Well, in my last post, you were warned! This post is unashamedly an anti-lawn rant.
But let’s start with some conciliatory words. Lawns can have a place in a domestic setting. I’ll cop that. They give kids a clear space to play in that is forgiving when they take a tumble. Backyard sport is an Aussie childhood tradition and lawn is an intrinsic element of that – my brother and I played some epic backyard tennis-ball-soccer games as kids, with the garage side door as a goal. And taking the Burley out for kick-to-kick on the front lawn without bringing down the powerlines that hovered overhead was a challenge we rose to endlessly.
Those days are long, long past, and I have not done my bit to extend the family tree. There seems no reason to have a lawn in a kid-free zone, and I’m pleased to say I dug the bastard up some years ago (the lawn, not the kid) – see previous post. Good riddance, and I’ll explain why directly. Continue reading Gardens, Not Grass!→
From the outset, I should state that I’m not necessarily against all genetically modified produce. GM cotton, for example, which has been farmed in the Ord for some time, seems a worthy venture. Cotton is a crop that is particularly prone to insect attack and requires massive dousing with nasty pesticides. The GM varieties are engineered to be resistant to insects.
All but the most rampant of anti-GM protestors, then, might accept the use of genetic engineering in cotton production as the lesser of two evils, since we know about the toxic effects of insecticides, whereas the dangers of genetic engineering – if any – are currently unknown. Hemp, which is naturally resistant to insects, and unlike cotton has low water and fertiliser requirements, would appear to be a much better choice of material to garb ourselves with than cotton…but shit, let’s not credit ourselves with being too sensible when the evidence is everywhere that we’re not.
So let’s say we accept GM cotton as a half-sensible measure. GM food is a different story. Dunno about you, but I care a whole lot more about what I put in my mouth and where it came from than what I wear on my body (which is close to a lost cause anyway, however it’s packaged). Continue reading Want GM Food Labelled? Petition The Government Online!→
Have been neglecting my blog, I know, I know. Blame “other issues”.
This is just a quick one on the theme of arty-farty chefs.
Followers of my recent food-focused posts will be aware of my aversion for prima donnas of the kitchen, and the tinge of contempt that creeps in when I contemplate their yuppie foodie patrons, no matter how hard I try to retain that glow of positivity you all know and love so well.
You’ll also be aware of my recent perceptual U-turn on Ramsay, the recent Denton interview being the pivot point. If the guy really was, as I once thought, an obsessive perfectionist with a fiery temperament who just couldn’t stand to have his standards compromised by neglectful or careless kitchen staff, fair enough. I like that sort of commitment to excellence. A lot can be excused in its name.
But Ramsay emerged from Denton’s probing as a boorish, uncouth, dull-witted, misogynistic egotist with a hell of a chip on his shoulder. Worse, the guy is INSECURE (his body language betrays this in his tv shows – the most obvious signal being his hand covering his mouth during one-on-one communications). It’s not his insecurity itself that troubles me. Rather, it’s the realisation that insecurity is what his aggression is all about. He’s a common bully, not a genius chef frustrated by imperfection.
And he’s a money slut, very calculatedly exploiting the car-crash-ogler element out there in the service of marketing himself and sustaining the momentum of the Ramsay juggernaut. Get that, and you feel a little stupid having once swallowed the lure. And resentful at being suckered.
But let’s forget about Ramsay. I’ve assigned him too much blogging time as it is.
My focus here is another ‘celebrity’ chef who, for me, epitomises the absolute worst of kitchen carry-on, and I’m talking arty-farty, not ranting head chef aggro. I refer to Gary Rhodes.
Thankfully, this unbearably fastidious, egotistical, oily-vocalled, gelled-up dandy has only had one free-to-air show in Australia (to my knowledge at least – on ABC a few years back). Can’t remember the title, but it was all dainty-fingered fussily-fashioned teetering conical arrangements at the hub of white plates, encircled with dribblings of sauce like dyed birdshit. Worse were the soft-focus close-ups of morsels glistening moist while phasey ambient music rippled by, evocative of New Age foolery like rebirthing and float tanks, Rhodes cooing redundant observations over the top in tantric tones… food porn, in other words. Eeuw.
Lest I be accused of needless nastiness and negativity in my choice of adjectives to sum up this tosser, check out the following excerpt from his series, Rhodes Across India.