Fussy Eater

It's that time of year again, Dear Reader, when Your Correspondent takes great delight in turning the season's Ye Olde Kumquats, Fortunella margarita by preference, into these orange-gold, vanilla-laced, syrupy treats below. And it's not via the alchemy of the jar of dried calendula infusing in olive oil - that oil will be destined for my next batch of cold-processed soap. The trio were merely rubbing shoulders on the sunny windowsill this morning and caught the light so fetchingly for me.

Before & After

Unbelievably, these are the very tail end of last year's batch. It's not that I'm a particularly everything-in-moderation kind of eater; it's more the case that FOMO (fear-of-missing-out) strikes me keenly, so I do tend to ration things accordingly, thus I can eke out treasures until a replacement is in sight.

It was not always thus for Olde Pipistrello to be loving these citrus bliss balls (not rationing my superlatives, however!). For although I would eat basically anything put before me as a child, I did have a small but closely monitored list of foods abhorred, viz.: fruit peel, kidneys, oysters and capers.

Sadly, it was my dear Nanna that was to be held responsible for the first two. Her home-made Hot Cross Buns and Christmas Cake & Pudding would be chock-full of supermarket-sourced fruit peel (plus the Pud' was made more alarming by the pallid floury skin from its hanging in the laundry for weeks). No amount of smothering in custard or lashings of butter could induce me to choke down the peel. Much like a pet refusing to swallow a pill, I could magically spit out the horrid nuggets after valiantly chewing for an age around the otherwise edible bits.*

Albert, the Magic Pudding - Much coveted by puddin'-thieves
Illustration: Norman Lindsay, 1918
Image: via The Guardian

Nanna's steak & kidney stews and pies beheld a similar, sorry story. A very slow meal was to be had from taking small mouthfuls, but at least the kidneys' tell-tale ammonia tang would alert you to their near vicinity on the fork, so it was very hard to actually pop an offending item into your mouth.

A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, along the briny beach
The Walrus and the Carpenter survey their Obliging Lunch
Image: via Wikimedia Commons

As to oysters, they were very often to be found on the table as we would regularly holiday by the sea, but in truth I suspect I never tried them. It was probably a visual thing, initially, but oysters appear fairly regularly on the Watch List of many an immature palate, so I was in good company there.

Capers bedeck the bougainvillea in Antiparos last year
Photo: Flying With Hands

Potted delicacy in the Cyclades
All edible: capers, caperberries and leaves
Photo: Flying With Hands

But capers? I'm not sure where I encountered them but I can only guess they were added to the list as I thought that it just looked a little lacking. I had to get creative while comparing notes in the playground, for some playmates would airily declare the entire class of Vegetables as Verboten on their plates. Or would only eat White Things. You get the drift. It was tough trying to keep up when your favourite vegetable was and is the Brussels Sprout.

But with Age comes Wisdom, even in regard to the Palate. If I could, I would add capers to every dish these days. Salted or pickled. Both live companionably in our fridge. And on our Greek Odyssey last year, the Lovely L and I enjoyed capers galore, alongside the caperberries and leaves.

Citrus peel, too,  is no longer to be feared (except for the commercial variety which is just plain Nasty) and I do make all manner of goodies with it with my own grubby mitts.

Snacks for Later, or
Still life with imaginary view, c1645-50
Laurens Craen, AGNSW
Photo: Flying With Hands

Oysters were finally revealed to me in all their Briny Glory in my 20's when I holidayed in Scotland with a friend and are a special favourite now. I'm, ahem, fortunate I don't have to share my regular platter with Mr P. as he cannot abide them - although he will shuck them for me as an act of Chivalry!

Kidneys? Well, I have to have something up my sleeve to keep my credential as a Fussy Eater!


* The tough, floury cross on the Hot Cross Buns was likened to another imposed penance and would get picked off, notwithstanding Nanna's stern gaze, she of the waste-not-Depression-era Generation.

Forgotten Dreams

Unexplored Territory by Pipistrello
Photo Credit: NASA

The closest I have come to joining my name to Apollo comes from last year's archæological dig when the Lovely L and I picked over the leavings of a Sanctuary to Apollo in Greece (where has this year gone??). But I had never dreamed once that that would be the sum of it; I was sure I was destined for a Life in Space, p'rhaps as did we all of a certain vintage.

Regular reminders of Destination: Space! in the form of auction lots pass across my radar, including an opportunity this month to bid for a circa 1973 Sokul-KR spacesuit (never used!) and the greatest prize, a pocket watch designed in 1979 by Master Watchmaker George Daniels, Space Traveller I! Conceived at the height of Space-Fever, this magnificent sidereal & solar timepiece suitable for use by a Riche & Dandified Astronaut could be yours for around, ahem,  One Million Pounds. But it is most unlikely this shall end up in my hot little hands, admiring glances, notwithstanding.

George Daniels' Masterpiece
 Instructions Included!
Photo Credit: Sotheby's

Let me take you back, Dear Reader, to a time when everything seemed possible: My very earliest Career Advice came from my Mother. I have a strong recollection of her telling me that when I had grown up, people would be living on the moon. Yes, Optimism does run in the family! As I handed her pegs while she hung out washing on the trusty Hills Hoist in our backyard, she advised that I would need to Learn about Computers, as that would be key to one day becoming a Moon Dweller.

Pointing the way to the Future

It all seemed extremely likely to a child of my era. While there were classics aplenty in the Pipistrello home, one of our three sets of encyclopædia was circa 1950s and dedicated to Science (and full of thrilling b&w photographs) and Science Fiction novels featured very strongly on our bookshelves (alongside some Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys and Drina Ballet books for more terrestrial adventures).

A day at the office on Moonbase Alpha,
Space: 1999's HQ

Our television diet was a well-balanced Futuristic Feast of Dr Who, Lost in Space, Star Trek, the über-chic Blake's Seven* and my favourites, UFO and its American spin-off Space: 1999, where we got to see what, exactly, Life on the Moon would entail and, more importantly, what we would wear. UFO's purple bobbed wigs accurately predicted the flattery they give when the youthful bloom has passed, but the head-to-toe beige for Moonbase Alpha's uniforms could, frankly, do with a colour lift as it's not what one would choose with an ageing complexion. And surely, the best ensembles were always reserved for the Aliens?

Space: 1999 Aliens,
Futuristic Charlie's Angels

We were all prepped to go - eating with relish our NASA-approved Deb instant potato, Tang powdered orange juice and our Space Food Sticks (caramel for me, always) - and wearing our 100% synthetic fabrics in uni-sex styles, courtesy of a Mother whose wardrobe veered toward the necessary André Courrèges Futurism. We dabbled in weightlessness experiments by jumping off furniture and tested our mettle with lethal playground roundabouts (sadly, nausea would always be my Handicap in the Space Race), so all the trappings of our future home should be rather familiar once we'd arrived.

But the dreams of the 70s fizzled out, and Destination Space fell from grace. What happened? I think it was the Glamour falling to the wayside that did it for me. Dwindling Space Programme budgets made it apparent that it would be only a select few who'd continue as astronauts, and they'd only be shuttling about in low orbits for the foreseeable future. And the nearest to a Lunar Office Job would be as an engineer at NASA Mission Control. But as the lithe 70s figures generally gave way with time to a tad more Portly physique, the dashing uniforms I envisioned wearing have been replaced by a very sorry substitute. Cheap and shallow, I know, but these things do matter. But if Elon Musk had been around to push things along in the 80s, things might be different.

Dressing-for-Success UFO-Style
Or, what could have been for NASA Mission Control,
if waistlines had stayed in check

So to the pressing question: Did Pipistrello ever Learn about Computers? You may be surprised to learn that it's a Yes! to that. Pure Mathematics and Computer Science were indeed my areas of, ahem, expertise at University, but they led me to another path so I never got to rub shoulders with the likes of the next batch of be-uniformed astronauts destined for the International Space Station later this month, pictured posing in the Red Square in Moscow. Bon Voyage, boys!

Good luck, chaps! 
The latest International mix is American, Russian and Italian! 
Photo Credit: NASA

* Watching an old episode of the ever-amusing Toast of London a couple of weeks ago, I immediately recognised Paul Darrow, a.k.a. Avon! Sadly and strangely coincidentally, it was very near to the day I believe he died.

Avon Calling!

Whither The Hipster?

Beep, beep!

To make up for my last post being all about the Ladies, today my Unqualified Opinions are turning to the Gents. Despite my 'hood's diverse reputation, I may need to venture further afield than this Urban Island to check the following observation, but it seems to me that around these parts Hipsters* seem to be vanishing from our streets.

For a while we were awash with Hipsters, Bushrangers and Lumberjacks and the cosy beard was adorning gentlemen with the most obvious professions (e.g.: baristas and tattooists) and the unlikeliest (e.g.: ballet dancers). While I may not be alarmed enough to report the phenomenon to the Authorities, I have been wondering whither they went?

Craft beers for all when this tree is finished, chaps!

To be sure, the bicycle lanes are now filled with Sub-Continental Students moonlighting as Uber-eats delivery drivers (and a pulled pork slider is now delivered to the door of the Common Man); craft beers are now sold in Dan Murphy's and Creatives almost outnumber Office workers. So Hipster playgrounds have been evidently usurped. But I'm more concerned about the demise of the Beard.

My first thought is the cause is meteorological and it's merely a case of Hibernation. Did it just get too sticky for our local lumberjacks with their extra insulation? Summertime did see a shedding of their checkered flannel shirts and heavy denims and boots for t-shirts, shorts and thongs. But bare, white legs don't seem to exude the same gruff masculinity for these Lumbersexuals, no matter how bushy the beard or inked the skin. Perhaps in this age of the selfie, the penny dropped that we aren't in Canada, nor do local trees need constant felling.

And as for any Bushrangers out there, while Ned Kelly could cope with the heat of the outback, the urban variety have dwindled over the summer, too. A lacking in fortitude? I've found none to ask as they're so thin on the ground that, lately, I've not felt the need to clutch my handbag closer to my bosom on the way to the bank.

How an authentic Lumbersexual says Farewell to his beard?
Maybe best not to try this at home ...

My second thought is that perhaps it's just a facing up to Practicalities & Hygiene. If I was a Hairy Chap, I'm not proud to admit I'd feel decidedly Daggy (Aust. slang: non-Hipster) in this day and age if I was to make use of the accoutrements a bearded gent from previous centuries unselfconsciously used to keep the facial hair in tip-top shape, viz.:

The Moustache Cup: Whilst a Hipster cannot live on takeaway coffee alone, at some point he must venture to eat in public or drink without the aid of a lidded, takeaway coffee cup, a.k.a. the Adult Sippy Cup. A grooming comb or vegan beard brush (stocking filler idea for next Xmas, only A$15!) may be called upon to assist in keeping the face free from Snacks-For-Later but really, modern etiquettte tells us that grooming at the dining table is rather to be frowned upon.

However, I haven't seen any Victorian Moustache Cups in action. And this in spite of the chance to go mad with personal branding, like the trendy Ringling Brothers show below, and earn some green credentials by Bringing Your Own cup to one's favourite coffee spot.

A nice, ahem, masculine selection of personalised Moustache Cups,
Photo Credit: via Flickr

As for the modern offerings ...

For a modern accessory, the Whisker Dam is functional,
but lacks Victorian flair

The Swedish invention, the Stache Shield,
is optionally worn under the nose,
but gives the wearer no panache

 The Moustache Snood or trainer (another stocking filler at a mere US$23!): So useful for keeping the moustache all tucked in at night, coupled with training it to resist the natural pull of gravity and thus droop untidily or sprout in wanton directions. They are rather better made than the beard nets for restaurant employees which are designed to keep shedding whiskers from the food of paying customers and are about as fetching as a disposable shower cap, but are still not the first thing a Hipster may pack for his honeymoon. Like his Lady Wife who may resort to foam curlers in bed at night, these days it may only be a Confident Gent with many years of conjugal familiarity who would don such a patented device.

And does calling it a Bartbinde really add any cachet, I wonder? Ned Kelly, meanwhile, would be laughing heartily in his tin suit at the suggestion ...

This 1920 Kaiser Bartbinde or Moustache Snood comes with a suitable collector's
pricetag of 100 Euros. Vintage fashion is pricey!
Photo credit: Antique-gown.com

A Museum-Quality Moustache snood in the
Tallinn City Museum
Photo credit: Flickr

If you look closely you can see that both of these vintage accessories above have a cat for a motif, begging the wearer to be the cat's whiskers; ooh, and a little riffing on Hepcat, the original 1940s Hipster, and I come to find this is indeed the ideal Hipster accoutrement.

Missing:
Victorian Neck Beard -
Carefully shaven but otherwise unruly

Missing:
Jaunty Muttonchops and Tidy 'Tache
to avoid entrapping your snacks

Although I had seen the occasional Dastardly Dan twirly moustache about town, which gathers up whiskers which may want to wrestle with the food on the fork rather more stylishly than the Stache Shield, I've not seen the obvious earlier solution to constant food entrapment, what I might term the Radical Shaving Pattern. In the Victorian Age, this led to everything from mutton chops to the chin curtain (Abe Lincoln's choice) and the neck beard**. Those Victorian bearded men experimented long and hard with Beard Patterns and would have found it was possible to enjoy eating and drinking without encumbrance and have a luxuriant beard, tended lovingly (or not) with all the hair dye, pomade and waxes that a modern Hipster may keep to hand. (See above).

Practise, practise, practise ...

... To avoid follicular disasters

Were men braver then? Did it just get too hard and too messy for the Hipster and it boiled down to either growing a ZZ Top thatch and putting up with the critters that may come to nestle in it or just shaving it off. Whither the Hipster? Well, I await the coming winter with interest as these Bearded Sub-Cultures may just resprout in our Inner City Petrie Dish as the cooler air refills with irony.

To be sure, it only takes a razor for a Hipster to shed the au courant beard to slip back into the mainstream but what of the tattoos? Once inked, their permanence is obvious. Well, minus their bicycle and beard, a Hipster will ultimately blend with the crowd since Tattoos are the Intersection of all Sets in the Venn Diagram of Modern Sub-Cultures. They are so ubiquitous, it's an uninked Young Person that is almost scandalously subversive.

As yet, the Laser Tattoo-Removal Parlour that opened up in our area a little while ago, where I gather it is more expensive, painful and time-consuming to remove the tattoo than to receive it, has not had a path beaten to its Shoppe door. While it sounds like a clever business proposition, perhaps they're just a bit too far ahead of the Zeitgeist for now.

Can't be bothered with beard grooming malarky?
Let it go wild.

* We don't really know any Hipsters, unsurprisingly, but we are acquainted with the odd Bearded Man for whom Fashion Irony is not a byword. However our dear friends in America, the Wine Buffs, recently sold their Napa Valley holiday house for a new holiday house in Hipster-Central, Portlandia, so we know a city's-worth now by 2 Degrees. Put a bird on it, M!

** I discovered a blog called Neckbeard Society where one man is determined to elevate it from its lowly status, but I don't think he is a Hipster.