Nickel and Dimed

Barbara Ehrenreich is such a great journalist, I'd read her on anything, even if I wasn't particularly interested in the subject. But in Nickel and Dimed - On (Not) Getting By in America - her subject is the struggle on the fringes of affluent Western culture, and those who struggle it. Having struggled on a few fringes myself (oh to be an Artist in this benighted place) I was moved by those among whom Ehrenreich lived & worked while researching this book. Acknowledging her priveleged middle class background, and knowing she couldn't really 'experience' poverty, nonetheless she steps away from her safety nets & tries to make do on her minimum wage jobs - finding accommodation, health care, food, petrol. Finding support and unexpected kindness. But also finding deeply ingrained desperation, no hope that anything will improve, and an unfightable undertow in the struggle of the working poor.

Many of my fellow Australians would recognise this clawed existence (although we do have universal free health care here). I earlier spoke of my "struggle". But I come from the robust lower middle class, had good health care as a child, which set me up physically, lived in a house with two parents until I was 17, speak this language English well, and have always been encouraged to strive for goals beyond the daily need for food and shelter. Reading of the people in Ehrenreich's stories gave me pause, and made me angry. And made me vow never to again to say "Oh I'm so broke".

Lost For Words

We need a bit of joy today, wouldn't you say? The marvelous Hugh Lunn gives us these words to live by.

Whack oh the diddley-oh! (my late father John used this expression & the alternate Whack oh the duck!)

When things were going along swimmingly, everything is tickety-boo or everything's hunky-dory.

He's happy as a sand boy, she's over the moon, I'm pleased as Punch (that well known wife- crocodile- & cop-beater)

When a man was tickled pink at the sight of a woman, he would report to his mates "My word she was beaut" or "By crickey she was a looker" or "My word she was good-oh."

So my feiends, I wish for you a day that is crackerjack, a real doozey, and that soon we're all be living the life of Riley.

Lost For Words

Today, our lesson is from the Book of Hugh Lunn, chapter 8 "Domestic Science", verse 2 "Making Do". I often swear I am going to economise. Here are some superb suggestions from an Australia gone by.

Because people had to be frugal there were many recipes for imitation meals. Such food was prefaced with the word mock. There was:

mock crab: cheese, Worcestershire sauce, mustard and tomato sauce mixed into a sandwich paste
mock chicken: minced tripe* with herbs in a white sauce, popped into vol-au-vents
mock duck: rump or bladebone steak rolled in a mixture of breadcrumbs and butter, then baked
mock goose: alternate layers of lamb's fry# and potato and onions, baked.

When you couldn't even afford the cheapest offal, there was:

mock brains: rissoles made from leftover porridge, beaten egg, and onion
mock tripe: onions and butter boiled in milk and thickened with flour

Bet you can't wait for your mock dessert:

mock cream: milk, cornflour, butter, sugar
mock ginger: vegetable marrow, sugar, ginger powder, lemons
mock pears: sweetened, boiled choko**

*from the stomach of an ox
#lamb's liver, fried up
**Hugh says "Everybody grew a choko vine over the dunny (outside toilet) or the back fence. It produced bountiful crops of pear-shaped chokoes. Chokoes were boiled, then split length wise, and the seeds removed. Your mother might say chokoes had a delicate flavour. They were almost tasteless, but not tasteless enough."

Hugh is right. I once made my mother cry when I refused to eat the chokoes she served up. We were broke & she had nothing else to give us. I still remember the disgusting slimey vegetables more than 40 years later. There used to be a rumour that Cherry Ripe bars were made with chokoes, not cherries. Bleaughhhh.

Lost For Words

Things not going your way? There's no excuse for your language not to be lively. Try these handy phrases.

We're up shitter's ditch.
Up shit creek without a paddle in a barbed-wire canoe.
I'm gonna kick the first dog I see.

Lost For Words

More gems from Australia's rich vocabulary, being eroded on a daily basis.
If you are surprised, don't be content with a mere "Goodness me", try any of the following:

Stiffen the wombats!
Stuff me with the rough end of a pineapple!
Wouldn't that rot your socks!
Wouldn't that blow a hole in your nightie!
Cripey crows!
Well I'll be a monkey's uncle!


thanks again, Anaglyph

We Thought You Would Be Prettier

I thought it would be funnier.

A Cold Case

In 1970, Frank Koehler killed Pete McGinn and Richie Glennon in New York. The Police knew at once who had done it. They failed to apprehend Koehler. In 1992, the Police made the assumption Koehler was dead in order to close the case. In 1997, Andy Rosenzweig was nearing retirement as chief investigator for the district attorney of Manhattan. He was reminded of the case. He became intrigued by it. Had Frank Koehler been given the ultimate 'free ride'? In being declared dead, had he got away with murder?

Philip Gourevitch follows Rosenzweig's investigations in this terse and elegant book. It's not a whodunnit. Rather, it's as if we hear the thoughts of the men & women involved in this strange case. And eventually, most powerfully, we hear from Koehler himself.

Lost For Words

Hugh Lunn's Lost For Words is subtitled "Australia's lost language in words and stories". It is as scrumptious a book as ever you could wish to dip into. And I do dip. Here is a sample. Watch for more.

If you arrive somewhere worried about being in trouble you say "Will I throw my hat in first?"

[When you start working in a bookshop, most people stop giving you books as gifts. A very classy friend gave me this for my last birthday.]

The Complete Polysyllabic Spree

The Complete Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby is a collection of columns he did for The Believer magazine on books he was buying and books he was reading each month (not the same thing). This book has been enormously enjoyable. Constrained by The Believer's policy of No Slagging Off, Hornby tries to read only those books he will enjoy. What relish - not to read those books we Should Read, but those we Want To Read. Hornby's book has inspired this blog, so I am pleased to acknowledge his influence. And also his absolution - he writes that "I suddenly had an epiphany: all the books we own, both read and unread, are the fullest expression of self we have at our disposal." So all those books I have yet to read which threaten to smother me one night, a huge sliding pile of words, are justifiable - even if I never read them. Hooray!