Well, so they say.  Behind the picket fence the reality was likely to be rather different.  By this time, a large number of women had a desire to learn, to contribute outside of the home and to have ongoing intellectual stimulation.  Many had gone on to obtain tertiary qualifications. Unfortunately for a majority of middle-class women who came of age in the 40s and 50s, the only post-graduate career option was marriage.   Any further aspirations were at least in part stifled by a cup of tea, a bex and a good lie down (or alternatively an addiction to something less benign).  Plenty of these women worked during the war but then when the boys came back home, they were shunted back into the home with a pat on the bottom.

Of course, there were always women who worked outside of the home too - primarily those forced to do so for financial reasons, and these women were generally in menial work or were not married (and treated with some suspicion).  My maternal grandmother in fact worked through the 1950s and well into the 1970s.  My grandfather had fallen ill shortly after they married as a result of an injury he suffered in the war and my grandmother needed to help support the family.  (Oh, and shhh, don’t tell anyone, but she enjoyed working.)  Her career was restricted however by her primary role managing the house and looking after her children.  She did what she had to do.  There was no choice.  For a woman who had a husband able to support the family it was hardly ‘proper’ to be working in any role that could be described as a ‘career’.

So maybe the silent conflict has existed for quite some time now, and it is just the choice that has changed. We’re just louder and crankier now.  They’ve taken away our bex. You could say that the choice has almost disappeared in the opposite direction in fact.  Most working families in Australia today seem to require two incomes to support their lifestyle (and plasma televisions - more on that another day).

So if we accept the reality that for many modern relationships, two incomes are required and desired, life becomes a bit tricky.  Particularly when you consider that more women than men are likely to have tertiary educations and there is often little or no functional difference between partners in the level of commitment to career (and development). So who picks up the kids from daycare when you’re both slaving in the office at 7pm in the pursuit for a corner office with a view?  Who takes the bin out before going to the gym before work?  Who washes the floor while muttering into a dictaphone on a Sunday afternoon? The division of labour is all messed up - and with that comes serious risk of conflict of a relationship-killing kind.

So on to my point.  People have been harping on about equality for quite a while now.  If large corporates and the government can’t get it right in the boardroom, what chance have we got in the home, where relationships are under even more pressure?  Now this may well be unpopular, but my view of equality in the home does not involve an equal division of labour.  Bear with me, this won’t hurt too much.  Men, stop jumping up and down and rejoicing, this doesn’t mean what you think it does.

This is the takaway.  There is no equal.  I promise you that if you spend your life trying to make things equal at home you are likely to fail.  Spectacularly.  If you suceed you’re a hell of a lot cleverer than i am and you’re an aberration so please go away.  You can waste a lot of time thinking (often out loud, usually brought up at a completely unrelated moment) that cooking dinner is harder than putting the dishes away.  It achieves absolutely stuff all.  The reality is that in a successful partnership, sometimes one partner will do more.  Sometimes the other partner does more.  It balances out.  Think of it like a seesaw, if you each push up and down, you’re both on the seesaw and sometimes you’re up and sometimes you’re down.  It takes a damn lot of effort to hold the seesaw at even height without one or both falling off.

The way it works in my relationship, and, I suggest might work in yours.  Start by working out expectations - what does clean mean to each of you? What constitutes a weeknight dinner?  Sort out a friendly middle ground.  Then each do what you’re good at/don’t hate too much and outsource whatever is left over.  If you approach it with an open mind it is not that hard to manage.  I promise.  Be flexible and pick up the slack when the other person has a crazy deadline or is sick or is just sick of it.  If you’ve got a good partner they’ll do the same for you and keep you both on the seesaw.

I must clarify that this post is not a review: my knowledge of classical music is sadly limited. I enjoy it and seek out any opportunity to listen to skilled musicians but my technical knowledge is zip.  I’m sure there will be a number of reviews of the performance by people more qualified to comment.

However I was very disappointed to hear that the Federal Government have withdrawn funding (amounting to approximately $2.5m per year) from the Australian National Academy of Music. Without this funding the Academy will not able to develop Australia’s elite young musicians (55 currently enrolled), preparing them for positions in the Australian Chamber Orchestra, State Symphony Orchestras and other orchestras.  The academy also uses this funding to bring in world class musicians from around Australia and overseas to inspire their students.  It is expected that without this funding the Academy will close its doors at the end of 2008.  It appears that Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s education revolution does not extend to music.

Arts Minister Peter Garrett has pulled funding from the Academy at the eleventh hour, claiming that the money could be used more effectively without proposing an alternative institution or means or training classical musicians beyond undergraduate level.  Apparently the Academy is perceived as ‘elitist‘. However one doesn’t need to be elite, or elitist to enjoy the wonderful, world-class music that the Academy’s graduates produce. It would be a shame if more young Australians are forced to head overseas to seek the training and development opportunities that no longer exist in their homeland.

Perhaps Peter Garrett would prefer that we replace the National Academy of Music with the ‘Peter Garrett Interpretive Dance Centre’?  Or perhaps the ‘Peter Garrett Academy of High Volume Political Ranting and Forgetting About All Of Your Convictions When You’re in a Position to Do Something About Them?’

Can we not learn from our friends in the United States that pandering to the lowest common denominator is not the best strategy?

If you have a moment, please sign the petition on the Australian National Academy’s website and show your support for this vital Australian institution.

I encourage you to seek out, support and enjoy the performances of Australia’s classical musicians, the Australian Chamber Orchestra, and in WA for example, the Western Australian Symphony Orchestra.  Even if, like me, you have no knowledge of classical music, go with an open heart, mind and spirit and enjoy what you find there.  Classical music is not the solely the domain of the wealthy or elite (and since when did they become dirty words?).  An A reserve ticket for an ACO’s Perth performance is $30 if you are under the age of 30, or $70 full price.  Discounts are available for season subscribers and in the Entertainment Book.

Yesterday, however, she asked if I could recommend a mop.  At 81 my grandmother has realised that sometimes good enough IS good enough.

I think this is a pretty significant thing.  Some of us have difficulty doing anything at all at less than 100%.  This type of personality often finds themselves working in the law or in the medical field and hopelessly overcommitted.  Everything needs to be better, neater, more efficient, faster.  We need to be high-achieving, career-driven, family-focussed, well-presented, socially-conscious, environmentally-friendly and more besides.  Something has to give.  And it may as well be the housework.

At this point in my life I have more money than time, but not enough of either.  Personally, I’d rather clean the house myself and have more money left over for shoes and pretty handbags.  My sister and her boyfriend however are quite happy to pay a lovely man to come and clean for them.

Now this is my cheat-list.  As reluctant as I am to share, these are the tools and ways my house stays clean.

1.  My husband does not sabotage my efforts to keep the house clean.  More than that (and I know this is shocking) he contributes.  A lot.  No, the division of labour is not equal.  Right now he is doing a lot more than I am because I’m still not 100% mobile.  At other times I do more.  I call it the seesaw of division of labour and I am convinced it is the only way to maintain sanity.  I’ll write more on this later.

2. Kill the clutter.  I have a notorious aversion to ’stuff’.  I just don’t get it.  Why waste money on things you need to dust when you could buy handbags instead? Make your life easier and kill the kitch.  If you really must have it, accept that dusting will take you longer.  Everything has an opportunity cost - balance it in your favour.

3. Buy a quality vacuum.  Back in the olden days when I worked part-time selling electrical appliances to get me through law-school, people would constantly say “I hate vacuuming” and then proceed to buy the heaviest, most cumbersome and cheapest vacuum, garanteed to make the task more horrifically awful and time-consuming than it needs to be.  We bought a Dyson barrel thingamybob 5 years ago.  It does the job with a minimum of fuss and is light enough for me to drag up the stairs.  Yes it was more expensive than a Sanyo but it does a better job and I barely remember how much the difference in price was now.

4.  Clean on a regular basis…daily.  This is the one thing that can really make the biggest difference.  A quick swipe of the shower screen and tiles when you get out of the shower will save you a lot of scrubbing later.  I’m personally fond of Enjo but you can use any reasonable quality cloth/squeegee to clean and dry the bathroom when you’re done.  Likewise give the kitchen a quick clean and clean up dishes after every meal or while you’re waiting for something to cook and you’ll barely ever have to do a deep clean.

5. Protect your clothes with quality laundry appliances.  It wasn’t that long ago that we were washing things twice due to my husband’s horribly inefficient old washing machine.  One cycle in the beast took about 50million years and then we’d often have to run it through all over again.  Frustrating, time-consuming and terrible for the environment.  We replaced the washer with a front-loading Asko with a great delay start feature.  This is my best friend. It washes gently and beautifully and I never have to run it twice. Clothes and powder goes in at night, the machine starts (as near as damnit to silently) while we sleep and finishes first thing in the morning in time for my husband to hang clothes out or transfer to the dryer.  I hate hanging clothes on the line and am grateful for any machine that makes it convenient for my husband to do it for me.

5.  Steam it up.  If you’re living in a pinstriped prison (or worse, you’re also married to someone living in a pinstriped prison) you probably have a hideous towering pile of ironing.  I do.  I have a lovely Laura Star steam station that pumps out lots of lovely steam and irons like a dream in double quick time.  It can also steam suits (while on the hanger) to keep them looking fresh in between dry-cleans and can iron on silk, lace and embroidery.  Yes, more expensive than a regular iron but way more efficient.

6. If you’re renovating or building a new house like everyone else in the known universe, pay attention to floor coverings, wall tiles and try to avoid fussy detailing.  Smooth clean lines are easier to maintain and keep clean.  A little bit of scrimping may cost you big time later when you need to replace it all again.  Buy cheap, buy twice.  That doesn’t mean avoid a bargain - just work out a good balance based on your budget and expected replacement time-frame.

7. Outsmart the oven.  If you don’t have a self-cleaning pyrolytic oven these are my tips to keep your oven clean.  I’m allergic to oven cleaning chemicals and I’ve never used them.  When you’re baking, move the large grill tray from the top of the oven to the bottom.  That way any drips go on the tray, which, with any luck is either oven safe or easy to clean.  Wipe up any spills on the walls or door of the oven with a damp cloth when the oven is still slightly warm. While you’re at it, wipe out the exhaust fan (make sure you get one that is externally vented) or better yet, choose an exhaust fan with dishwasher safe filters.

My house is far from spotless but it is always reasonably clean.  And that is good enough for me.  I’d love to hear your tips or questions, so please post a comment.

Case in point: in an act of complete stupidity last week I fell over and landed entirely (and heavily) on one knee.  It goes without saying that I am incredibly uncoordinated.  (It won’t be a surprise to anyone who knows me that I somehow, unconsciously, protected my capacious handbag/briefcase in the fall which suffered not a scratch.)  As a result of my stupidity I have been forced to become acquainted with a pair of rather boring looking crutches and my footwear is restricted to my rather meagre collection of flat shoes.   My doctor has also told me to do the unthinkable - rest - and stay downstairs for the foreseeable future.  This is all very well but I live in a 2-storey house and my kitchen is upstairs.

The situation is dire indeed.  Not long after I met my husband, he offered to cook me dinner.  When he pulled the bright yellow Old El Paso box out of the pantry I knew that I was in trouble.  Things have moved on from there slightly.  5 years later I can confirm that he is fabulous at tidying up and putting things away.  However not much has improved in his cooking.  Luckily there are no yellow boxes in my pantry.

While as a general rule I am not friends with my freezer (freezer burn is friend to no-one) I do have an emergency stash of pre-prepared and pre-cooked (by me) meals in the freezer, vying for room with the huge top tier of my wedding cake that has been in there for nearly 3 years and counting.

While I was stuck downstairs, lame and miserable, my husband was quite able to defrost some chicken schnitzels that I had previously crumbed and cooked. As per my instructions he smeared the schnitzels with some tomato paste and sprinkled them with fresh rosemary from the garden and some grated cheese.  He chucked them under the grill to warm through and melt the cheese.  They would have been quite perfect if he had put them on the grill tray rather than in a baking tin, but served with some spaghetti tossed in some fresh and lively organic olive oil and lots of cracked pepper and some steamed vegetables, it was a satisfying dinner.  (The baking tin warped in the high heat but was able to be restored to its previous shape.)

To make the schnitzels - slice trimmed chicken breasts in half width-wise. Bash the chicken with a meat mallet or you can use your fists and roll over the chicken with your knuckles. Dust them in well seasoned flour (I often add paprika to this), then swoosh them into an egg wash (about a tablespoon of milk to each large egg) and into a mix of fresh and dried breadcrumbs, finely grated parmesan, herbs or whatever takes your fancy.  Shallow fry in hot oil until golden (don’t overcook or the chicken will be dry and awful), drain well, cool, then wrap individually and pop them into a labeled freezer safe container or bag.  To reheat, warm through in the oven or make parmigana as directed above.  Please don’t use the microwave to do this - you may as well not bother and eat some processed vomit from the freezer section of your local supermarket instead.

Many butchers and delis now stock a great range of pre-prepared and easy to cook meals that are surprisingly budget friendly and tasty when added to some fresh ingredients.  My local butcher sells lovely little handmade meatballs which can be easily browned and then cooked through in a sauce of tinned crushed tomatoes, garlic, onion, fresh herbs, a good glug of wine, a small dash of balsamic vinegar and served over pasta with a generous amount of freshly grated parmesan.  You could even use a good quality basic store-bought pasta sauce or passata instead. A tray of meatballs is less than $6 and will serve 2 very hearty eaters for dinner with leftovers for lunch.

So despite all predictions we’re eating well during my exile from the kitchen and thanks to some generous offers from friends and family that is likely to continue.  Next time you’re preparing dinner think about whether you can double it and save yourself some effort later.  This is good for your budget and health too and can help to maintain normality when everything else is falling apart!

My childhood memories seem to almost invariably revolve around food. In one of the first that comes to mind I’m lying on my back in my grandparents’ backyard, the scent of mint and lemons and grass swirling on the gentle wind.  I’m about 7, tanned brown and skinny, the sun warming my face and the  grass tickles my legs. One hand holds a book, the other is reaching for strawberries just picked from the garden, sweet, ruby red, all different shapes and textures, some firmer and some almost jammy from the sun, dribbling their juices. Time stands still until the strawberries are gone and the spell is broken.

My grandfather has hidden some berries from my ever-reaching grasp and he sneaks them into the house with some herbs and lemons.  A row of sterilised jars, saved from peanut butter and tomato paste, are lined up on the kitchen bench. My grandmother works magic and the jars are filled with spoonfuls of deliciously lumpy, sweet yet tart, rich jam.  I could eat it straight from the spoon and I do.

Later, my grandmother and I make donughts, all hands in as we talk as if we are old friends with 50 years between visits, instead of grandmother and granddaughter who talk to each other every day.  There’s an index card with my grandmother’s handwriting, not perfectly formed slightly forced letters as in my grandfather’s hand, written with a ruler underneath to keep it neat, but letters tumbling over each other in their rush to hit the page.  Rough quantities and shorthand instructions.  It is there in front of us but we work from memory and our senses.

The dough rests and rises, rests and rises, rests and rises.  We chat, slower now, my grandmother has tea in a pretty china cup and I have a tall glass of cadbury drinking chocolate, way too much chocolate powder for the milk, thick bumpy chocolate floats on top.  My mother would be horrified to see the amount of chocolate, my grandmother doesn’t agree with the instructions on the back of the box, adding more and more and when she turns I add another spoonful still.  My grandfather comes in from the garden and laughs at the chocolate on the end of my nose.  He gently teases my grandmother and tells her that I’m going to be spoiled rotten.

The jam is injected into the doughnuts and they land in the hot oil, sizzling and turning golden.  I have to stand back for this part.  My grandmother is scared I will be spattered by the oil and she is wearing a flowered apron.  She scoops them out and drains the doughnuts on thick paper towel, dusts them generously in cinnamon and sugar and they’re left to cool.  The air smells warm and sweet and we can barely wait. My grandfather tells us to be careful.  He suggests that we wait until after dinner to eat them.  My grandmother and I wait till he goes back outside and we bite into the golden fluffy softness, bubbly hot jam squirting out, running like lava down our chins.   The rest are arranged with pride onto delicately patterned china and are shared, warm with the rest of the family and friends.  They taste wonderful but none so perfect as the very first one, stolen and hot with anticipation.

My grandparents’ backyard is not huge but the bounty that comes from it, changing with the seasons, is massive.  My grandfather tends to it with pride, long ears of corn in green silk, cherry tomatoes heavy with sweetness on vines running up plastic ladders, peas that are popped into the mouth straight from their shells, purple garlic, lemons, chillis, the fragrant green of parsley, chives, mint, basil and coriander, strawberries and more besides.

I taste everything, fresh and light.  I love the zing of the chilli and the sweetness of the peas.  At my grandparents’ house it is my job to shell the peas and they are popped straight into my mouth, they never make it into the bowl.  I’m reminded not to be greedy and to save some for everybody else. The peas I’m served at my friends’ houses come to the plate from boxes in the freezer, via the microwave and they are hard and wrinkled and almost grey.  The flavour is muddy, I can’t tell the difference between the taste of the peas and the overcooked limp broccoli that must have died before I was born.   I follow my friend’s lead and move the vegetables around on the plate and drop peas off my fork onto the floor.  Her mother sighs and implores us to eat at least 10 peas each or there’s no icecream.  I wonder how these peas relate to the ones I eat with joy.

It is now 20 years later and my husband and I fight over who gets the last spoonful of the jam my grandmother still makes with love for the whole family. It is spread thickly on the bread we make at home and split to share with my grandparents. My grandfather has Alzheimer’s disease now and time is slipping away, but he never forgets to give me little red netted bags of fragrant fresh purple garlic and handfuls of tomatoes from the garden.

The memories and lessons I learned in my grandmother’s kitchen will stay with me for ever.  We use our sense of smell and touch and taste to cook and tell when something is done.  Our hands are soiled with flour or cocoa or egg wash and the timer has no place here.    I learn how the texture changes as food cooks and how a change in the food’s fragrance will signal that it is ready.  I learn how to cook and eat with my heart and all of my senses, not for sustenance alone but for pleasure.

To my grandparents I owe everything - my love of food and pleasure and the extra few kilos on my hips.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart and the pit of my stomach.

I’m still here but I have been ill and, as my grandmother would say, took to my bed. Please forgive me my frailties! I’m on the mend now and once I’ve caught up with the housework, if there’s anyone still reading, we’ll be back to the scheduled programming.

Topics to cover soon:

• the dreaded school reunion
• cooking by senses, not by numbers
• keeping a house clean when you have 7 minutes not 7 days a week
• something else scrawled in my notebook downstairs that I can’t remember

This is where you come in. No criteria at all. Where in Perth would you recommend? Bear in mind that there isn’t much time for a booking so Jacksons et al (and we went there a few months ago for our wedding anniversary) is out.

Ok, I lied, there is criteria. My husband isn’t fond of French food as a rule (foolish boy) so prefer non-French. I’m allergic to nuts and sesame seeds so sesame and nut-tastic cuisines like Lebanese isn’t ideal either.

So please let me have your recommendations. Thanks in advance. For your reference here is a post detailing some Perth restaurants I don’t like.

This is my speedy, healthy-ish, completely not-Indian, not-curry version.

Mix a couple of tablespoons of good quality curry paste (if you’re in Perth and haven’t already, check out Prime Products) with roughly the same amount of plain yoghurt. Low fat yoghurt works perfectly.

Smear the curry paste mixture over a couple of chicken breasts (beef or lamb works too) and marinate in the fridge for at least 5 minutes. Chargrill until just cooked through (chicken breasts take 4 minutes on my Breville electric chargrill thingamy) and serve with basmati rice, vegetables of your choice and pickle or chutney.

If you cook double the chicken, you can serve it cold the next day wrapped in roti bread with salad, pickle and a bit of yoghurt.

This is my “cheat’s roast” which will be tonight’s dinner.

Smoosh a couple of cloves of chopped or pressed garlic into a couple of beef fillets. Massage some balsamic vinegar (or red wine) into the meat, cover, and put into the fridge to marinate for 15 minutes or more.

raw beef

While that is happening, chop up some veg. Tonight I used some kipfler potatoes, skin on, chopped into rough chips. Sweet potato, carrots, red onions, pumpkin etc would be great too - whatever you have on hand. I tossed the potatoes in a generous amount of extra-virgin olive oil, flaked salt (I used Murray River pink salt but you can use Maldon or whatever takes your fancy), heaps of cracked pepper and some fresh thyme and spread them out onto a baking dish.

chips

I also put some tiny roma tomatoes into a mix of eevo and balsamic vinegar, garlic, thyme, salt and pepper in a small oven dish. You can also use cherry or grape tomatoes. Cut the tomatoes in halves or quarters depending on how much time you have to cook them.

tomatoes (I realised i needed to chop these after the photo)

I had some large flat field mushrooms so I topped those with eevo, salt and pepper and some breadcrumbs and put them onto a tray.

Slide the veg into a hot oven, pour yourself a glass of red and tidy up the kitchen. Once that’s done it will be time to cook the meat. Drain and then massage some oil into the meat. Chuck the beef onto a hot pan and cook to your liking. The balsamic will make the beef rather dark so don’t worry.

Rest the beef while you set the table and pour more wine. Top the tomatoes with some crumbled fetta and pile the potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms and beef onto some warmed plates, maybe with a bit of just wilted spinach. Deglaze the pan and pour on top of everything else.

I didn’t have a lot of time to present this nicely because my husband was about to knock me out to get to dinner. So here it is.

dinner

Please forgive the awful photos, I am just learning. Feedback is more than welcome!

I have a serious case of restaurant performance anxiety. Recommending a restaurant makes me feel like I’m standing naked with only my favourite children to protect me - but what if they don’t? What if the restaurant is so spectacularly awful (and hell, it is Perth so that is hardly a mean feat) that you think I have awful taste too?

I recently was forced to recommend a restaurant to my cousin and his new wife. This was particularly fraught with danger because she asked me to suggest a good Indonesian restaurant - and she is from Java. (From, as in arrived in Perth 3 weeks ago). Luckily, the recommendation produced under duress (Sweet Java in Grosvenor Street Mt Lawley, in case you are wondering - and if you start going there and I can’t get a table I will be very cross) came good. But I can’t handle the stress.

On that basis, I’m going to offer up some non-recommendations. These Perth restaurants are so consistently rubbish in my view that I feel secure enough to say it aloud.

• Sienas
• Sicilian Subiaco
• The Olive Tree
• The Jolly Frog (this one might be scandalous)
• Almost anything claiming to be Mexican
• I can’t believe I forgot it earlier - Pines Grand (that isn’t) Buffet and Carvery

If you disagree, tell me so.

Edit: Thanks to the feedback of the good people of Perth, decent Mexican can be had at The Flying Taco and That Little Mexican Place, both located in Perth’s very own little Mexico. You can also have a good time at Panchos in Vic Park or Zapata’s in Freo with the addition of a cocktail or forty.

The Good Bad and the Ugly is best forgotten, and the Shed is the perfect example for why most eatingwa restaurant reviewers should not have access to a computer.