever

One of our favourite recipes is roast chicken. I cook it almost every week and it goes down a treat. There are lots of complicated roast chicken recipes and it always surprises me when I see what a hoo-ha people go through to roast a bloody chook. Seriously. Butter and herbs under the breast skin, home made stuffing in the cavity, blah blah blah....

I was put off roast chicken for years by my Mum, who used to bang a chook in the oven without doing anything to it. It would come out as dry as old boots & we would have to smother it in gravy to make it palatable. I moved out of home when I was 18 & I didn't cook a roast chicken until I was nearly 23. It was my husband (then fiancé) and my first meal in our first home. And the oven didn't work properly, so it was raw & inedible. I was put off again for years, and then I tried again. I tried stuffing the skin, stuffing the cavity, rubbing it in lemon juice, shoving a Lemon or an onion up its bum, all sorts of spice rubs & herb combos. The results were always average. I knew I couldn't just bung it in the oven with nothing done to it at all but I also didn't like all the fussing about, it seemed to defeat the purpose of having a "simple" roast.

However, things have now changed. The best roast chicken recipe I have found is in Jane Kennedy's book "Fabulous Food Minus the Boombah". And she got it from US chef Thomas Kellar. It sounds weird. But it is easy, juicy & bloody tasty. I promise.
INGREDIENTS:

1 whole chicken
(preferably organic. If not, at least buy free range. If you can't get free range, buy some tofu & make a curry. Seriously - don't support the cruel industry that is supermarket factory farming. It's unethical just bullshit).

Salt (I always use Himalayan sea salt)

Pepper
METHOD:

Preheat the oven to 230*c. Yes, that hot. Pat the chicken dry with paper towel, place on a roasting rack in a roasting pan without a lid. The recipe then says to "rain salt over the bird" - seriously, it's like poetry! - so do it, about a tablespoon. Then grind fresh black pepper on as well. I also love to grate fresh nutmeg on my chicken but that's not in the original recipe.

Roast for about 40 minutes. Then take out and baste, especially over the breast. The roast for another 40 minutes.

While the chook is cooking I throw either whole small sweet potatoes rubbed with olive oil, or big wedges of pumpkin tossed in olive oil & cinnamon, into the oven. I prefer to roast the veggies onto a separate rack, they just get too fatty & greasy if you roast them with the chicken.  A couple of times I have quartered fennel bulbs and roasted them as well, which become soft and juicy and delicious. These I do tuck in around the bird. The veggies will need at least the last 40 minutes so pop them in before you take the chook out to baste it.

Organic Roast Chicken with Fennel and pumpkin

When it's all cooked I serve the chicken with the roast veg & if I haven't made the fennel I also make a green salad of cos lettuce, avocado & sometimes crumbled feta (if I have it) dressed simply with lemon juice & olive oil. Jane Kennedy suggests a blob of Dijon mustard on the side which is lovely. The salty, crispy skin of the chicken is divine, like very thin pork crackling, and the acidity of the lemon juice & Dijon mustard cuts through the fat. It's just a perfect combo, really.

Some weeks I don't do a whole chicken I just buy organic or free range drumsticks and do those. If I do this, I slash the legs twice to the bone, roast for around an hour & don't bother to baste them. You really only need to baste the whole chicken to stop the breast meat drying out.

Organic Roast Chicken Drumsticks with Sweet Potato,

Green Salad and Homemade Aioli

 Try it! Easy to cook, delicious to eat, stuff all washing up. :)