It all began with a sunny afternoon in the garden... On the way zigzagging around the garden I had some fun plucking weeds. There aren't many and it gives me the same kind of nonsense pleasure as picking a scab. Between fits of weeding I also decided to pull out one of the cauliflower (its enormous leaves slightly more impressive than its little fluffy white head in the middle) and rehome some potted seedlings who were busting to get out into the big world of the open garden.
And then, I picked some rocket. And cripes, though I love having my own continuous supply of that little peppery salad leaf, I CANNOT get that flipping Def Leppard song out of my head every single time I look at that plant. Not even the song, but just the uninspiring one line 'Rocket!!! Yeeeh!... '
It's driving us apart! More and more I edge towards the baby spinach for comfort and for fear of that line returning. My favourite eggs on toast accompaniment is starting to bring only pain. Its not you, little rocket. Its me!
Well, actually, it's probably Def Leppard.
There's only one thing for it. The cause is the cure. I'm going to have to do it. There's no other way.....
Rest your little head, my green leafed cock rocker... We shall be together again soon.
There's not much a few hours in the backyard can't cure. Melbourne's overlooked autumn provided an atmosphere like buoyancy today; rising up and giving hours of surprise sunshine. To make the day even better, a couple of fine people came by - the kind that don't need too much tending to, much like my favourite plants, friends who appreciate a good pot of tea, and a bum joke or two.
Digging my hands into a bag of cow poo was a bit of a thrill today, until the banjo started tippling out of the lounge room speakers. That was it then. I was like a kid at the beach - completely lost in the joy of it all.
After the rain last week, there were worms everywhere. The plants that flowered were colourful again. The vegies looked strong and bulbous with water in their veins.
I ended up in the yard on my own in the evening, finishing up just as the clouds came over and the breeze picked up. The strings and trumpets in Mercury Rev's Holes did the trick they always do. And I ended up in the middle of the garden staring up at the sky with my arms out, making small squealy noises. Thank you universe for today. In my garden.
Two weeks before Bon Iver was to play here in Melbourne, I’d accepted the fact that I wouldn’t be going. Tickets had sold out months in advance and I had missed out. The slim chance of getting to go was still there, but I had pushed the thought of it out of my mind, to avoid disappointment.
Four days to go, and my bro messaged to say “……. I got you a bon iver ticket….” (in place of the dots were a bunch of other words that didn’t matter).
I was so excited I boasted. To friends, to Facebook. to my living room, to the dogs (who, unsurprising, wagged furiously and looked very pleased).
Meeting on the night was a hectic few hours. Rushing home from work, catching early trains, fitting in a meeting elsewhere beforehand, wolfing down food while jogging down the street and the night suddenly seemed so short and thinly stretched. When bro and I met up to finally head to the gig, he braced me for some bad news with appropriate pauses and gravity in voice.
The tickets had fallen through.
As we walked on to the park, we optimistically concluded ‘Bah! Who needs to be inside the Myer Music Bowl anyway! Bustling with the crowd? I couldn’t usually see over people’s heads anyway! We would lie on the grass outside the fence, drink wine, eat fancy cheese and hear the band just as well as if inside. Yeah!’
All of the buzz and anticipation from inside the Bowl, spread up and out across the massive park surrounding it (how thoughtful of the band to play an outdoor gig). Little groups of other “non-ticket holders” gathered also on the grass, under trees, on top of blankets, willing to make a different experience of it too. Young hippies had been circling around particular trees early on, they later climbed up the trunks like monkeys and sat among the high branches for a long range look-in.
When the band started, the crowd (inside and out) cheered wildly. The music was loud and spread out. It sounded as if it was coming from the sky itself. We settled in to eat, drink and be aurally entertained. The atmosphere in the park was gentle and easy.
Halfway through the gig we shuffled across the grass a little to get a clearer sound. From the new spot, we could see Gate B and jokingly planned for the best moment to distract and rush the security guards to sneak in. The cheese was getting low.
Bro got up suddenly and ran over to a couple of guys walking from the gate. He’d thought they’d just come out and might have tickets to pass on… No, they said, we were just walking past and wanted to see who’s playing. Despite a few tiny sprinkles of rain, the night was still warm. The band started playing a new song. More wine was poured.
“Those two are leaving!” A couple were just walking out of the gate. Bro ran over and started talking. Hands gesturing and earnest head motioning. Holy shit. I started looking around for my shoes…
I was looking at Charlie Bucket and his golden ticket when bro came back with two tickets for Row B... Row B! That’s one row back from the front of the stage…. He’d offered them some money. They politely refused - she was feeling sick. He offered again. Perhaps the ten dollar cab fare, they suggested? All he had was $50. Profuse thank yous’ and a beaming holder of two tickets. I scrambled up our stuff and probably squealed alot.
In all our excitement, we hadn’t noticed that security had meanwhile been pulling in the barriers and closing Gate B. Padlocked out and with crystal clear Bon Iver as our soundtrack, we started running through the park to the other side of the music bowl, like a couple of kids with the keys to the lolly shop.
Wine mugs clinking in bags and out of breath, we slowed down and pulled ourselves together for the Gate A attendants. I held back, with pretend muteness while bro utilised the Rochford charm to get us in. The tickets were not valid. But we just paid a couple fifty dollars for them! Well, they didn’t get a pass out so without that you can’t get in. We’re not trying to pull a number, would you stretch the rule a tiny bit for this one occasion? No, sorry. Maybe someone could check the empty seats and see that it’s ok? No, sorry. It’s my sister’s birthday present, things went wrong earlier, and… NO, sorry. But I just gave a guy fifty dollars for these tickets as he left… I’m really sorry, but no. A few yellow-vested staff gathered around, waiting for us to cause a scene.
Bon Iver on stage, just a gate away. We turned around. Ah feck it. I started shoving money in bro’s hand. He shoved it back. Ah feck it. Let’s go back to our spot on the grass… With two tickets that won’t get us in…
“Excuse me,” We turned around. A different security guy, this time without yellow vest, “what’s happened here with these tickets?” Bro went through the story again. I put on my best puppy dog eyes…
He spoke in a hushed voice “Look, don’t let on to anyone here, but meet me back over at Gate 2 and we’ll see what we can do.” Then more loudly and deliberate – “ Ok, sorry we couldn’t help!”
Dumbfounded, we turned and walked S..L..O..W..L..Y away from the gate, whispering eagerly “Act normal…. Pretend we’re leaving… I just feel like running…”. Away from their view, we broke into a run, clinking wine mugs, laughing like this was the best part.
Back again at Gate B, watching our surprise security man talk with authority to the gate keepers, the seconds were long. They walked over to us and one said “So sorry, guys for that mix up earlier.” Ah, no worries. It’s all worked out in the end… (An apology? Pff. I wanted to hug them). The padlock came off, the gate was open. And we were inside the Music Bowl for Bon Iver.
Emergency detour to the toilets for a nervous wee, and then we skipped/floated/walked on air closer and closer to the stage. We found our seats and shared our disbelief with nudges and huffs to each other as we sat down. In Row B. The music was gearing up now, strobe lights were flashing, the crowd was hushed in awe, the band was right there in front of us. They played our favourite songs. Three guitars, two drum kits, three keyboards, two saxaphones, 7-part harmonies. All playing on stage metres from where we sat. From wine bottle two we sipped sneakily from our mugs, getting our minds blown by the music on stage.
From a humdrum, difficult week to this. Row B for Bon Iver - those incredible sounds, But all of it too; the bliss of serendipity, the unexpected kindness of a stranger, the lost and found opportunity.
I buzzed all the way home and all the way through my pathetic hangover the next day.
It’s true, friends. When it really needs to, the universe provides.
Ed's note: The lovely sounds of Bon Iver contributed to the soundtrack for this evening's keyboard tapping. Feel welcome to tune in for a few breezy minutes: http://www.boniver.org/
The last several weekends have seen this gardener hiding shamefully from her garden. In its stark abandonment (and moving by the minute) it rebelliously grows with hundreds of spindly bits across the ground. Webs of roots are bandying together, pushing upwards and outwards. Gangs of weeds stand around righteously. Everything that was once looking for a fight has overcome its primary adversary - me.
I make flimsy, self-assuring conclusions in my head using words like "permaculture" and "self-seeding", whilst peering out the backdoor for a minute to decide that it's much too cold to start weeding...
I've come almost to a standstill in the garden. And all that stops me is the cold and the darkness of a Melbourne winter and a creeping threat of eviction. In the absence of long glorious days of sun, I have weakened. Friends, where to now?
1. Find the means to collect about 1.5 kg of cumquats. Climbing on roof not essential but may be preferred option for cheap thrill-seekers. If this option is taken, make the time to peruse the vegie garden from an aerial view and give in to the tendency to boss those below you around a bit.
2. Show a bit of leg.
3. I've got a lovely bunch of cumquats...
4. Wash the cumquats and pick off any little bits of leaf, stalk, insect etc...
5. Draw and quarter the little squirts... This process is long and meditative, and may be aided by a little bluegrass in the background. See below :)
6. Cover the cumquats with cold water and leave overnight with glad wrap over the bowl. goodnight little-uns....
7. Boil the cumquats n' water mixture until they go soft. Smell the kitchen.... It's like a tangerine nose explosion!
8. Add some lemon squirts. About 2 juicy lemons' worth. (This is the secret pectin ingredient)
9. Add what you think is way too much castor sugar..... Then add another 2 cups.
9. Put your hand-me-down jars in the oven on low heat. Leave them in here til they are ready to receive the golden nectar.... Whilst taking the photo, notice the grubby state of the oven and decide emphatically that it's definitely NOT your turn to clean it..
10. Whilst the mixture boils away steadily, wonder why no-one's made an incense out of the smell of cumquats cooking. Let it boil a long time.... Play some more music (see 5.)
11. Pour the marmalade into the now warm jars. Withhold the urge to drink a litre of warm marmalde there and then.
12. Seal the jars while they're still hot. Start making plans for tomorrow's breakfast....
