Have We No Rubbish Bins

I was aghast when I read that a Melbourne school is getting rid of all its bins and asking students to take home their chip packets, juice boxes, and other left over rubbish from their lunches. I started to wonder if this would be the end of the yard duty I once knew. This would take a few ice colds to think through; would yard duty be replaced by random inspections of student’s lunches to check if they’re zero waste.

image source:jmcadam

I went to a Technical School in a working class suburb of Melbourne. My five years as a student at Williamstown Technical School was defined by rules. There were rules for the classroom, rules for the school grounds, and rules for when you went on a school excursion or outing. One of the rules was you couldn’t leave the school premises without permission; so to leave school at lunchtime you needed a lunch pass. Boys living close to school usually had a permanent lunch pass so they could go home for lunch. If there were special circumstances and you needed to go home at lunch time it had to be planned in advance. Your mum would send a note to the headmaster requesting a temporary lunch pass. At random lunchtimes teachers would perform lunch pass checks at the school gates, and patrol the fence perimeter to catch any miscreant who left, or tried to leave, the school grounds without a lunch pass. For some boys the temptation of sixpence worth of chips and a few potato cakes from the nearby fish and chip shop, or an egg and lettuce roll, a vanilla slice, or a bag of mixed lollies from the close by milk bar was overpowering, and they foolishly left the school grounds without a lunch pass. When the transgressors were caught they were offered yard duty or the cuts. As well as copping yard duty, or the cuts, for leaving the school grounds at lunch time without a lunch pass you could also receive yard duty or the cuts for: dropping any paper or food scraps on the school yard, being excessively rowdy or running in the corridors, wagging on sports afternoon, or any behavior a teacher deemed as reckless. Most boys chose a single hander instead of a week of yard duty; but a week of yard duty was always chosen over a double hander, back hander, or six of the best. And a day of yard duty was always chosen over any type of the cuts.

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The cuts was being hit across the hand with a two inch wide, two foot long, leather strap. Yard duty was picking up grease proof paper, paper bags and canteen lunch bags, or anything a lunch had been wrapped in, half eaten sandwiches, sausage rolls, pies, the scattered left overs of food fights, or any rubbish that had been dropped, or thrown, on the ground instead of into a rubbish bin. Yard duty was done during lunchtime. When the first lunch bell rang to signal eating time had officially ended you were free to wander around with your hands in your pockets as boys do, play a game of footie, cricket, British Bulldog or bat tennis, and head off behind the shelter sheds and the far end of the oval to smoke; it was also when the yard duty boys reported to the head yard duty teacher to be assigned an area of the yard. The size and location of a yard duty area seemed to be decided on by the whim of the yard duty teacher, and they were inspected just before the afternoon locker bell rang. If an area was judged as unclean the boys assigned to that area would receive an extra day of yard duty. The rule breakers never saw yard duty as an experience to understand the importance of proper waste disposal or the opportunity to appreciate the effects of littering on the environment; it was seen only as a punishment, not as a chance to participate in the upkeep of the school yard and to develop a sense of school pride.

image source:irishpost.com

My lunch sandwiches were the standard sandwiches of the day; nothing fancy, just school lunch sandwiches that you’d find in every boy’s brown paper lunch bag. Mum made my school lunch sandwiches each morning; she’d butter two slices of white bread and then add the fillings. I always knew what day of the week it was by the sandwich filling; Monday was cold lamb left over from Sunday’s roast, Tuesday was salad, and then jam, tomato, and cheese to finish off the week. Mum never made beetroot sandwiches because she didn’t like the way beetroot juice soaked into the bread. She’d wrap the cut in two sandwich, and a piece of fruit cake, in grease proof paper and put both packets of goodness into a brown paper bag. The paper bag sat on the kitchen table, waiting to be taken to school. Each day when I finished lunch I folded the grease proof paper along it’s creases and put it into the empty paper bag, and then folded the paper bag into a small packet to put into my trouser pocket. We had to bring our lunch paper bag back and wrappings home so mum could reuse them the next day. Mum kept all the brown paper bags from her Friday afternoon shopping at the fruit and grocer’s shop and used them for school lunch bags; every week I had a new brown paper bag to fold and put into my pocket.

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I learnt the hard way that mum knew best when it came to school lunch sandwiches. Whenever she made banana sandwiches she’d butter two slices of bread and wrap them in grease proof paper. I’d take a bread and butter sandwich with an unpeeled banana for lunch; lunch was a mouthful of bread and butter sandwich and a bite of fresh peeled banana. I must have been picked on, and the target of jokes whenever I took banana sandwiches for lunch; I remember coming home from school one day and telling mum that from now on I must have my banana mashed onto the bread.

The long main school corridor was lined with air tight, three tier, metal box lockers. When the locker bell rang the corridor became crowded with students; it was perfect chaos. You’d put your lunch in your locker in the morning when you collected your books for your morning classes; there it stayed until the lunchtime locker bell three hours later. No sandwich was safe inside a small, air tight, metal locker; jam, and tomato sandwiches were turned into a limp bathroom flannel as their juices soaked into the bread, and cheese sandwiches were transformed into cardboard as the bread and cheese dehydrated. My banana mashed onto the bread sandwich was soggy, and moist, and filled with pulpy, brown, mushy banana; my locker was filled with a bouquet of very ripe bananas. That was my last school lunch banana sandwich.

image source:pixabay

The migrant boys had different sandwich than us. At the end of the second world war the Australian government started an ambitious immigration plan that first targeted British citizens, but then expanded to accept immigrants from continental Europe. A migrant hostel was established at the old Williamstown Racecourse; it was a couple of miles further down Kororoit Creek road from Williamstown Tech. Yugoslav, Cypriot, and Maltese boys were bused to school each day. We looked at the migrant sandwiches with askance and never thought of swapping lunches with them; their sandwiches were an assortment of crusty wedges of bread, slabs of pungent smelling cheeses, and strange looking dried sausages. Today those cured meats, artisan breads and cheeses are the foundation of gourmet sandwiches.

Most of my full time working life in Australia was spent with the Victorian Education Department as a Mathematics and Science teacher. I started teaching in the early seventies and was at at three different inner suburban Technical Schools. It was the seventies so I thought of myself more as a conduit than a teacher. I was in the classroom to create an aesthetic sensitivity for scientific discovery and to share the beauty, and logic, of mathematics with preadolescence boys. I soon learnt that being a conduit was more than creating a circle of learning and curiosity; it also meant student supervision. Because students had to be supervised during recess and lunch, teachers were assigned yard duty responsibilities. As a teacher at Williamstown Technical School I walked the same corridors, wrote on the same blackboards as Mr Baldwin did, and enlightened young boys in the same rooms I sat in as a student. And as a yard duty teacher I walked the same area where I ate a mouthful of bread and butter sandwich with a bite of fresh peeled banana.

image source:victoriancollections.net.au

As a teacher I loathed yard duty with the same intensity I did as a student. I’d wander out of the staff room still with a cup of tea in hand five or more minutes after the first lunch bell so I’d reach the school yard after the wrongdoers had been assigned their area to pick up the left over scraps from food fights, pieces of grease proof paper, shreds of paper and canteen lunch bags, half eaten sandwiches, and remnants of sausage rolls and pies. I knew to avoid the back of the shelter sheds because the smokers still smoked there; discipline procedures were still in place for students caught smoking and I would’ve had to assign a week of yard duty or a couple of double handers to the smokers. I loitered in front of the trade rooms, and strolled the area where the boys had to sit to eat their lunches. Not meany students stayed in the lunch area after the first lunch belt so there was very little chance of a fight, or any other questionable behavior needing a discipline punishment starting. Sometimes I wandered over and watched the migrant boys play soccer.

And now you’ll need to excuse me. Tomorrow is rubbish day and I need to start sorting the polystyrene green, blue, yellow, red, and grey bins in the basement to prepare my rubbish for collection. And I need to call the Solid Waste Helpline to check if it’s the collection day for the green and blue, the red and blue, the red and yellow, the blue and grey, the red and blue, or the blue and yellow bins.


Laverton College P-12 Yard Duty And Supervision Policy

Remember School Lunches? 1974 Tuckshop Menu Shows Classic Food We Used To Love

Photos Give Insight Into Life In Australia’s Migrant Hostels


Everything You See I Owe To Fairy Bread

My second last visit to my health provider caused a nostalgic spell of thinking about doctor visits of my childhood. These back to the future memories were caused by the sign that greeted you as you stepped out of the lift. After I finished my conversation, and check in with the Check You In Human I looked back at the sign; even though it was a standard 21st Century white, corrugated cardboard on a stand sign it invoked nostalgia and longing. I stared blankly at the Self Service Check In sign and thought back to when family doctors made house calls. I wonder if I’ll think back to my first Self Service Check In experience with the same nostalgia.

image source:jmcadam

When dad was quarantined to the house and the bed in the front room with hepatitis, our family doctor came to the house to see him a couple of times a week. Mum would let him in through the front door. I remember him coming into the passage carrying his Gladstone doctor’s bag. The first thing he did when he got into the front room was put his Gladstone bag on the bed next to dad. He seemed to know where everything in the bag was without looking; he’d pull out his stethoscope, a thermometer, a metal tongue depressor, and a torch to shine down dad’s throat.

When dad was first diagnosed with hepatitis mum took my brother and I down to the doctors clinic to get vaccinated. The clinic was a house in Electra Street, just down from Ferguson Street. The waiting room was one of the front rooms, and the doctor’s room was another room in the house. There wasn’t a Self Service Check In computer in sight; just the lady to tell you to take a seat and that the doctor will be with you shortly We all reacted to the vaccine, and in a couple of days our necks, backs, and armpits were dotted with a collection of weeping and suppurating, boils and carbuncles. Mum changed our puss stained bandages once a day, and drained the boils and carbuncles by gently squeezing around the inflamed puss filled bumps; she’d give us a couple of Aspro’s so we’d get a good nights sleep.

image source:pixabay

Mum was our home nurse when I came home from the Williamstown Hospital after having my tonsils out. She put a spoon in a glass, and put her nurse’s call system on a small table beside my bed. Whenever I needed anything I’d rattle the spoon against the side of the glass. Because of my inflamed tender throat she fed me different flavours of Cottees jellies throughout the day. It seemed that whenever I rattled the spoon a bowl of jiggling jelly would appear; without knowing it I started behaving like one of Skinner’s rats. The jelly kept appearing until the doctor, on what was a fateful house visit, declared that my throat was sufficiently healed and I could swallow solid foods.

Cottees jelly was always something special in our childhood; if it wasn’t nursing you back to good health then it was the jewel in the crown on a birthday party food table. If you stripped away the glitter and excitement of a birthday party what really mattered was the food on the table; as youngsters we judged the success of a party by the food. The must have foods were bowls of cut up lime or orange jelly, plates of chocolate crackles and fairy bread, and a couple of jugs of Kia-Ora cordial.

image source:mashable.com

If you’re fortunate enough to have grown up in Australia, then you’re no stranger to fairy bread; deliciousness disguised as slices of white bread covered with butter and smothered with hundreds and thousands, and cut into two equal triangles. If you’re talking fair dinkum fairy bread then forget about the artisan sourdough bread and cultured Danish butter, and start thinking slices of Tip Top smeared with Western Star butter, and sprinkled with hundreds and thousands.

Fairy Bread
Servings: 4
Prep time: 10 minutes
Total time: 10 minutes
8 slices white bread
1 packet Western Star butter
1 packet of hundreds and thousands; known in the US as sprinkles
Empty the packet of hundreds and thousands onto a plate
Lay out the 8 bread slices and trim crusts if desired. I prefer to leave the crust on the bread so I can pick it up holding the crust.
Lavishly spread each slice of bread all the way to the crusts with butter. Use 25 percent more butter than you think is enough to ensure that the hundreds and thousands will stick to the butter
Cover bread with hundreds and thousands by placing each slice butter side down into plate of hundreds and thousands. Push gently on top of bread
Remove bread from plate and cut diagonally into two equal triangular halves

I suppose smearing butter on a slice of white bread and covering it with tiny coloured pieces of sugar is outdated and unfashionable in today’s world that demands you need to create a nutritional home so the little ones will develop a positive relationship with healthy food; it’s all about loading up the table with kohlrabi salads, vegetables cut into fun shapes, fruit sticks, and carafes of kale smoothies.

image source:jmcadam

There’s no surer sign you’ve left your childhood behind than when the fairy bread, and chocolate crackles, disappear from the birthday food table; adolescence is announced by a table laden with party pies, sausage rolls, cocktail frankfurts, and bowls of tomato sauce. You’re initiated into your teenage years by your best mate whispering in your ear; there’s Little Boys on the table. Cocktail frankfurts are a shorter version of a saveloy; hence the name Little Boys. And from that time on a large bowl of Little Boys, and a bottle of tomato sauce, will be on every one of your Aussie party food tables. It’s a well known fact that beautifully presented food looks appetising and appealing. Little Boys should never be served with a split skin. Little Boys should only be warmed; they should never be cooked. Little Boys should be put in a saucepan of cold water straight from the fridge, heated slowly on a stove, and as soon as they boil taken off the heat.

I don’t know an Aussie who doesn’t worship and respect the little saveloy. Fair suck of the saveloy is a commonly used phrase Down Under; often shortened to fair suck of the sav. Kevin Rudd, a former Australian Prime Minister is famous for using his own variant of the phrase: “Fair shake of the sauce bottle mate, if you were to compare what this government has done in terms of the promotion of women of talent and ability compared with our predecessors, it’s chalk and cheese: fair shake of the sauce bottle mate”

image source:skmcadam

Aussies use fair suck of the sav in everyday speech. It’s an all encompassing phrase that’s used to express awe, wonder, exasperation, or frustration. It can also be used to convey disbelief.

Me: G’day; pie and sauce thanks mate
Cake shop Assistant: What type? Steak and Curry, Caramelised Pork and Pepper, or a Chicken and Asparagus.
Me: A meat pie; a pie filled with minced meat and gravy
Cake shop Assistant: Sure you wouldn’t like to try one of our gourmet pies? A Thai vegetable curry, or a vegan Chili Con Carne
Me: I’ll have meat pie thanks mate; an Adams or a Four’n Twenty
Cake shop Assistant: That’ll be twelve dollars mate
Me: Fair suck of the sav mate! I’m not buying a carton of them

The shop window should should have given me a clue as to what to expect; I should have asked the hipster Cake Shop Assistant with the big glasses and a bushranger beard if the gourmet pies were served in a mason jar and a glass of Kombucha tea.

image source:jmcadam

I remember Mum making meat pies. She had a set of six, small oval metal pie tins that she used to make her meat pies. She’d cut a up pound of gravy beef from the butcher into extra small pieces, dredge them in flour, brown them, and then simmer the browned pieces with some chopped onion and water. Mum lined the small pans with her home made pie crust; she’d spoon in the meat mixture and seal the top crust by crimping it with her fingers. And into the oven the meat pies went. If mum was making her meat pies today you’d probably hear in a cackling singing voice from the kitchen

It’s nothing but crusting!
Here drink this, you’ll need it.
The worst pies in London
And no wonder with the price of meat
What it is
When you get it.
Never thought I’d live to see the day.
Men’d think it was a treat findin’ poor animals
What are dyin’ in the street.
Mrs. Mooney has a pie shop.
Does a business, but I notice something weird.
Lately, all her neighbours cats have disappeared.

I never had the heart to tell mum that her pies never came close to an Adam’s or Four’n Twenty; if I’d had to choose I would have been up the street in a flash to Mr’s Worms Milk Bar in Melbourne road for a Herbert Adam’s.

I don’t recall the exact time mum got her Sunbeam electric fry pan. It ended up spending most of it’s life on the kitchen table. It cooked sausages and rissoles for our breakfasts, and grilled lamb cutlets and chops for our tea. The Sunbeam sat triumph on the kitchen table and reheated mum’s home made meat pies and sausage rolls. And it heated water to carefully warm cocktail frankfurts; and we never ate a cocktail frankfurt with a split skin again.

image source:jmcadam

You’ll have to excuse me. I need to take the lamingtons out of the fridge and coat them with chocolate icing. But maybe I should make Fairy Lamingtons for my little afternoon soiree. Instead of sprinkling the lamingtons with coconut I’ll use hundreds and thousands; I should also have a jug of Pimm’s No 1 mixed with with lemonade and chopped strawberries, a few slices of orange, a mint leave, slices of cucumber, and loads of ice.


What is Fairy Bread?

18 Best Meat Pies in Melbourne

10 frankfurt recipes for your next party | Australia’s Best Recipes

Sometimes Alternatives Choose Themselves

I was sitting alone in the large empty dining room with a solitary fried testicle and was trying to put on my happy smile. A weekend earlier was the 26th annual Round The Bend Steakhouse Testicle Festival and the room was packed wall to wall with farmers, mechanics, attorneys, and accountants; weekend bikers in studded leather jackets and red bandannas were spilling outside into the just set up beer garden. It’s claimed that about twenty two hundred pounds of testicles are shipped in from around the country for the festival. Years ago there were beef, pork, lamb, and turkey testicles to feast on; all you get now are thinly sliced, breaded, deep fried bull testicles. The testicles come ten or twelve on a paper tray with a pickle and a little dipping sauce. I had decided to spend a little time at the Round the Bend Steakhouse’s annual testicle festival and so I stood at the testicle fork in the road.

image source:jmcadam

The longer I sat alone in the large empty dining room the more I thought about the Testicle Festival. I could faintly hear the band playing, taste the ice cold beers, and feel the gristle of a testicle between my teeth. As I waited for the Ranch Dressing, so I could dip my battered fried testicle, I thought about some of the other forks in the road I could have taken and the two parallel lives I would have had.

Several years ago I spent a little time on holidays in the Finger Lakes region of central New York state; it’s known as Finger Lakes because of the eleven lakes running parallel to each other. According to Native American legend the lakes were formed when the great Spirit laid his hands on the land to bless it; his fingers left imprints that then filled with water. Most people who visit the area marvel at the lush vineyards and small wineries, the scenic rolling hills, and the natural beauty of Watkins Glen State Park; I was more in awe hearing about the area’s salt production and the salt refining process. But then I became aware of the The Watkins Glen International raceway; it’s annual calendar includes NASCAR, an Indy Racing Series, and Vintage Cups. Visitors to The Glen can drive their own cars for three laps around this storied road course. And for me that far surpasses the history of salt mining and refining; I was In like Flynn. My money, voice, and hand were shaking as I asked for tomorrow’s ticket; the reply came unexpected.

image source:jmcadam

As I laboured two miles climbing up the rock steps and trudging over the wet stones of Watkins Glen State Park Gorge Trail, I thought of what could have been. The trail snakes over, under, and past 19 waterfalls; you climb 800 plus stone steps. The rental car sat low to the ground and it’s wheel base was wide for stability; it sat like an animal waiting to run. Taking it to the track was the right thing to do. As I pressed down on the accelerator the motor went from purring to revving. It was engineered to be powerful and untamed. I started off slowly at the bottom of the trail and the stone stairs were an easy climb. The trail meandered past creeks and through waterfalls, and I was walking with a rhythmic free style motion. Before long my shirt was damp with sweat and clinging to my back, and there was a sting to my eyes; the stone path was damp with the spray of the water cascading over the cliffs. My legs were now moving with a slow robotic precision, and the muscles that once worked so smoothly were now struggling to hold my weight. It hugged the turns on the track as if it’s wheels where glued down, and I felt my face being tugged backward by the g-force. It was all about the journey, the feel, the momentum.

image source:jmcadam

In the early seventies when I set off searching for inspiration and idealism in the ordinary I used London as my starting point. During that first long hot London summer I worked as a life guard at an outdoor swimming pool; Brockwell Lido was nestled in the corner of south London’s Brockwell Park. I was one of five lads hired as life guards. Peter the university student, and John the part time Herne Hill criminal were the experienced life guards returning from last year; Mick the Irishman, sympathetic to the troubles and a supporter of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, and the young London lad whose name I can’t remember and I, were the newbies. During the long hot summer we plucked quite a few little ones from the shallow three foot end of the pool, and dragged a few teenagers and adults from the deep end after they’d jumped off the high diving board, and discovered they couldn’t swim.

As the end of summer approached I started to wonder if it was time to wander through Europe, or if I needed to ferret out some other short term work in London. John the part time Herne Hill criminal helped with my decision; he asked if I wanted to join him, and some other lads who were training and practising to become a wrestling troupe to tour small European towns. The first stop of the tour was Italy.

image source:pixabay

The room could have been in any small Italian town. It was crowded with loud wrestling fans and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. I took a deep breath; all I could taste was the salt from sweat. My heart was pounding as I approached the centre of the ring, and my opponent. The crowd grew louder as we came together. He stood as a colossus but I knew he was my equal; we had practised the story line and plot, and the moves and holds, so many times in the South London make shift gym. A few months earlier I decided on the type of wrestler I would become; I knew that no one wanted a baby face emotionally complex character; I became the mischievous Flying Kangaroo. My finisher was the flying drop kick followed up with an elbow drop from the top rope; I’d enter the ring wrapped in an Australian kangaroo design beach towel and wearing a pair of Australian boardies. I’d resort to every trick in the book to gain an advantage. Most of the matches were scripted so before I applied the finisher I’d deliver a scoop slam, and an inverted atomic drop, and then look out into the screaming faces. I was confused when I woke. I looked out through the frosted back windows of the Ford Anglia panel van and saw the soft, out of focus, German country side.

In the late sixties and early seventies Khatmandu was an untouched city in the Nepalese Himalayas. It promised enlightenment and cheap plentiful drugs. Durbar Square, Freak Street, and the narrow roads of old Kathmandu became the haven for the back packing travellers of the seventies. In the mid to late seventies Khatmandu was transforming from a hippie mecca to a tourist destination; express tourist coaches with reclining seats were beginning to replace public buses, and the Khatmandu international airport terminal was the new bus station. It was a long bus ride across the Terai plains from Darjeeling to Kathmandu. The plains are nestled against the foothills of the Himalayas so the 20 plus hours bus journey is mostly over flat fertile land. The bus was slow, noisy, crowded, and uncomfortable; most males preferred to ride on the roof with the luggage. Toilet and food breaks seemed to be unplanned; sometimes they happened when the bus stopped in a town. And food could be bought when a food seller jumped on and off the bus. I think I remember the bus climbing the mountain road before it began it’s descent into Khatmandu; it lurched and swayed around sharp bends, passed trucks and other buses when there was no room to pass, and balanced itself on the edge of the road to avoid the sharp drop offs. The ride reminded me of Luna Park’s scenic railway.

image source:anon

Then came the time to leave Khatmandu. I walked the worn paving slabs of Freak Street, sat casually in Temple Square smoking local cigarettes, and stared at the home of the little goddess; all the time pondering how to leave Khatmandu. Would a lurching, swaying ride in a crowded bus wandering close to a drop off of hundreds of feet on a pot holed gravel road, be better than riding in a Nepal Airlines, or Air India plane, being buffeted by turbulence and up drafts as it tries to fly over the high peaks and mountains of the Himalayas. The pilot took the plane to the end of the runway and swung it around. The engines were racing and the plane began to shudder, and strain against the brakes; I wondered how much stress could the engines handle before they’d break off their joints. The pilot released the brakes and the plane bounced down the runway. As soon as we were in the air the plane headed for the mountains on the side of the valley. A twisting road clung to the mountain side, and a colourful small bus was bouncing recklessly close to the edge of the road and the drop off into the valley below.

If you’ll excuse me. I think it’s time to open the fridge door and bide my time waiting until a cold one chooses me; but then again I could choose the beer. That would be an interesting premise for a film. The juxtaposition and adjacency of what happens when an everyday occurrence, or decision, is split in two and we see it both ways.


The Very Strange Life Of Nepal’s Child Goddess

Racing: Tourism Information for Watkins Glen and Schuyler County

Testicle Festival: Round the Bend Steakhouse

Who Wants To Get Sick And Go To Hospital

A few weeks back I was pushing the lawn mower for the first time this summer around the back yard. The backyard has two areas; the back section is separated from the lower front area by a raked, sloping incline. The late spring morning had ushered in bright sunshine and blue skies, and grass moist and damp with condensation. I was wearing my thongs, as I’m known to do through spring, summer, and autumn; the rubber sole footwear with a strip of rubber anchored in a Y formation at three places to the sole. In the US and Europe they’re called flip flops, but Australians insist on calling them thongs; they’re as much a part of everyday life to an Aussie as Vegemite, meat pies, and beetroot. And you’re not a true blue Aussie unless you’ve put your foot on the back of your mate’s thong when they’re walking in front of you.

image source:jmcadam

I knew the raked, sloping incline was going to be a test of motor mower handling, balance, and precision thong placement. I angled the mower down the incline, and pulled back on the handle with both hands in an attempt to have some control over the careening, belching, machine; with every step my thongs slid and slipped on the moist grass of the incline. My legs twisted and contorted at the knees as I pulled and pushed the mower across, and down the incline; and then I was sitting on a leg on the moist incline. My foot had slid out of it’s thong, and my leg had arched up and under and behind me. I sat on my knee wondering if a needed a stretcher; or maybe I could limp off over the boundary without any help. I decided that when the trainers came out with a wet towel to wipe my face down, and said a few encouraging words to me, I’d just get up and pretend I’m OK. The longer I sat there the more I started to think about how I ended up sitting on my leg; did I come down the wrong way on my knee after taking a specky, or did my foot really slip out of it’s thong. I thought I heard the roar of the crowd; I shook off the ache in my knee, grabbed the mower and tackled what was left of the long grass on the moist, raked, sloping incline.

image source:thesaturdaypaper.com.au

Over the next few days I found it painful to put any type of pressure on my knee and so I started to wear a brace; the ache didn’t subside. I gave into the knee discomfort and contacted my health provider’s orthopaedic clinic; the earliest they could schedule an appointment was in six weeks. I already had a previously scheduled visit with my doctor so I thought he could check out my knee for any serious damage. Maybe the remedy the footie trainers used in the seventies had some merit; wrap it in a wet towel and pretend it’s OK.

My general doctor practices at a teaching hospital so whenever I have an appointment a medical student gets to practice their interview and basic examination skills with me. The examination room has a small institutional desk in one corner with a computer monitor and keyboard on it; two uncomfortable plastic chairs sit alongside the desk. In another corner there’s an examination table covered with a white paper sheet. It has a fold out step at one end that becomes a foot rest when the doctor feels around your ankles. The room could be taken straight from a hospital examination room design catalogue. Every time I’m left alone in the examination room waiting for a light knock on the door I think back to my time in Springfield Illinois.

image source:jmcadam

After arriving in the US, and living just short of five years in Lincoln and Omaha, Nebraska, I moved to Springfield, Illinois. I thought Springfield was going to be similar to Lincoln; both being state capitals and college towns. Springfield was smaller than Lincoln, and had none of the attributes of a college town; but it have a lot of Lincoln in it. It was hard to walk two minutes without reading something about, or seeing somewhere Abe Lincoln had been.

Springfield didn’t offer many opportunities for an Instructional Designer. I suppose I could have waited tables at the nearby Big Boy restaurant, or been a shelf stocker at the neighbourhood grocery and deli. But I was an Instructional Designer, committed to advancing the latest strategies for infusing technology into the redesign and delivery of learning. It’s said that one person alone can’t make a difference, and that you should accept the course you’re on; but I believed in America being the land of opportunity, where everyone can go and do anything, be anything, and make any dreams come true. I would come to be the best Instructional Designer in Springfield, Illinois. Within a few months I was collecting food stamps and unemployment benefits. If only Abe Lincoln had decided on a career in Instructional Design instead of law.

I think one of the best ways to introduce yourself to a new place is to join a community club, a special interest group, or and an organisation; it introduces you to a communities resources and surrounds you with persons with shared interests.

image source:jmcadam

I auditioned for an upcoming production at the Springfield Community Theatre and was offered a role; the start of my involvement in the Springfield theatre scene. Before long an acquaintance from the theatre asked if I was interested in part time work. Was this the end of the empty endless days of searching for an Instructional Designer position, and a goodbye to the anguish of collecting food stamps? And so I became a patient simulator.

The University of Illinois had a residency program at one of Springfield’s hospitals. Back then an innovative component of the program was first and final year medical students having proctored interviews and examinations with simulated patients. You became a patient by role playing scenarios based on actual patient cases. You were given a medical history, personality, emotional temperament, response patterns during interviews and examinations, and symptoms for a condition such as depression, a common cold, appendix about to burst, anxiety, irritability. The students were given the results from test that could include X Rays, blood tests, or Diabetes screening. A flair for improvisational acting was a plus.

image source:medicaldaily.com

Most of my simulations were considered as moderately invasive; and included looking into my eyes, ear, nose, and throat, taking my blood pressure and pulse, listening with a stethoscope to my heart and lungs, testing reflexes, and an abdomen examination. Simulations that included a breast exam, pelvic exam, or a rectal exam were considered invasive and if you volunteered for these you were handsomely rewarded. Some might say that being a patient simulator is only a part time acting job. But an Instructional Designer knows simulations as instructional scenarios; a learner is placed in a world defined by a teacher, and the experience is a student centred constructivist experiential learning activity. I was a patient simulator Instructional Designer. Food stamps were becoming a fading memory.

I’d finished reading Good Housekeeping and was still waiting in the design catalogue hospital examination room. My doctor, instead of a medical student, walked in from the light knock on the door; summer had given the students a breather from learning. He dutifully reviewed my past colonoscopy results, and reminded me of my upcoming colonoscopy appointment. I gestured to my knee and recounted the saga of the mower. He pushed and poked at my knee, suggested a possible sprained ligament or tendon, and ordered an X Ray and appointment with the orthopaedic clinic. Maybe the remedy the footie trainers used in the seventies had some merit; wrap it in a wet towel and pretend it’s OK.

image source:jmcadam

When I went to check in for my knee X-Ray I was stopped dead in my tracks by the sign between me and the check in desk; “Self Service Check In” with an arrow pointing to three computers set up on a table to the side, and away from the check you in humans. I waited for a check you in human.

Me: (with a smile on my voice) G’day, certainly a brilliant decision to have self service check in at an orthopaedic clinic; I would have thought a lot of people may have sprained and broken wrists and limited mobility of their arms.
Check You In Human: Good morning; name?
Me: (with an insightful tone) Sort of like getting your boarding pass at the airport; must save a lot of queuing
Check You In Human: And you’re here to see Doctor?
Me: (with a knowing what’s what inflection)There’s been a lot of interest lately in autonomous intelligent control and robotic technology
Check You In Human: Are you still at the same address?
Me: (with a sense of wonder) Every time I come for an appointment there’s something new; technology is transforming the health care experience. Before you know it we’ll be getting digital health care coupons with our self service check in
Check You In Human: And you still have the same health care plans?
Me: (in an approving manner) Sometimes I get really annoyed standing in queues; I think I’ll use self check in for my next colonoscopy procedure.
Check You In Human: If you would just take a seat; we’ll call you soon

With the way things are going the next time I go for my twice a year check up I’ll probably check in at a photo collection and signature capture kiosk and then have to use an interactive navigation app to get step by step directions to my assigned examination room. I wonder if I should take my doctor’s visit back to a human experience and roll play a patient with a psychedelic optimism about new medical technologies when the medical student comes into the room to practice their interview and basic examination skills.

Medical Student: And how are we feeling today?
Me:(in a low and articulate voice) Computer cybernetics, are going to take us to interesting places and may work the way psychedelics do without the idea of substance. And I think I’ve swallowed a small brass key, a bottle cap, a pipe screen, and a mascara brush


Jerry Garcia – Autopsy

Standardized Patient Program – Johns Hopkins Medicine

What You Need to Know About Knee Sprain Injuries

David Is Just Another Name For John

A few days ago I went online shopping; but it wasn’t my first time buying something online. All of my previous purchases have been from Amazon. I don’t really think buying something from a multinational technology company that focuses on cloud computing, digital streaming, artificial intelligence, and e-commerce fits my style of shopping. I like shopping in a shop that specialises in one type of anything; or a department store that has a number of shops spread throughout it’s building. Myer Melbourne is an iconic name in Australian retail; it’s Australia’s largest department store. Myer’s eight storey Art Deco building in Melbourne’s Bourke Street Mall is the company’s national flagship store. I remember my first Myer experiences as a young boy. When mum went into town with nanna during the school holidays she’d take me along; she’d go into town to make a payment on her Myer lay-by, or for cooking demonstrations in the Gas and Fuel Company’s presentation kitchen.

image source:slv.vic.gov.au

As a young boy I thought the Myer store was luxurious and opulent; I was in awe of the modern spaces that celebrated what we all might have some day. Mum and nanna window shopped in all of the departments on their way to the lay-by counter; I had trouble keeping up with them as they shuttled between each floor in the Myer lifts. Shoppers weren’t allowed to work the lifts. Myer had smartly dressed lift operators in each lift who controlled everything the lift did; from opening and closing the doors, the direction and speed of the lift, and how many people were allowed in the lift. They’d open and close the doors by pushing buttons, and control the speed of the lift by pulling or pushing levers, or turning a metal wheel.

As the lift operator closed the lift doors you always heard

Going Up
Stand Clear Of The Doors Please
Stopping at One: Ladies fashions, underwear, shoes and accessories
Going Up
Stand Clear Of The Doors Please
Stopping at Two: Men’s suites, hats, scarves and gloves, shirts and underwear
Next Lift Please
Going Up
Stand Clear Of The Doors Please
Stopping at Three: Cafeteria, and ladies lounge
Going Up
Stand Clear Of The Doors Please
Stopping at Four: Children’s toys, and lay by

The lift operators wore name tags; most of the male operators were called Alfred, and if you weren’t an Alfred you were a Maurice. The Myer lift operators stood in the corner of their lift.

Some of the lifts in other department stores had a small seat in the corner in front of the operators panel of buttons; it folded down and out from the wall. A lift operators work day was spent sitting on a small padded seat, pushing buttons and turning a metal wheel; I suppose it’s not much different from today’s IT workers who sit on a padded chair, tapping on a keyboard and clicking on a mouse.

image source:pinterest

After mum paid a few shillings off her lay-by we’d take the lift to the Myer cafeteria so mum and nanna could rest up over a cup of tea and scones; I’d get a Tarax Pineapple or Cottee’s Passiona.

I don’t think anybody goes to Amazon to spend an afternoon of leisurely window shopping, or to rest up over a cup of tea and scones. I find Amazon somewhat tedious for browsing and relaxed shopping. It’s said that Amazon US has over 160 million products alone in it’s Clothing, Shoes & Jewellery category, 87 million items in Home & Kitchen, and 62 million in Books. If you’re buying at Amazon you’d better know the name of what you want to be able to search it out and add it to your cart. I’ve stopped buying at Amazon and started shopping at online department stores, and online speciality shops. The other day I went online shopping for a cordless weed eater at the website of a big box hardware shop. In the The Land Down Under a whacker is a term for an idiot; someone who’s a fair dinkum dill, so Australians call grass trimming machines weed eaters, whipper snippers, or string trimmers. As I right clicked through the different brands of wackers I’d click on one of the different close up images of a wacker area; and it became a little off putting. I started to experience this strange feeling, and imagined I was looking at a wacker’s private parts. I felt more comfortable using the 360 view.

image source:jmcadam

I clicked an eater into my virtual trolley, and moused my way to the online checkout. I choose to have the eater delivered to the near by, big box warehouse site for pick up. I clicked on order, and a few day later headed to the big box warehouse to pick up my cordless weed eater.

Me: G’day mate
Pickup Associate: May I help you?
Me: (Knowing better not to call it an eater, trimmer, or snipper) I’ve come to pick up my wacker
Pickup Associate: Did you order it online or in the store
Me: (Thinking to myself; why would that make a difference) Online
Pickup Associate: Do you have an order number?
Me: No worries; it’s somewhere in my phone
Pickup Associate: Phone number
Me: (Showing associate the smart phone screen) No order number
Pickup Associate: (Staring into screen and tapping at keyboard) Just be a moment the computers locked up
Me: (In a serious tone) Wouldn’t want to use them for online shopping would you?
Pickup Associate: (Taking smart phone and entering order number) Are you John McAdam; do you have ID?
Me: Yep, that’s me
Pickup Associate: (Looking intently at my drivers licence) Who’s David, the order says John McAdam
Me: No worries; it’s me. I’m David John McAdam but I’m called John. If you look at the picture it’s me
Pickup Associate: I don’t go by the picture I only go by a name
Me: (Thinking to myself; what a whacker) We’re the same person

It’s difficult to understand a whacker; sometimes their word and actions are contradictions. The Pickup Associate disappeared into the row of pickup shelves, and in no time reappeared carrying my weed eater. I signed the order received paperwork as J McAdam.

image source:jmcadam

My name is David John McAdam and I’m called by my second Christian name John. It’s said that mum wanted to call me John but her mum, my nanna, wanted to call me David. Mum got her way and so did nanna; which has led to confusion throughout my life. It took me until adulthood to grow into John as my name. Before starting school I was always John; and then I became David for half of the day. I was a meek and shy young boy throughout Primary and Secondary school, so when the teachers called me David I never spoke up to tell them the story of my name. I was known to them by my second Christian name John; mum’s name for me. But in the play ground and school yard all my friends, and other classmates, called me John. It wasn’t so bad in Secondary School because most teachers just called you by your last name; so I was McAdam. I think it was probably around Fourth or Fifth Form; I was sixteen or seventeen, when I summoned the courage to tell the teachers that I was called by my second Christian name John. Starting at Footscray Technical College was a new beginning; the Chemistry department was one of the smallest at the college and so there were only a handful of full time chemistry teachers. There were only twenty plus other students in my class and so by the first week of class everybody knew the story of my name. And so I started to grow into being John.

image source:jmcadam

Googling John McAdam gives an infinite number of listings for John Loudon McAdam; the father of the modern road. John was a Scottish civil engineer and road-builder who was the inventor of the macadam road surface; if only I was that John McAdam. Searching with the query John McAdam Omaha rewards you with: “in the past, John has also been known as D J Mcadam, David J Mcadam, David John Mcadam, John D Adams and John D McAdam”. Since being in the US I’ve tried to explain the story of my name to the various national and state agencies, banks, business, organisation, institution, shops, companies, and other entities that I’ve needed to interact with; obliviously that hasn’t eliminated the confusion of what I am called. Whenever someone calls me any of the above names my first response back is: “I’m called by my second Christain name John”. It’s not easy growing into a name..

image source:jmcadam

Some scientists have reasoned that there’s a good chance you look like your name; that you somehow grow into the facial features society associates with a name. And other research suggests that people link certain expectations to particular names; so your first name will shape how people perceive your age, personality, and how good you are at your job. When I was David I’m sure people saw me as sweet and charming; and I probably would have grown up to be be seen as somewhat similar to David Bowie. And now that I’m John people most likely see me as interesting, clever and funny; it’s interesting that the name John has been identified as the number one of the top 10 names for male geniuses.

When I think back, I start to understand the Pickup Associate whacker’s actions; as they looked searchingly into my face they didn’t see a David but instead saw a John.

I recently read that the most popular 2019 names for baby girls are Isla, Olivia, Posie, and Aurora; and for boys they’re Milo, Jasper, Atticus, and Theodore. I wonder how people will perceive them when they become adults; and what they will become when they grow up. I think it’s a sure bet that anyone named Atticus will have a round face, and will be an outstanding lift operator.


The History Of Ecommerce: How Did It All Begin?

This Is Why We Have Middle Names in the First Place

Inside Every Grownup There’s A Monitor Trying To Get Out

There are two supermarkets, each about the same distance from my house. I didn’t consciously choose one of them to be my go-to grocery shop. It’s not that I’ll never set foot in the other shop. Whenever I have a craving for a ham and salad roll for lunch, it’s off to the other shop because I prefer the brand of cold cuts and lunch meats in their delicatessen. But I’ll leave only with the ham, and go to my grocery shop for the rest of the ham salad roll fixings; the lettuce, tomatoes, beetroot, cucumber, and grated carrot. Whenever I stand in front of the deli counter trying to decide between the Black Forest, Maple Glazed, Boneless Smoked, or Smoked Virginia ham I think back to buying lunch at Williamstown Tech.

image source:jmcadam

There was a process to buying lunch at school; and I’m sure the Victorian Education Department had the same process in all of it’s Technical schools. At the start of the second class period you’d tick off on a lunch bag what you wanted for lunch; a sandwich or a roll, a pie or pasty, or a sausage roll. The form’s lunch monitor took the lunch bags, and the form’s lunch tray to the canteen. The school canteen lunch ladies made the lunches and put them into their correct lunch bags. Ten minutes before the lunch bell the lunch monitor collected the form’s lunch tray with the filled lunch bags and brought it back to the classroom. I always struggled over what to buy for lunch; I’d stare down at my printed lunch bag and be wracked with indecision. My lunch bag was always the last lunch bag into the form’s lunch tray. The lunch monitor would start pacing the front of the classroom. He was eager to head off to the canteen; it meant more time out of the classroom hanging out with the other lunch monitors. I toiled over what to order every time mum gave me the rare privilege of buying lunch; a salad roll or sandwich, a pie or pasty, or a sausage roll. I always chose a salad roll; a bread roll filled with shredded lettuce, grated carrots, sliced beetroot and tomato, and cucumber.

image source:slwa.wa.gov.au

The traditional Australian salad sandwich or roll never had slices of meat in it; and the Willy Tech canteen ladies adhered to that standard. I don’t know when, or why, I started to add a few slices of meat to my home made salad rolls.

A few days ago I had a craving for a ham and salad roll. As soon as I stepped into my grocery shop I headed for the delicatessen; I was half way down the aisle when I came face to face with an associate pushing a shopping trolley and holding what looked like a deadly next generation Buck Rogers ray gun. I didn’t even pretend to be shopping so I could surreptitiously spy; I stood in front of her and blatantly watched. She took an item from the shelf, aimed the ray gun at it’s barcode, and then put it in her shopping trolley; she pushed the trolley down the aisle a bit, and repeated the process. I followed her down several different aisles; she continued to take items from the shelves and point the ray gun at them. I approached the associate.

image source:jmcadam

Me: G’day
Supermarket Associate: Hello; and what brings you in to see us?
Me: Just getting some ham for a salad roll. I’m a bit of a sticky beak so I wondered what you were doing
Supermarket Associate: I’m shopping for a customer; it’s our online grocery service. You go online and add what you want to your cart. When you’ve finished shopping you just click on checkout
Me: Crikey; just like filling out my lunch order at Willy Tech and the lunch monitor taking it to the canteen ladies
Supermarket Associate: Ah right. Your shopping list is displayed on my hand held scanner screen
Me: Blimey!!!!! you’re a shopping monitor
Supermarket Associate: If that’s what you want to call it
Me: Great; Were you ever a milk monitor or an ink monitor?
Supermarket Associate: (Looking at me as if I’ve got a few roos loose in the top paddock) Enjoy your salad roll

williamstown tech forms 1AB

image source:jmcadam

Grades at the Victorian Education Department’s Technical schools were called Forms; there were about twenty students in a form. The first year students at a Technical school were in Form1; the first form in Form 1 was Form1A, the second form Form1B, and so on. A teacher was assigned as a mentor to each form, and they became that form’s Form Teacher. The Form Lunch Monitor was a highly sought after job. It helped your chances of the Form Teacher assigning you as the lunch monitor immensely if you you had been a Milk Monitor, a Blackboard Monitor, or an Ink Monitor in Primary School; previous experience as a monitor always impressed the Form Teacher. Some boys resorted to the most obsequious sucking up to the Form Teacher to be chosen for the position of Lunch Monitor.

Hoping to be Lunch Monitor: Good Afternoon Mr Baldwin. Sir, you may think that I’m not very good at English and Solid Geometry, and that’s because I think I was born to be a Lunch Monitor. I was the best ink monitor that North Williamstown State School ever had; the ink wells never ran dry. Thank you for considering me, Sir

It had to be grade three in Primary school when I started to use an ink pen instead of a pencil to do school work. The ink pens were a piece of wood with a metal sleeve on one end to hold a replaceable steel nib. We sat two to a desk, and at the top center of each desk was a small hole that held a shared ink well. We dipped the nib into the small ceramic ink well to load it up with ink; it held just enough blue ink to write about three words in cursive.

image source:ambaile.org.uk

I think I was an Ink Monitor; or maybe it’s just wishful remembering. Each morning before Writing or Arithmetic the ink monitors filled the ink wells. A large glass bottle of blue ink was in a cupboard at the front of the room. Two glass tubes poked out of a cork stopper in the neck of the bottle; one bent at a right angle from the stopper, and the other sticking straight up. The ink wells were filled by angling the large ink bottle over the ink well so the curved glass tube was just above the small nib dipping hole. Skilled ink monitors controlled the flow of ink by putting their small index finger over the end of the long straight tube and slowly raising, or moving it, to vary the air pressure. And they filled the ink wells just to the top of the nib dipping opening; without leaving a hint of ink on the rim of the well, or on the wooden desk top. All skilled ink monitors when they were filling the last ink well would smear a little ink on the inside of their index finger to wear as a sign of ink greatness.

Two grades later pens that sucked up and stored ink appeared; we wrote more than three words in cursive script and solved arithmetic problems with three numbers without dipping our pens in the ink well. It was the passing of the ink monitor.

image source:abc.net.au

When I went to North Williamstown State School the Australian government provided every Primary schools student with a daily allowance of milk. We all had to drink our third of a pint of school milk from a small glass bottle before morning recess. The milkman delivered the small glass bottles in metal crates, and stacked them in the shelter sheds. The school year was divided into three terms, and the teacher of the fifth and sixth grades assigned two milk monitors for each grade for a term. I had the privilege, and honour to be chosen as a Milk Monitor. My job was to carry the class’s milk crate from the shelter shed to the classroom with the other monitor; and to then carry it back to the shelter shed with the empty milk bottles. Being a milk monitor was a coveted, prestigious job; you got out of class for fifteen minutes each morning, and if there was left over milk you got to drink it. But being a milk monitor in the summer months before and after the Christmas holidays was less than coveted. On those hot summer mornings the milk sat in the shelter sheds in ninety degree heat for over an hour. The metal crates were hot to the touch and always seemed heavier; maybe because the milk had thickened and the bottles were filled with floating biological blobs. The extra bottles of hot milk were hard to swap with classmates for favors, and no milk monitor was ever known to thirst for the summer’s left over milk.

image source:pixabay

To a youthful boy in Primary school it seemed as if the front of the classroom was covered with a blackboard; and it most likely was. The blackboard had areas reserved for permanent material; a cursive alphabet, counting numbers, multiplication tables, or the names of exotic animals, but the rest of the board was for the teachers daily chalk talk. Each day the teacher surrounded themselves in chalk dust as they filled their blackboard with new enlightenment’s for their class of young unripe minds. And because they wanted to start the next day with a clean blackboard; so became the blackboard monitor. The blackboard monitor’s job was to clean away the teacher’s wisdom with a duster before the end of the school day. Every couple of days the dusters were taken into the school yard to be cleaned of chalk dust; the monitor held it in one hand and smacked it with a ruler until it was free of chalk. Inventive blackboard monitors, at the risk of being caught, would bang the duster on a wall; leaving an anonymous, shapeless film of dusty chalk for other students to admire. And if other blackboard monitors were cleaning dusters there was nothing better than a full fledged duster fight; with dusters thrown at each other and flying through the air.

I think I should moderate a Monitor’s Blog. Retired monitors would share monitor tips and tricks, their stories, and our love of being a monitor; and as such, the blog would serve as an inspiration to aspiring Shopping Monitors, as well as a resource for new emerging monitor jobs. The first posting could be “I was a quintessential corridor monitor in Primary school”.


Remember Free Milk at School

Has Australia Abandoned the Salad Sandwich?

Cursive Handwriting Will No Longer Be Taught in Schools Because It’s a Big, Old Waste of Time

Food Is An Important Part Of A Balanced Diet

I never stop and think about what awakens the memories that take me back to a childhood happening, a teenage adventure, or an adolescent experience. I don’t think the memories are caused by any of the five senses; perhaps there’s a sixth sense that invokes some of those long forgotten memories. The other day I had a flashback. I’d just gotten home from school and was walking into the kitchen through the back door; mum stopped rolling the rissoles she had just made for tea in breadcrumbs, turned from the counter and announced, I have a surprise for you.

Mum: I had to go up the street to Mrs Worms to get a half a loaf of white bread, and I got you a coffee scroll to have when you got home from school.

Because mum didn’t make coffee scrolls on her Sunday baking afternoons the chance to eat a warm, soft, gently kneaded dough with sultanas, butter, cinnamon and brown sugar, topped with a sweet coffee icing was a guilty indulgence for an innocent fourteen year old.

image source:jmcadam

Mum made her usual collection of lamingtons, vanilla slices, and matchsticks on baking day. Sometimes she’d double up on her lamington recipe so she’d have extra cake batter to make butterflies; which are just fairy cakes with their tops cut off. Fairy cakes are a smaller version of cupcakes, but they’re made with a lighter sponge cake recipe. Mum would cut small circles from the tops of her fairy cakes, and then cut the circles in half to make wings. She filled the hole left in the top of the cake with whipped cream, sometimes jam, and then push two half circles into the cream. The half circles sat atop each cake as if they were wings waiting to flutter. As I thought about mum’s butterflies I became aware of some forgotten memories of taste and smell. Cakes took over my mind; I thought of cakes that belong to a cup of tea, the types of cakes that cause happy thoughts in your brain, and cakes that are cakes as they are meant to be. And so I set off in search of a full service bakery and sensible, down to earth cakes.

image source:recipes.sainsburys.co.uk

I stood in front of the display case trying to decide between lemon bars, zebra brownies, turtle pecan brownies, coconut macaroons, and peanut butter cinnamon rolls. I waited for the customer before me to make his selection. He gestured toward a plate of walnut bars.

Customer: Is that the only keto you have?
Cake Server: All of our top row are keto
Customer: Great; I think I’ll take a zebra cheesecake brownie
Cake Server: Are you sure you don’t want to try our keto coconut macadamia chewy bars?
Customer: And now I just can’t make up my mind

I stood in a confused, mixed up state of mind; keto cakes!!!! What’s next, Vegemite macaroons? I fixed my eyes on the plate of lemon bars in front of me, refusing to look at the top row of keto cakes. I shifted my gaze to a plate of sugar cookies; and then to the plate of mocha cheesecake. I tried ignoring the keto conversation. And then the customer asked for a key lime keto macaroon; excuse me, a sugar free, low carbohydrate macaroon!!! I silently rolled my eyes. Cakes are supposed to be the epitome of sugar, and the essence of carbs. Keto cake eaters will never have a little lamington dancing around in their brain or experience the aroma and taste of a warm triple layered sponge cake.

image source:jmcadam

It seems to me that making cakes from a keto recipe is as senseless as following the Mediterranean Diet when you’re having a counter lunch. As I understand it, the Mediterranean Diet is inspired by the traditional diets of people who live around the Mediterranean sea; you eat fruits and vegetables, whole grains, legumes and fresh fish, and use plenty of extra virgin olive oil. Before the days of boutique hotels, when a counter lunch was nothing fancy, you’d choose what to eat from a chalk written menu. Every counter lunch menu in every public bar always offered; a mixed grill, the roast of the day, sausages, lamb chops or cutlets, and steak with chips and salad. Long before steaks came with porcini sauce, and kale salad with goat cheese dressing, a counter lunch steak was either a grilled porterhouse or T-bone with grilled onions on top; it was always served with chips and salad. The classic of all counter lunches was the steak sandwich with chips. A good steak sandwich should come loaded up with beetroot and plenty of tomato, onions and lettuce. And it’s always ordered with the lot; bacon and a fried egg. Even today you’d be hard pressed to beat a steak sandwich; it’s a terrific choice if you want something rich in carbs and calories and the epitome of fried.

image source:recipes.com

Substituting fish fingers for the steak in a steak sandwich, and ordering it without the lot, might get you close to the Mediterranean Diet. But if you consider that liquid is an important part of all healthy diets, and that most diets recommend at least six glasses a day, then you could follow the Mediterranean Diet with any counter lunch if you settled for a liquid lunch; just reduce your food intake and spend your time quaffing pots of the golden nectar.

In my day I was known to have a few counter lunches in the public bar at Williamstown’s The Rifle Club hotel. I remember the standard mixed grills, the overcooked roasts drowning in watery gravy, and the workers from the nearby slaughter house. It seemed the workers couldn’t wait to get to the pub for a bite to eat and the opportunity to down a few beers; they were still wearing their work aprons when they descended on the The Rifle Club. It seemed that they filled the public bar; wherever you looked there were blood smeared aprons, adorned with smudged, flattened bits of animal offal and other organs. I never gave much thought as to why lamb’s fry and bacon, brains and bacon, kidneys on toast, and tripe and onions, weren’t on the chalk written menu board above the bar. As I think back, I’ve come to realise that the The Rifle Club hotel would have been an ideal place to offer vegan ketogenic options on their counter lunch menu.

image source:australiangeographic.com.au

There are several craft breweries sprinkled throughout Omaha. Lucky Bucket was one of the first of these microbreweries to become popular, and to have it’s beers available in local supermarkets. It’s said their name comes from the days before kegs and bottles were available; the only way to get beer was to take a bucket to your local brewery, fill it up, and lug it back home. Today, you don’t have to take your bucket to the Lucky Bucket brewery; you just need to take your yoga mat and comfortable clothes. The brewery’s offering Breathe and Brew sessions; a sixty minute yoga class, and beer tasting brewery tour.

Whenever I spent Saturday afternoons sinking a few cold ones with the mates at the Steam Packet I didn’t think about wearing stretchy, formfitting, antimicrobial, moisture wicking yoga gear; I’d be more likely to wear loose and baggy, falling down clothes. I think we all did a bit of yoga back then; we just didn’t know it. We’d do a few arm strengthening poses by resting an elbow on the wet bar towel, and while keeping it on the towel, reaching for our full pot of the golden nectar; we’d then raise the pot to our lips and hold the position for at least five seconds. The routine was finished with a rousing chorus of “who’s shouting the next round”.

image source:visitmammoth.com

Our arm strengthening poses of yesteryear would be detailed in today’s yoga pose libraries under the heading Ardhapurṇa Kuntala; from the Sanskrit ardhapurna, meaning half full, and kuntala, meaning drinking cup. After a few beers went down we’d start betting each other that you couldn’t rest your foot on the bar after lifting your leg up with just a wet bar towel. It was a sort off a variation of the Utthita Hasta Padangusthasana pose. As the afternoon wore on your balance would get either worse or better. If it got better, and you hoisted your leg onto the bar, you could go the rest of the afternoon without buying a round.

Melbourne is often described as the coffee capital of Australia. It’s coffee culture began in the inner city neighbourhood of Carlton. Little has changed about Carlton in the last fifty plus years; it’s still populated with students, immigrants, classic Italian restaurants, artists, and aspiring hipsters. I first drifted into Carlton during my last year at Footscray Tech; when college was starting to interfere with my learning. And it was there that I was introduced to the mysterious lattes, espressos, and cappuccinos being produced by the Faema espresso machines. A flat white and short black are now part of the Australian national coffee ordering vernacular; and part of the cultural fabric of the land Down Under.

CSIRO, Australia’s national science agency, along with Hort Innovations, have developed a powder made from imperfect broccoli; two tablespoons of the powder equals a full serving of the nutritious green vegetable. A Melbourne cafe has started experimenting with the powder by stirring it into coffees; it seems you’ll be able to meet your daily intake of dietary fibre, vitamin B6, vitamin E, and manganese with your early morning broccolatte.

Cafe Barista G’day mate; flat white?
Me: G’day; double shot broccolalle
Cafe Barista: Perfect; takeaway?
Me: No worries; and a slice of ketogenic cheescake

I think I need to give some serious thought to starting a Zumba and Pilates fitness group; we’d workout to 60’s and 70’s Australian Rock. After working up a sweat we’d relax in our comfortable rayon workout clothing over a few ice cold long necks of Melbourne Bitter and snack on party pies, sausage rolls, and cocktail frankfurts.


Traditional British Butterfly Cakes or Fairy Cakes

Ye Olde Counter Lunch

The Ketogenic Diet: A Detailed Beginner’s Guide to Keto