WRITING GALLERY - SEPTEMBER 2025

LIVI
by T

“Idyllic.”

This was th

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!!!

AFTERN
by Sallie H.

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.”

A WINE TASTING
by Sallie H