WRITING GALLERY - SEPTEMBER 2025

SALIVATE THE TASTE
by Trevor S

“Hello, Grandma. I’m here. What did you call me in for?”
“I’m thinking of cooking a special pizza for lunch. I found a you beaut recipe in this magazine, and I would like to try it out.”

Felicity, her twelve-year-old granddaughter scanned the open page. “Looks yummy, Grandma. Zucchini and mushroom pizza, on Turkish bread.”
“Put some shoes on. We’ll duck down to Aldi and get the ingredients. Then we’ll work together and bake up a feast.”

The shopping exercise seemed to take no time at all and, after a quick audit of the ingredients, it was time to prep.
“I hope we’ve got everything.”
“Of course we have, Grandma. Turkish bread. Check. Two tubes garlic and herb French cream. Check. Two zucchinis. Check. Bunch of silverbeet. Check. Mushrooms. Check. Bocconcini cheese. Check. Parmesan cheese. Check. Olive oil. Check. Fresh herbs and garlic. Check. It’s all there.”

“Okay. Let’s do this. I’ll slice the bread into halves, then quarters and you can spread the cream cheese on top. Be generous. You can use half a tube on each piece. While you are doing that, I’ll cut up the silverbeet with these kitchen scissors.”

“All done, Grandma. What next?”
“We have to slice the zucchinis into ribbons. Just as well we have a couple of vege peelers. We can do this together. Take a zucchini and run the blade down, from top to bottom. When you get halfway, turn it over and peel the rest. The skin stays on.”

“Gee, Grandma. You’re quick. Mine keeps slipping out of my hand. It’s easier if I hold it down on the cutting board.”
“Put the ribbons in the saucepan, with mine, then we’ll add water and a pinch of salt, and boil it. I’ll cook the silverbeet in the microwave. Meanwhile, we’ll slice up the mushrooms
and the bocconcini. You can crush up the garlic, then slice it up into little bits.”

“Can I cut up the herbs with the scissors?”
“Sure you can. When you’ve finished, mix them in a bowl with the garlic. Pour the oil over the lot, and stir it.”

“I’ll set the oven at 200 degrees, on fan-forced, and then we’ll build the pizzas. I’ll strain the veges … don’t want you to burn yourself … and you can build yours while I build mine.”

“Here we go. Spread the silverbeet first, then spread the zucchini ribbons in top of that.”
“Am I doing it right, Grandma?”
“Looks good to me. Now, carefully press on the mushroom slices, so that they don’t fall off. Don’t let them overlap the edges too far.”

“This is starting to look like a work of art. Do we do the same with the bocconcini?”
“You’re doing a great job, Felicity. Now sprinkle parmesan over the lot, and drizzle some of the herb oil over each one, and we’ll pop them into the oven, for fourteen minutes, keeping an eye out for the cheese to melt, and they aren’t burning.”
“I’ll help you tidy up, Grandma. While they’re cooking.”

Ooo000ooo

“Well, as they say, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Let’s eat.”
“Bon apetito, Grandma, or, as Daddy says, “Rally, rally ‘round the table. Fill your belly, while you’re able!”

YUMMY!!!

A WINE TASTING
by Sallie H

Luke stood at the counter whilst the winemaker, extolling the virtues of his hand crafted wines, poured out a straw coloured wine for Luke to taste. Penny stood watching as she too was handed a tasting glass.

She watched fascinated as Luke, his mouth contorted, rolled the liquid around his mouth. She took a sip and then another.  Luke's eyes closed and he seemed to be concentrating very hard on something. To her horror, he then spat the contents of his mouth into a bucket.

“Yes,” he exclaimed,  “I can definitely taste a hint of peach.  What about you Penny?” 

Penny just tasted a rather nice wine but that was all. 

“Spit into this bucket,” continued Luke.

Penny just looked at him, then said, “that’s disgusting, I swallowed it.”

“No, no Pen, you can  get drunk very quickly drinking at a tasting.  You are supposed to roll the wine around your mouth, letting it slide over each part of your tongue which is where the taste buds are.  See right at the back of your tongue is where the bitter taste buds are, the front of it is where the sweet buds are and the sides have salty and sour.  As the wine rolls over each of the different parts, you get the sensations of those tastes. Now there was indeed a bit of a sweet taste in that wine but not too sweet.”

He turned to the winemaker,  “I liked that one.  What else do you have?”

“Well sir this one is slightly drier and I will see if you can taste maybe a little kiwi fruit in this one but first have a little dry bread to cleanse your palate.”

Taking the next glass, Luke did the same contortions with his mouth.  

“Yes!” he exclaimed after spitting again into the bucket, “I do detect a little kiwi fruit but I don’t like it as much as the first wine.”

“How about a red,” suggested the winemaker and Luke readily agreed.

Penny took the glass she was offered after manfully chewing on the piece of bread. She just couldn’t bring herself to spit out so once more she swallowed whilst Luke again rolled the wine around his mouth.

“Blackberry,” he said, “I can surely taste blackberry in this one.  Very nice.”

“I can see you know your wines,” the winemaker said admiringly.  “It is so nice to deal with somebody so discerning.”

“Well, I think a dozen of the first wine and a dozen of that delicious red,” said Luke,  “what do you think Pen?”

Penny didn’t really care.  She couldn’t taste peach or blackberry just a couple of rather nice wines and she had such a pleasant mellow feeling.

BEYOND TASTE
by Robyn B

TASTE TEST
by Malcolm W

Taste can be the sensation produced by something in the mouth, or it can refer to a person's preference for certain things like food or style. As a verb, it can mean 'to taste success or defeat. 'Like most people I have tasted both sweet success and bitter defeat. 

As a 14-year-old in the mid 60’s my tastes in music were in stark contrast to most of my schoolmates. The other boys were split between having mop top haircuts and liking the Beatles; or having long hair and being fans of Rolling Stones music. I preferred the tunes of Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley and Bill Haley. I would have had a Teddy Boy haircut with a quiff and sideburns, but dad used to cut my hair by placing an upturned bowl on my head and clipping around it.

As a schoolboy in the early sixties I was conflicted by the choices of fashion that would be available to me once I ditched the school uniform. The fashionable men of the day were either mods or rockers. The rockers wore mostly denim jeans and leather jackets; the mods wore tailored shirts, trousers and jackets that I liked; but were probably out of my price range.

My main problem was that I badly wanted to own a motorbike when I turned 16, but the mode of transport for the stylish mods was scooters; and the rockers, wearing their leathers, rode the motorbikes that I loved. I was told I risked incurring the wrath of both groups if I went against the dress code whilst riding a motorbike, especially if my outfit was bought off the peg at a cheap department store. Then again, I thought what the hell, I wasn’t going to be dictated to by anyone.

By the time I left school in 1967, at the age of 15, I saw myself as a young man rather than an older boy; but I didn’t need to worry about which style of clothes to buy, because both the mods and rockers cultures were going out of style. This was the time of the hippies, whose style I was not keen on adopting. I did go so far as to buy one floral shirt in a sudden rush of madness, but that was where it ended. I never got any stick from my mates over wearing the shirt because I was a rugby player, and people assumed I loved to fight. 

My first wage of five pounds a week, half of which I had to hand over to Mum, determined that the only clothes I wore were usually the ones my parents still bought me, or the ones I could afford to buy through catalogues, and pay for in instalments. I spent the rest of my teenage years not sweating on fashions; life was too short to sweat over how you looked to others, better just to satisfy yourself that you looked okay.

At the age of 21, I fell in love with a girl from Sydney who was visiting England to meet relatives she had only ever heard about from her Aussie mum and dad. A year later, as a newlywed, I was winging my way to the other side of the world to meet my in-laws. 

Life in Australia changed my view of what to wear. After years as a schoolboy yearning to get out of shorts and into long trousers, I now spend a lot more time in shorts, saving the long trousers for going out at night. When I eventually moved to Queensland in 2012, my dress sense was tweaked once more. 

Recently my wife looked me over as I prepared to go shopping on a cool winter morning. She looked at the cap and zipped up jacket I wore on top, and the shorts and thongs below, and she shook her head.

“Very tasteful. Now you can really call yourself a Queenslander.”

UTOPIA
by Valda R

Tears fell down her face, fogging her face shield and soaking her mask as the young boy’s hand fell from hers. Emma slumped, had reached breaking point; another young life lost with no family support. She felt the firm hand of the Matron on her shoulder. ‘Your shift is over.’ She doesn’t remember getting to her bedsit, or that she walked away without paying the taxi fare. The driver didn’t pursue her.

The following day she arrived at the airport just in time to catch the flight north, hop on the bus to the Marina at the Central Queensland town, and catch the last Ferry to the Island. Emma arrived on the Island with the golden glow of the sun setting over the mainland. She was exhausted after double shifts for the past two years in the Covid ward at Sydney’s busiest hospital.

Shouldering her backpack she made her way along the beach with the white sand squeaking under her feet and the last of the sun bathing her shoulders. The salt air in her nostrils, ridded the smell of the antiseptic which had permeated every part of her body for so long. The orange flowers on the poinciana trees planted by early fishermen’s families glowed like torches under the fading sunlight as she stopped to soak her feet in the crystal blue water, laughing when small fish nibbled her toes.

On reaching the furthest point along the beach she headed up the overgrown path to the old weatherboard cottage nestled among the palm trees, retrieving the key from the hollow log to let herself in. She hadn’t been back to this place of solitude and happiness for several years. Nothing had changed. Two curlews standing motionless at the foot of the steps, observed her as though accusing of invading their space.

The old cane chairs with their faded covers, linoleum on the floor, the laminate kitchen benchtops and the old pine dining table and chairs, with the scent of the frangipanis drifting in from the kitchen window and the old fish smell, brought back so many memories.

Tomorrow she would check the kerosene fridge, and order food for the ferry to bring over. She would catch fish from the rocks and cook it on the old BBQ savouring the taste. Fruit from the overgrown garden hung from the trees ready for picking. 

Deep sleep came easily as she lay down on the old iron bed. Awakening the next morning she listened to the lapping of the water and the screeching of the crows. No more buzzers and beeps ringing in her ears.

After an early morning swim in the clear blue water and a jog along the clean white beach, she knew the correct decision had been made. She couldn’t continue in that sad environment where children lay suffering and dying without the comfort of their family. She would stay in this place where she had learned to heal after the death of her mother, then go home to her father on the family property. This idyllic tropical island was a place of comfort for restoring the soul.

The following day she sent her resignation letter, confident of her decision.

HOLDEN DREAMING
by Melinda G

My eyes open just as the tyres bounce over something; probably a tramline. Bright lights surge and recede.  Waking up just a little bit more, I realise that I am lying on the back bench seat of a car, blanket tucked around me. I’m warm and safe.

As I start to drift off again, through closed eyes I notice that the lights are becoming less frequent. We must be on the beach road now. The hum of the car engine and the road noises drift around the fringes of my consciousness. There is a comforting, familiar sweet smell too. And there’s a lone voice gently singing … ‘Roll me over, Yankee soldier. Roll me over, lay me down and do it again.’  The words fade in and out.

Now the car has stopped. Voices rise and fall outside – two people talking. My eyelids remain closed, but in my half-sleep I imagine shadows leaning over me. Suddenly, I feel myself sliding, dragged across the ground. Twigs catch on my nightie, the earth rough beneath me.  My heart pounds. I try to cry out, but no sound comes. And then I’m rising. Floating above the car, higher and higher, watching tiny figures move below. Across the bay the first hint of sun pushes at the horizon. Seagulls wheel and dive, their cries sharp and insistent. A loud bang echoes, startling me. I gasp for air.  Then a strong sweet fragrance. Sugar. Yeast. Warm and familiar. With that smell comes safety. I’m not in the sky at all. I’m not outside in the dirt. I’m right where I was, curled in the back seat of the Holden, drifting in and out of a dream. The engine stirs again, and the familiar, relaxed voice of my mother is singing softly, “Don’t you forsake me, oh my darling …”.

Soon I’m at home. Mum is carrying me back to bed. A few hours later I’m dressed and enjoying breakfast. All is good with the world. I love summer mornings. And I love the change of routine that comes with the very peak of summer. Those mornings, just a few each year, when demand for my father’s bakery products is at its highest and mum pitches in. With me asleep on the back seat, she joins dad and his drivers in the very early hours of the morning. The men at the factory in Burwood stack trays of doughnuts into the back of this and several other cars. Drivers take off on their delivery routes.  As mum drives along the beach road, stopping at several places in St.Kilda, Elwood, and then Black Rock all the way up to Frankston, she delivers doughnuts while I continue sleeping; enjoying the singing, the smells and the humming rhythm of the car that form the background to my drowsiness. It’s a sleepy and welcome adventure for a six-year old.  

ROAST DUCK BREAST WITH SPRING ONION RICE CAKES AND SWEET PEAS, ASPARAGUS AND OYSTER MUSHROOMS. SERVED WITH A CHILLED PINOT GRIS
by Libby B