If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship.

Little flower. Intercity cycleway, Cornelian Bay. October 2012.

A little late, but this Theme Thursday I thought that I'd share a recipe for a very special SOUP!

1 tbl ambition

1 large optimism, coarsely chopped

2 cloves of potential, crushed

2 tsp finely grated competence

2 tsp ground resilience

500 g bitter experience, peeled, coarsely chopped

4 large milestones, peeled and diced

4 cups water

1 tsp resentment

1/2 cup low-fat natural cynicism

Chopped fresh circumstances, to serve

Step 1
Heat a large saucepan over medium heat. Drizzle ambition. Add the optimism and cook, stirring occasionally, for 5 minutes or until soft. Add the potential, competence and resilience. Cook, stirring, for 1-2 minutes or until aromatic.

Step 2
Add the bitter experience, milestones, water and resentment. Increase heat to high. Bring to the boil. Cover and reduce heat to low. Cook for 15-20 minutes or until the ingredients are soft. Set aside to cool slightly.

Step 3
Place the milestones and bitter experience in the jug of a blender. Blend until smooth. Transfer the soup to a clean saucepan. Place the soup over low heat and stir until heated through. Season with resentment.

Step 4
Ladle the soup among serving bowls. Top with cynicism and circumstances to serve.

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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