Forget-me-nots

Anticipation, hope, and the power of the fat, low C

I stole a bachelor’s button* today. 

It was blooming in the front garden of a home wedged between a busy corner store and a 1960’s senior’s complex. The garden is a parade of purple textures this time of year - spiky irises, demure columbine and those proud buttons. I anticipate them; they arrive shortly after the magnolia blooms alongside the soft pink cherry blossoms, down the street at the four-way stop. 

I meant to plant my own bachelor’s buttons this spring. This time last year I was dancing those fine, purple spikes, liberated from an equally lovely but different garden, across cakes and salads. So next spring, dear neighbours with the lovely garden on the busy road next to the corner store, I promise to plant my own.

My forget-me-nots, woven like spindly cobwebs throughout my garden, greeted me when I got home. I had forgotten to weed them from between the rhubarb stalks, forgotten to untangle them from inside the sticks of hydrangea, forgotten their little flowers with the tiny yellow centres were edible, forgotten I could dance them over food instead of stealing a blossom from a stranger’s front garden. So I picked a bunch, pulled some thin rhubarb stalks from the patch by the weeping mulberry tree, then went inside and turned on the oven. I wasn’t sure what I was going to make, but I knew it would be colourful. 

That night I went on a double date to see Top Gun: Maverick. The film’s through-line is don’t think, just do. It applies to love, to friendships and to flying F/18 Super Hornets. It can also apply to the kitchen, when sprinkling rhubarb with sugar and the mind wants to sprinkle fennel seeds on top too. Anna Jones has a traybake recipe with potatoes and tangy rhubarb tossed with rosemary and fennel. I love the combination of sweet, tangy, tart and licorice, so why not try it here? Twenty minutes later I had lacquered ruby sticks flecked with a touch of fennel. I toasted a slice of sourdough, slathered it with mascarpone, lined the rhubarb on top and drizzled everything with pink juices from the pan. Neighbourhood blossoms finished it off. 

The opening of the movie is just like the original opening scene of Top Gun: a hazy early morning scene. Fighter jets taxiing around the deck of an aircraft carrier. An escalating synthesized sound that would later become the movie’s anthem. You know the one, an electronic sound punctuated by an even bell toll in a fat low C. The electric guitar comes in, climbing a major scale. There’s a touch of piano, and with it comes hope, anticipation and liftoff. I’m sure that’s why my synchronized swimming partner and I chose it for our late ‘80’s duet: electronic anticipation, a bell to launch bodies into the water and the hope that we will surface after breathless moments under water. We were basically Maverick and Goose, with slicked buns and nose plugs. 

Anticipation, I’ve learned, is mingled with routine. I began writing this newsletter in 2016 as an experiment. Back then I was working as a freelance writer, food stylist, cookbook author and television host- all sporadically, while raising boys. Childcare looked like an accordion - it opened wide then closed, depending on the job or the season. Writing was where I found quiet. It was where I pieced life together and found the through-line. But the thought of a fixed writing routine felt claustrophobic. 

It took many newsletters for me to learn that structure breeds creativity. The more time I gave to writing, the more interesting everyday life became. Stories emerged in the smallest of places - in a song, an ingredient, a bird tapping at my kitchen window. They were everywhere. 

Initially I played around with the launch time. Tuesdays after lunch. Thursday evenings. Fridays at noon. Eventually I settled on Fridays at the stroke of midnight, AST. I chose this time because my Tasmanian friend wanted something to read on Saturdays, just after her morning farm chores. As it turns out, this strange midnight launch also works for mothers nursing in the night, it’s for the insomniacs, the night owls, and those who like to wake up to a fresh morning read. 

Anticipation, routine and hope - hope that I’ll continue to protect my writing routine, that I’ll get these newsletters done on time, and that whenever they arrive, they find you well.

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For two pretty pieces of toast with rhubarb that holds its shape, 

Preheat oven to 400F / 200C

100g of thin stalks of rhubarb cut into lengths to suit toast, in my case

15g (1 ½ tbsp) of sugar

Pinch of fennel seeds to taste, optional

edible flowers, optional

two slices of bread, toasted

something creamy to slather on the bread, see below

Place rhubarb in a small roasting pan (I used a glass pie plate). Toss with sugar then line up rhubarb lengths so they are not overlapping. Roast for 15-20 minutes, or until rhubarb is tender but still holds its shape. 

This rhubarb is versatile, but especially loves a creamy base- crème fraîche, yogurt, coconut cream, or in this case, leftover mascarpone from an icing I made recently. It’s so decadent slathered over toast. Don’t think, just do. 

If you’re in the mood for past newsletters, all the oldies can be found over here.