The new veg restaurant on the block

I love it when a new vegetarian restaurant is born. And it's even more exciting when that new dining venue is a hop, skip and a jump from my home. So, one Wednesday at lunchtime I skipped over to Loving Eden in Glebe, and gave it a try.

I have to admit that it is a dining experience not dis-similar to being at your grandma's place, as recipes do not follow any rule book or even the menu for that matter, the ingredients are practically picked from the garden, and if you don't know what to order, the chef comes out and makes up your mind for you.

Having first sat down at one of the non-descript front of shop tables, we soon discovered the large outdoor dining area and relocated. Outside it's easier to see why they named the place "Loving Eden". It's quite spacious, there are a number of plants and Buddhas around the perimeter, and soon a vine will cover the pergola. The outdoor chairs and tables are a bit "cafeteria-like", but the atmosphere of the place will probably pick up over time. The waiter, who is also one of the owners, told us that they have plans to introduce live music of a calm, spiritual nature.

While the prices are particularly affordable (entrees are $5, main dishes are $9) they haven't compromised on quality. I'm told that the tofu is made fresh daily. We were given a quick explanation of which types of noodles are in which soups and how the flavours differ, which was helpful as titles such as "Wonder noodle soup" had not left us any wiser. Typically, the noodle soups are not filled with loads of vegetables, as the flavours and noodles themselves are supposed to be the main ingredients.

We began with the crispy rolls as an entree, which were delicious and quite unusual. The rolls were filled with mushroom, eggplant and tofu, wrapped in rice paper, and fried in breadcrumbs. They are served with a small side salad and sweet chili sauce for dipping.

For mains I decided to order the Wonder Noodle Soup, which was a non-spicy dish, and it arrived with a side of ingredients that I was free to add to the soup according to my taste: basil, lemon, home-made soy flavouring and sprouts. I liked having that level of involvement in creating my meal. My companion ordered the satay tofu rice, which was a surprise in that the satay recipe had almost no peanuts in it, but was nevertheless a lovely dish.

Although the current menu is completely vegan and offers a number of gluten free choices, we departed with the promise that the full menu (yet to be printed) will include a delicious selection of vegan cakes and ice creams, as well as the option of gluten-free alternatives to almost any dish. So, I guess we have to eat there again when the new menu is in place. Who wants to join us?

Creating your own worm community

One of the things I decided to do while Pete was away was to build my own worm farm, or rather - my own worm community. While I am very grateful that there are two large compost bins and two worm farms within our unit block, I had become weary of carrying my compost downstairs every week or so, and then making an additional trip downstairs to my neighbour's worm farm to collect the all-important worm wee for my garden. It was time to get my own worms.
Not satisfied with buying a plastic box complete with its own worms, I had decided to put two of my white styrofoam boxes to good use and make my own. Having helped my brother set up his worm farm not long ago, I felt that this was a project I could manage. There's lots of information on the web about worm farms, but if you're interested, here's how I did it:

Step 1: Doing the research. I enrolled in a free evening course on worm farming through my local council (The Watershed in Newtown). This was completely unexpected, as while I was googling instructions I happened to find out about this course on the same day, and it was really informative. They tell you what worms eat and don't eat, how to care for them, and how long before you can expect to be harvesting worm wee. Then you all crowd around a worm farm and see how it workds. This was when I began to see the worms as real animals, rather than slightly squirmy things.

Step 2: Collecting all the materials. I already had two styrofoam boxes (which we picked up free from the supermarket), and I also collected a milk crate to stand it on (a few bricks will do the trick) a tap (constructed from a small bottle with a long narrow neck), some newspaper, soil, worker's tape, a skewer (or anything to pierce small holes) and some worms (I took my worms from the neighbour's worm farm, but ideally you need about 1,000 of them which you can buy online or from the Watershed).


Step 3: Construction begins. I chose one box to be the ground floor box and the other to be the first floor box. The ground floor box is where the worm wee will collect. The first floor box is their playground. I punched small 1mm holes about 1cm apart in the bottom and in the lid of the first floor box for ventilation, then one larger hole (about the size of the bottle neck) in the ground floor box for the tap and tape the tap in securely so that no water can escape. I then wrote "Aletia's Worm Community" in bright colours on the box, because I wanted it to be a happy place where the worms were valued and comfortable.

Step 4: Preparing the bed. I lined the first floor box with shredded wet newspaper, followed by soil up to a height of about 10cm (or a third of the box). Then I placed the worms on this bedding. When they were ready for bed, I tucked them in. (No, seriously, you have to put about 5-10 layers of wet newspaper as a blanket over the whole bed, as worms don't like sunlight.) It was suggested to me that I wait 2 days before giving them any food, as the newspaper provides them with nutrients while they settle in, but I gave them a few bits of food and then increased it a few days later.

Now they're on a full diet, and I have even noticed baby worms appearing. It is such a delight! I just hope I don't smother them too much - I must let them grow up without interferring in their development.

Following in our grandfather's footsteps

My brother and I are training for the City to Surf this year. In addition to raising money for charity, we will also proudly carry on a family tradition. You see, my grandfather ran it a few years ago and got onto the evening news for being one of the oldest competitors. He was so chuffed he decided to run again the following year. Sadly he won't be competing this year - he just turned 89 and has gotten a bit more frail, but he's really pleased that some of his descendants will follow in his footsteps, quite literally.

My grandfather has given us quite a legacy to live up to. He's an eccentric, is as stubborn as anything, and has a strong sense of adventure. He has a mind for the mathematical, an eye for mechanics and a nose for a good bargain. Well into his 80's he was still playing tennis, managing his own home, metal detecting (a funny habit where you take a magnetised device to children's playgrounds and beaches searching for lost coins), fixing everyone's clocks and, much to my mother's angst, travelling around the world. So running in the city to surf was just another little challenge to keep himself amused.

I can see my grandfather's qualities in my cousins and siblings. For some, the mathematical mind has found an outlet working as an engineer and for others it is in music. Some have fulfilled their sense of adventure and challenge by travelling the world and others have chosen to manage farms or classrooms of children. More than a few of us have been labelled eccentrics at one time or another.

As we plan for the race, my brother and I egg each other on with that Jack Percival thing of mathematical planning, obsession with time and sense of adventure. We'll aim to finish in 100 minutes, we say, calculating that to equal 7.142857 (approximately) minutes per kilometre. We'll buy running clothes from second hand shops and trade in our relaxed lunchtime catch-ups for daily training sessions around the park. It should be fun.

Better run... see ya!

Black or white

When the news broke that Michael Jackson was dead, I was eating breakfast at a small town café in the middle of nowhere. Or, perhaps I should say that my head and heart were in the middle of nowhere. My body was halfway between the Aboriginal community I had been visiting in rural Queensland, and my home in Sydney. I was literally between two worlds, and feeling overwhelmed by the challenge of reconciliation.

On the one hand, the experience of being amongst a remote or rural community is so beautiful and “real”. I was sleeping under the stars, sharing a breakfast billy tea by the campfire, and getting to know incredibly courageous people who have survived so much. On the other hand I witnessed so much pain. Everyday life is fraught with street violence, teenage pregnancy, unemployment, dire health problems, incarceration and suicide.

As I return to the “reality” of my laptop, hot running water, superannuation, private health insurance, and a postgraduate education, I begin to feel torn between conflicting notions of what it means to be Australian, and to belong. I realise that my own sense of displacement must be nothing compared with the experiences of thousands of Aboriginal people who manage to live simultaneously in two such different cultures every day.

And as for Michael Jackson, I suspect he was even more confused than any of us. While his lyrics indicate that “it doesn’t matter if you’re black or white”, his own transformation from a black boy into a white man tells a different story. I grieve - not only for a life snatched away, but also for a talented young African-American boy who lost his identity, and for children everywhere who are robbed of their parents, land, culture and sense of place in the world.

Why fake meat is such a treat

While faux fish, sweet and sour tofu “chicken” and vegetarian Peking duck might sound like an odd choice for somebody who has sworn off meat, I am one of those vegetarians who enjoy the variety of dishes that a pretend meat menu has to offer.

So here I am, staring at the menu without knowing quite where to begin. It’s difficult to choose between the fish, sweet and sour chicken and the Peking duck, and to be honest, I’m not used to this much choice. You see, I normally get to choose between the stir fried vegetables with tofu or the stir fried vegetables with cashew nuts.

I order the Peking Duck with the self-conscious excitement of a teenager ordering their first beer. The truth is – I had never seen Peking Duck before, and was keen to be involved in the unique process involved in its preparation and consumption.

I got involved in the not-meat dining experience a few years ago when I worked near a Thai vegetarian lunch cafe. It began as a bit of a laugh – doing lunch with my brother and ordering the “chicken” or “fish” with a rebellious delight. I liked the fact that I suddenly had the same range as anyone else in a restaurant. It felt luxurious, and a bit naughty to be able to order anything I wanted.

I also liked the fact that the restaurant had vegetarian “propaganda” on the walls – quoting from Gandhi and Einstein as to the health and ethical merits of a vegetarian diet. I managed to bring a number of friends and colleagues to that cafe over the years that I worked in the city, and perhaps a part of me was hoping to win them over.

But I’ve got a lot of criticism for frequenting these types of places. “Why would a real vegetarian want to eat something that resembles meat?” they ask me. The truth is that I don’t like the smell or taste of meat, but these fake meats are different enough in smell and taste to be pleasant, but similar enough that I feel “involved” in the mainstream dining experience. I get the best of both worlds.

Photo: With permission from www.pjmchiel.com

Autumn

It's getting colder now. Time for winter pyjamas, doonas and the heater. People have told me that the change of season makes feelings of grief stronger, and now I understand why. The onset of Autumn this time last year coincided with my friend David's death, and I have found that the cold weather has brought back some of the strange feelings of helplessness, shock and confusion that I felt last year.

But this is a different autumn, and while I am reminded of last year, I can also use the passing of time to measure the ways that we've all managed to cope and how each person affected has begun to heal. The onset of winter also brings happy memories of times spent with David - many bushwalking trips in the Blue Mountains, evenings of chit chat and movies at the Turramurra house, and a snow fight in Geneva. Here are some pictures of David the way I'd like to remember him - enthusiastic, thoughtful, cheeky and gentle.

On ya bike

The bicycle may have been around for centuries, but as a popular means of transport it is starting to stand on its own two, um, wheels. As petrol prices sky-rocket and commuters are increasingly finding themselves in frustrating traffic jams, it seems that in the battle for survival of the fittest, cyclists are finding themselves streets ahead. So I have decided to take the path less travelled and find out why bikes are so great.

As I strap on my helmet and unhook my bicycle lock, I notice one of my neighbours across the courtyard. He is also preparing his “vehicle” for the daily commute. We exchange pleasantries. His bike is a true relic from the 1970s. He tells me with confidence that a dodgy looking bike is far less likely to be stolen. That is a truism I now know from bitter experience. When I bought my second bike (may the first one rest in peace) I was thrilled when it was labelled “un-steal-able”. With clunky gears, an uncool frame and the “wrong” kind of handlebars, the two of us were a match made in heaven. Just to make absolutely sure, I have dressed it with embarrassingly alternative bumper stickers that will hopefully cause any self-respecting thief to think twice.

Once I have my pants tucked into my socks in a truly stylish manner I wobble as I wave to my neighbour and away I go. The first hurdle is the intersection at the corner shops where one must cycle uphill before passing the bus stop. Huffing and puffing is definitely not cool, as there is invariably an audience of bus commuters politely lining up. For the sake of the cycling movement, I must pass this point with grace and ease, ideally leaving the bus commuters with the distinct impression that cycling is fun, safe and speedy.

Having gotten a head start on the bus, I cruise confidently through the backstreets of Glebe. It’s around this time that my neighbour sails past me – a reminder that “speedy” is relative. But hey, I wave, wobble and keep peddling away. Usually the bus with its commuter cargo catches me up around the intersection of Parramatta road and I smile smugly to myself as its occupants again have a chance to admire the brilliance of the bicycle as a superior means of transport.

While I have noticed an increase in cyclists around town, Sydney has been slow on the whole to take up the bicycle path. Amsterdam, well known for its bicycle lined streets, is where I was advised that the best option is to have a really cheap bike with a really solid lock. In Geneva, where diplomats can be seen arriving for United Nations meetings by bicycle with their trouser pants tucked into their socks and women carry their baguette home in the basket on front, I realised that cycling can be part of everyday life. In Kakamega town in western Kenya, where bicycle taxis are in abundance, I learnt how to hop smoothly onto the back of a bike without looking too awkward.

As I leave the commuters behind and head for the park, I am reminded of how good bicycles are for mental and physical wellbeing. As the pressures of high powered jobs take their toll on us all, we are becoming more sedentary, more stressed and less happy. There are higher incidents of people with heart conditions, mental health concerns and vitamin D deficiency. Regular exercise and sunlight are an excellent remedy. Riding to work seems to me the perfect solution. With bicycles, the ironic habit of driving to the gym will become a thing of the past. When I cycle to work and back, I get my exercise while I commute – an excellent use of time in a time-poor society.

There’s nothing better than gliding down that final hill at full speed while other pedestrians fade into the horizon behind. When larger vehicles are caught in a nasty traffic jam and their drivers are wondering if they will make it to work on time, we cyclists are calmly weaving between the other cars, or simply cutting across a park nearby. As I approach the gate of my workplace, I see a resident departing. He is taking is son to playgroup on the back of his bike. The two-year old, who is completely at ease in his little bicycle high chair, gets very excited when he sees me. “Bike”, he declares happily and I am satisfied. With just one word, he has confirmed for me that two wheels, not four, are the choice of the next generation and the way of the future.

Old acquaintances

Christmas cards might seem like an old-fashioned habit in this electronic age, but for me they are a wonderful reminder of my ecclectic mix of friends scattered all over the world. At the end of each year I find myself remembering old aquaintances, fun times and past kindnesses.

One person on the Christmas card list is my dear friend from Germany who plans to visit me in March. We met by chance in a hostel in France ten years ago where she, having only just met me, bravely offered me a place to stay in her student room in Germany. I, feeling just as brave, accepted. Following a hilarious evening of cooking pasta together, giggling about the phrase "Ich bin gluklich" and finally falling asleep on the floor, we embarked on a friendship that has seen us meet up in Germany, Australia, Switzerland, and now Australia again.

Another is a dear friend and previous flatmate and colleauge from London who reminds me of sharing a bunk bed in a small 2-bedroom flat with a woman and her son, two cats and a couple of fish. We have since met up again in England, France and Australia. My colleagues from Geneva are still very much in my life and call up from time to time and send cheeky emails - it's so nice to hear their voices and remember a life that already seems like a long time ago.

Of course, this time I am feeling particularly sentimental, as a good friend of more than a decade died earlier this year. It's difficult to accept that he will never be around again, but also nice to be able to remember the good times and give thanks for the happy memories. My New Year's resolution is to be thankful for all the friends that I do still have, and to live each day as fully as I can.

Photos - Top: Annette and I in Zurich, Switzerland. Bottom: Aziza and I in Annecy, France.

Sensible Shoes

Today I reached a significant milestone. I bought my first truly sensible Quakerly pair of shoes. The large buckles are remarkably reminiscent of those on my first ever pair of sandals, but on the plus side they are comfy and close to the ground and I am sure I will be able to ride a bike or walk for hours in them.

I do believe you can tell a lot about a person by the shoes that they wear. Quakers, uncomfortable with outward expressions of wealth or extravagance, seem to have developed a reputation for their practical footwear. Apparently, the best way to find the Quaker group at any large event is to look for the people with the sensible shoes. In England, Quakers are particularly noted for their determination to wear socks and sandals throughout the year. In Australia the socks are less common, but the principle is the same.

I often take note of the shoes worn by Quakers at yearly gatherings. There are a couple of favourite brands/styles that they love, such as the Birkenstock (they last forever and are extremely comfortable - these are for the trendier Friend), orthopedic "dress" shoes (this shoe falls short ever so slightly of being "cool"and I plan to avoid it for a couple more years) and jesus sandals, thongs or bare feet for the young ones.

So, what does this mean for me? I guess I have decided to accept my Quaker roots, and embrace the dag within. I feel like these shoes were inevitable. It's the sensible shoe that we had to have.

Travelling vicariously

Now that we're based in Sydney and there aren't really any overseas adventures planned, we have had to resort to travelling vicariously through our overseas visitors. Since we joined the couchsurfing network we've had a steady flow of "new friends" to hang out with, share photos and stories with, and introduce to our friends. When these cultures are in our home, we feel like we're travelling too.

Our French visitor entertained us with stories of his love life, our Korean visitor delighted us by writing on her reference that "Aletia is cute and Peter is loves her lots". Our most recent visitors, from Canada, insisted on cooking delicious vegetarian meals every night, and were brave enough to join in such strange activities as the Matthew Hallis Modified Magic Word Game and a Danish Christmas celebration which ended with a trip home wearing animal noses.

Yes, hosting is a great way to "travel" without clocking up any carbon debt. After all, who else can say they've been to France, Korea and Cananda in the past month. Pete says there is a downside to having international visitors - eventually it's time for them to move on. Oh dear. But don't worry, we're "off to" India in a few weeks!