Only the wisest and stupidest of men never change.

Mysterious birds lurking in the grass of St John’s Park. New Town, July 2010.

I think that these fellows are finches, but I cannot be sure. If there are any keen-eyed twitchers out there who can identify these buggers and set me straight as to whether they taste nice when battered and deep fried, I’d be most appreciative.

That said, I have yet to find a substance that does not taste better battered and deep fried. Indeed, it is the key reason that I do not own a deep fryer.

Comments

Magpie said…

I agree...battered and fried. Mmmmm good...and why I also don't own a deep fryer. :)

6 August 2010 at 12:05

smudgeon said…

European Goldfinch (Carduelis carduelis). Introduced. Crunchy.

6 August 2010 at 12:54

Roddy said…

They look to me like Gaudion Finches.
As for deep fried, I don't know2 that they would have enough meat on their bones.
Still, I have known some to eat Sparrow.r

6 August 2010 at 18:13

Tom said…

they do look a lot like finches. or sparrows, which we have in the states...thick as flies. everything tastes good deep fried, even a nice crunchy beak

7 August 2010 at 06:25

Misfit in Paradise said…

There is a saying that in the south (US) even water is deep fried.

9 August 2010 at 02:15

Kris McCracken said…

Magpie, deep fryers are dangerous!

Me, that explains why none of my Australian Birds books had it there! I will snare a few for Sunday roast.

Roddy, gaudy finches? Hoiw rude!

Tom, I save the beaks for Ez.

Misfit in Paradise, deep fried water? Sounds interesting...

12 August 2010 at 08:54

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

But when the strong were too weak to hurt the weak, the weak had to be strong enough to leave.

Can you believe that it is time for Theme Thursday already? Today we are not talking chocolate , toddlers , mess or ignominy . No, today we're dealing with ANIMAL . Now I could have posted a picture of a possum, numbat, wombat, wallaby or any other furry killing machine that roams our fair isle, but I figure that I'd use a far more deadly creature as an example of an animal . Some people - I know them as fools - have chosen to embrace that highfalutin idea that human beans are for some ungodly reason superior to animals. Of course, what these imbeciles seem to forget is that were are simple animals ourselves ! Anyone with a baby, toddler, teenage boy or Queenslander in their household could tell you this. Look at Henry [above]. One chocolate frog in the back of the car on a sunny day and all of a sudden it's Elagabalus meets Bacchus for a quick shandy in the Serengeti and we're down on all fours carrying on like a cat in heat. Fair dinkum, anyone who chooses to ...

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...

This will hurt me...

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