Swimming to the Moon

Moon

THE GAINSBOROUGH FLYSCREEN

In my next life I want to be the person who’s paid well to think up the colourful names for items in home-ware catalogues. I used to discard these imaginative inserts in my newspapers and magazines, never appreciating the cultural knowledge behind them. Not any more.

Involved in a comprehensive household makeover, I perused my first hardware catalogue the other day. And I was swept away. It was the Gainsborough Flyscreen that did it. How different, how muted and opaque the famous painter’s landscapes would have turned out if his favoured scenes had been viewed through fly-mesh. Other possibilities immediately sprang to mind: the Wordsworth Leaf Blower, the Patrick White Orbital Sander, the Toulouse-Lautrec Multi-Purpose Ladder.

A local furniture catalogue was my next study. It was obviously compiled by someone of a 1950s show-business bent. The centrepiece was The Belafonte Collection, comprising the Belafonte Sofa Bed, the Belafonte Corner Suite, the Belafonte Sofa Pair, the Belafonte Lounge Suite and the Belafonte Sofa with Chaise. ‘This sleek design incorporates style and comfort at a great price,’ it said. Made of bonded leather, it was pictured in, yes, chocolate and black.

Seeking something a little plumper perhaps? The Gleason Lounge Suite gave ‘deep contoured cushions to support you comfortably’. Suits honeymooners. For the elderly, the Crosby Recliner and the Wayne Powerlift Recliner no doubt brought nostalgia as well as relief.

Though a little sad for his fans to see the Dylan Recliner-and-Ottoman in the same cultural and age range as Bing and the Duke, the Jagger Sofa and Clapton Chaise both offered an edgy versatility. And for those inclined, the Shelley Recliner provided a place for lyrical contemplation – perhaps even thoughts of the poet himself, whose own final unfortunate reclining, on the beach at Spezia, was as a drowned corpse on a funeral pyre.

If you’re flogging furniture, however, you can’t go past American states or towns. Like celebrities’ children, all modern chairs and tables seem to be named Montana, Dakota, Florida, Idaho, Arizona, Colorado, Texas, Denver, Mississippi, Alabama, Dallas, Indiana, Aspen, Oregon, Hollywood, Brooklyn, Savannah or Newport.

Local names just don’t have the same furnishing clout. I could find only a handful of them, although Jindabyne, Yarra, Bunbury, Dural and Bendigo appealed in an Australian sort of way. It’s easy to imagine a Perth suburban mother’s complaint: ‘Who spilled their Milo on the Bunbury?’

Those catalogues are as nothing, however, compared to the annual publication of Ikea, the global furniture company. Ikea published 197 million catalogues last year, in twenty languages and sixty-one editions. It was Ikea’s dyslexic founder, Ingvar Kamprad, who came up with the idea of giving furniture names instead of product codes.

For example, chairs and desks have men’s names, while fabrics and curtains have women’s names; garden furniture is all Swedish islands; children’s items are animals and birds; bed linen is flowers and precious stones. A line of children’s toys is named Duktig, meaning well-behaved, and Billy, a Swedish masculine name, is a popular bookcase. A range of office furniture is named Effektiv.

Even a catalogue as famous as Ikea’s ran into strife recently for deleting images of women from the Saudi Arabian version. One picture showed a family apparently getting ready for bed, with a young boy brushing his teeth in the bathroom. His pyjama-clad mother, whose face and one wrist are exposed, was excised from the Saudi version.

Another picture of five women dining was also removed from the Saudi edition. Ikea later apologised to the rest of the world for producing a catalogue ‘in conflict with the Ikea Group values’.

Though Ikea would probably never name a furniture range after a drowned and cremated poet, or a flyscreen after a landscape artist, some of the Swedish products have actually faced a little difficulty with their names in the catalogue’s English editions.

I’m thinking of their ‘Jerka’ desk, their ‘Fukta’ plant spray and their ‘Fartfull’ workbench. Mind you, as long as I’ve got their trusty allen key (and the usual qualified carpenter on call, when I fail to assemble the flat-pack Ikea bed or desk or bookcase after twelve or thirteen hours intense effort), as far as I’m concerned the company can do no wrong.

THE OSLO LUNCH

Having a beer on a hot day with an elderly visitor from Adelaide reminded me that once you could tell which part of Australia someone came from by their names for beer glasses. My friend had just asked for a ‘butcher’. A what? The barman was mystified.

It turned out to be a 200-millilitre, or seven-ounce, glass.

To the confusion of interstate travellers, a middy in Sydney and Perth used to be called a handle in Darwin, a half-pint in Canberra, a pot in Brisbane and Melbourne, a schooner in Adelaide, and a ten (ounce) in Hobart.

Before metrication, depending on where you were drinking, you could buy beer in glasses of four, five, six, seven, ten, fifteen and twenty imperial fluid ounces, with varying names in each state. These were replaced by glasses of 115, 140, 170, 200, 285, 425 and 570 millilitres. As Australians travelled more widely, the range and differences decreased. Now most pubs no longer have glasses smaller than 200 ml, or seven fluid ounces (either a pony, horse, butcher, seven, or ‘small glass’).

People aren’t drinking from small glasses these days. Or loyally drinking their state-only beers. Try asking at the Cottesloe Hotel for a pony or a butcher (or a Swan or an Emu) and see the looks you get. More popular now are 200 ml, 285 ml and 425 ml glasses, and increasingly most pubs now serve pints (570 ml, 20 fl oz). A request for a ‘Pot of Gold’ in Queensland gets you a 285 ml glass of XXXX Gold.

With state-by-state beer and beer-glass differences erased (and West Australians being weaned off ‘peanut paste’ for ‘peanut butter’ as in the rest of Australia), the best way now to tell someone’s origins is to ask them what they call swimwear and processed sausage.

In WA, and most other areas, we swim in ‘bathers’, though ‘togs’ are recognised. In NSW, swimsuits are known as ‘swimmers’ or ‘cossies’ (short for ‘costumes’) and in Queensland they’re ‘togs’. Queensland has a couple of other idiosyncracies. What’s simply a ‘bag’, a ‘case’ or a ‘schoolbag’ in most parts of Australia, and the world, is called a ‘port’ by Queenslanders.

So what is it about a pinkish, bland-tasting, plastic-wrapped tube of processed pork sausage that it attracts so many terms across Australia? Broadly, the west coast’s ‘polony’ is ‘Devon’ on the east coast. In Victoria and Tasmania, where they must put away a lot of processed sausage, it has three or four names. And then it gets even more complicated.

Thanks to Australian Meat News I now know that WA’s simple polony is ‘Belgium sausage’ in Tasmania (a beef variant is known as ‘beef Belgium’); ‘Byron sausage’ in New England; ‘Devon’ in Victoria and NSW (except the Hunter Valley and New England), Tasmania and Canberra; ‘Empire sausage’ in the Hunter Valley; ‘fritz’ in South Australia and Broken Hill; ‘German sausage’ or ‘pork German’ in Victoria and northern Tasmania; ‘veal German’ or ‘luncheon meat’ in Queensland; ‘round meat’ in the Northern Territory; ‘Strasburg’ or ‘Strasbourg’ or ‘Stras’ in Victoria and Tasmania (the name is used for a spicier processed meat in other areas); ‘wheel meat’ in Tasmania; and ‘Windsor sausage’ in North Queensland.

Whew! In childhood the local Watsonia smallgoods company provided my Perth school lunches with many a polony-lettuce-and-tomato-sauce sandwich. Then one morning my mother announced dramatically that henceforth I would instead be consuming something called the Oslo Lunch.

This was intriguing, a lunch that the kids ate in Oslo, Norway, apparently. Or maybe not. In Oslo, perhaps they were sick of it and hankered after an Adelaide Lunch, or even the Perth Lunch most popular at my school (excluding pies): a half poppyseed roll filled with tinned spaghetti or baked beans.

The Oslo Lunch, invented by a Norwegian Professor named Schiotz, had been associated with improved child health and weight gain in Norway and Britain. When it was introduced in Victorian schools, children who ate this cheese and salad sandwich on wholemeal bread, accompanied by milk and fruit, were shown to be healthier after six months. So Western Australia followed suit.

Brown bread, lettuce and Kraft cheese, an apple, and sun-warmed Government milk that made you gag. We had this stuff already. It was hard to see what was the big deal. Even polony was tastier.

COUNTRY DINING

Dining in the country is not what it used to be. We used to always stay at the old Mount Barker pub on the way to Albany in the family Ford. Eating there was a classic country culinary experience: curly pats of butter, longneck beer bottles on the table, slabs of white bread, and ‘cold collations’ of the day-before’s roast lamb.

My father liked to order rabbit. He was fortunate in his choice: there was always rabbit on the menu. He also liked to ask the ginger-headed waitress: ‘The rabbit – is it with or without myxomatosis?’ She’d shrug, bemused. ‘Dunno, it’s all in the gravy.’

They had duck on the menu too, and you had to carefully remove the shotgun pellets from your mouth.

Nowadays travellers stay in motels rather than the ubiquitous Commercial, Railway or Freemasons. But now even the smallest rural village has a cool, shaved-headed and stubbled ex-city chef, running a rustic/bohemian restaurant serving local produce of an organic nature.

The other night we went for a celebratory dinner at one of our town’s smartest new restaurants. Without wishing to step into Rob Broadfield’s territory, I can say that the beef carpaccio and white asparagus-pea-andpinenut risotto were simple and delicious, the wine excellent, and the staff attentive and friendly.

After the main course, the waiter topped up our glasses, smiled warmly and said, ‘May I recommend the cheese of the evening?’

We demurred. We were full. ‘I’m a cheese specialist,’ he confided. ‘I know my cheeses, and this one is a beauty. We have lots of it, too: no one else wanted cheese tonight.’

Only one cheese? ‘Oh, yes. We concentrate on having only one special cheese per night. And tonight’s is a triple-cream brie.’

We preferred hard cheeses. ‘Look, I can’t recommend this brie enough,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll bring you a glass of wine, on the house, to go with it.’

Well, OK. And the cheese and wine came, and we polished it off.

‘How was it?’ asked our smiling waiter.

It was fine, thank you.

‘That’s good. It’s from Gippsland, Victoria.’ He named the town and the brand. ‘You heard that three people died recently after eating it?’

What!

‘But the situation is all under control, they reckon. Yep, listeria,’ he murmured thoughtfully. His smile was even broader. ‘Apart from the deaths, another twenty-three got sick from it, and there was one miscarriage.’

What! Soon we were frantically googling the cheese on our mobiles. Sure enough, three deaths had occurred last year from a triple-cream-brie listeria outbreak on the NSW south coast and these particular cheeses were recalled across the nation.

All the online community-health sites said that listeriosis was caused by eating food contaminated with bacteria known as Listeria monocytogenes. For some people the illness required hospitalisation and it could be a threat to life.

The symptoms included fever, headache, tiredness, aches and pains, which