Mũici ndathiragwo nĩ marĩ hĩndĩ

I realised that I have failed to post anything regarding Henry's birthday presents and his new found vocation. Let me correct that immediately! As you can see in the above photograph, on the morning of his birthday, Henry awoke to find his father almost complete in the construction of his very own stove!

Inspired by the work of Jamie Oliver, although much more similar in temperament to Gordon Ramsay, Henry (or Henri as he now insists on being called), has turned our living room into his own little Hell’s Kitchen. Barking orders left, right and centre, Henri has been churning out some rather fine examples of the culinary arts for the past week.

As any follower of haute cuisine will doubtless already know, the stakes are high in the modern, ultra competitive world of cookery. After less than a week, La maison de Henri has already picked up not one, but two Michelin stars. He’s been invited to compete in the world famous 料理の鉄人 (more commonly known as the Iron Chef) and has two or three reality TV shows in the works.

I have great respect for the little bloke and all of his achievements, but I fear the negative influence of some of the more extreme television programs that can be seen around the globe. Case in point, upon showing him the Elmo cake, he let loose a stream of expletives, pushed me, and told me that I should be “f$%&#ng embarrassed showing people that”. He then threw his chef’s hat on the ground in disgust, took his shirt off, swore some more and then stormed out in a huff.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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