I am a Chocolate Homing Pigeon





*Serving suggestion - objects might be closer than they appear





In a totally realistic attempt to reach the achievable goal to become totally buff, I have limited my intake of food to a variety of pre-cooked proportion controlled meals, breakfasts of porridge, baked beans or nourishing cereals (yummo), snack foods like popcorn, Indian Bhuja mix (I always want to call it Bhudju!) and fruit.  Life is worth living.



In the same intervening period, the teenager has developed a predilection for concocting experiments, influenced by the internet. The key ingredients for these experiments are pretzels, melted chocolate and peanut butter. At first these experiments looked vaguely like some sort of worthwhile food group. Peanut butter is sandwiched together by two perfectly baked pretzels, dipped in melted chocolate which is left to harden and could passably be presented on a chocolate tray at one of Melbourne's many chocolatiers. But as the experiments develop, they have become streamlined into a kind of TV dinner style porridge. The food group varieties are dispensed with and the peanut butter is let go. Think Goldilocks meets Pimp My Snack.

In my food austerity I have put food away, found containers for foodstuffs previously uncontained.  The only chocolate in the house, which admittedly is my only stumbling block, is a svelte mini-bar of Monsieur Truffe 60% Grenada Dark Chocolate.

But wait! While putting things away I have espied the chocolate melts required for above experiment. I find a suitable jar and make them airtight.  I go about my biz, but find I am strangely drawn to the kitchen. The jar sits on the bench in the kitchen next to the room where I write. It is only on the third trip I become conscious of the chocolate homing pigeon. I find every punctuation mark requires an automated trip to the kitchen. I am unaware of the travel. I simply make a key stroke, comma, my body rises, my feet take five short steps, a side step down into the corridor, a turn, a wingflap to the kitchen bench also incorporates the twisting of the jar lid, the coop has been found. I wander back to the desk, a handful of stolen chocolate buttons, discretely nestled in the palm of my hand. They are scoffed down until the next question mark is employed and the homing begins anew.

Obviously the Teenager has chosen the optimum time to make this scientific pursuit. Our affinity in purpose is uncanny. Can I ban the teenager from such pertinent experimentation in the quest for my own buff-ness? Which one is more selfish? On balance, my life is pretty much defunct, while the Teenager’s is just begun. I will sacrifice my purpose for the greater good. The enquiring mind must be encouraged.



On Turning Seventeen (in collaboration with mentioned Teenager)

This week the usual day to day objects - homework, moulding apricots, to-do notes and the bits and pieces one* never knows what to do with, were removed and the table was scrubbed and made ready for the traditional birthday table. A collection of missives from various Elder stateswomen were at the centre. Letters and cards, wise words and bon mots from Great Aunts, Grandmothers and others brought a sense of worth and belonging to the occasion. The neat, delicate and florid handwritings, next to stamps of Kookaburras and ‘Par Avion’, the carefully chosen words, that confirm connection and celebrate, remind us of our strong culture and history across continents.

These sat next to the heady scented roses from the yard, picked fresh that morning, which sat quietly next to a contented (and yummy) looking chocolate rabbit and other gifts.  The table was completed with a pot of tea and fresh pancakes served with strawberries and cream, lemon and maple syrup. Disconcertingly a birthday card from the Electoral Commission reminded The Teenager to enrol to vote. They’ve got her number already! Another rite of passage, or an alarming intrusion by Big Brother?

The rituals continued. The Numbawan Aunt rang and streamed Stevie Wonder’s Happy Birthday down the phone and we danced around until the dining room was Hotter than July. I recounted the oft** repeated story of how The Teenager was considerate enough to be born in time for me to watch Wheel of Fortune(bring back Burgo).

Technically The Teenager turn 17 at 5.07pm. The thought was relished. There was enough time to watch Sixteen Candles after school one last time before turning 17.  Pancakes were scoffed, a few were wrapped up for lunch and we headed out the door. (Later I was told pancakes, three hash brown and chocolate cakes were eaten for lunch. Not bad birthday fare, really).

Seventeen is so much cooler than sixteen. Sixteen has too many connotations of bad songs written by wrong old men.  Seventeen is not as hung up as sixteen. Sixteen has so much riding on it. So much pressure to be this or that. Sweet. Or not. While there are still dodgy songs Seventeen is more about settling in to your own skin. Seventeen rolls nicely off the tongue, even in German (Siebzehn). Sinuous but not serpentine. It has its own sense of self.

Not to say it’s been a straightforward birth and everything is settled. All this week tongues have raged and minds have clashed. Angst about who should do what and how and when. The pushing and pulling from dependence to independence. Looks quite neat on the page, but off its a ragged-edged wound that is constantly worried and requiring attention.

An Italian restaurant was chosen to reflect The Teenager’s wish for maturity (not the regular, with the favourite spaghetti de la Nonna that has served so well until now) and comes replete with an appearance by Mick Gatto much to the titillation of a self confessed ‘crime-slag’ Aunt. Goodbye childhood. A satiating meal of figs wrapped with prosciutto and gorgonzola, Coniglio, Scallopini, and Prosecco. Followed by an awesomely gooey chocolate cake baked fresh by another Aunt and covered with raspberries and served with ice-cream. Yum.

The birthday festival is rounded off by a chocolate tour of Melbourne’s laneways, graced with another celebrity spotting, some dude from Think You Can Dance. The Teenager, walks on, unfazed. Much the same reaction as elicited by Mick Gatto. See? Seventeen is cool.

Chocolate tour evidence

Birthday festival closing thoughts on being 17 from the source: ‘Whatever. It’s just one step closer to the grave’.  Not original, but much cooler than “OMG I’m totes in love with Edward Cullen!”***

* DISCLAIMER: The Teenager’s grammar, not mine

**DISCLAIMER: My choice of word, not The Teenager’s

***DISCLAIMER: This statement did not and never will pass the lips of The Teenager in question