Remembrance day is, of course, always a poignant day for all who love Mikko. Lest we forget, and all that.
It seems the French at Villers-Bretonneux have even longer memories. At the end of World War I, according to The Age, Victorian schoolchildren donated money to rebuild the school of the town, taken from the Germans by Australian soldiers on 24 April 1918, at the cost of 1200 Australian lives.
Now the French have returned the favour: after hearing about Black Saturday, the mayor and city are donating money to rebuild a school somewhere in Australia.
I can hear jubilance in Mikko's laugh even as I type this. It's gestures like these that gave him hope for the world: hope for humanity, hope for romance, hope for his vision of a life in which it might be truly possible to be a 'citizen of the world'.
My hope springs eternal. This is why I continue to honour him - this is what he taught me - this life of hope is the life I choose.
Monday, 30 March 2009
Friday, 13 March 2009
The World's Fastest Indian
Friend of mine reminded me recently of this film, which I saw at its opening night IN Invercargill. I cant see the film without crying... the wide roads and 50s suburban streetscapes... wow. Anthony Hopkins. And Burt Munro. My father in law's grandfather used to race with him - this crazy old guy who lived in a shed on a suburban block and just loved to ride bikes really fast and to flirt with the ladies, even when he was long past pensionable age. So there's two blokes Mikko would have wanted to be, if he'd made it to 68, and "evil uncle Mikko" status...
Saturday, 7 March 2009
World's best hangover brekkie
Once upon a time, back in the days when it wasn't really Saturday unless it started with a hangover, Mikko and Georgi hauled their suffering bodies onto a flight to Canberra. We were flying with the matriarch and patriarch of 'Clan Colquhoun', and John and Jude were frankly horrified by our seediness. (Can't think why. Specially when I'm sure it was their wine the night before...)
Everything changed when we found the delightful 'Cafe Essen' in Civic, which served sweetcorn fritters with bacon and maple syrup. Sounds disgusting, you might think. I did. But the more I thought about it the better it sounded, and by the time I'd kept down a large glass of 'fat Coke' I was ready to try it.
To this day, it's the world's best brekkie for a hangover. Or any other Saturday, come to that. For years I despaired of ever being able to replicate it, until last year I found a recipe in a book in the Oxford library. And it works!
Far more than just my drinking habits have changed since those days, but today, apropos of nothing, I made the 'worlds best hangover brekkie' again, It was magnificent.
It put me in mind of hundreds of weekend breakfasts in Seymour and Abbotsford, Luxembourg, Finland, England and Austria, France and Belgium. I don't know anyone who does breakfast with as much aplomb as the Mikko did.
From sprawled on the floor devouring the weekend papers, to bottomless coffees with eggs benedict in some groovy cafe in Fitzroy, Collingwood or South Melbourne, breakfast was a Mikko morning ritual, an institution. Fry ups after a feast. Pancakes.
And that most memorable one of all, where he asked what I wanted for my birthday brekkie at his parents' house. Smoked salmon with scrambled eggs, please, I replied. My morning started with a glass of champagne, and an invitation to laze around under the doona until brekkie was ready.
Brekkie took quite some time.
After about an hour, a slightly flustered Mikko came up the stairs, apologising profusely cos he'd never actually made 'scrumbled' eggs before and he hadn't a clue where to start and did 'this' look vaguely right.
They were perfect, as was the salmon, the other glass of champagne, and our long wintry walk around the old Luxembourg Ville. Smoked Salmon and scrambled eggs is still my favourite brekkie for birthdays - although only once has the delivery ever even come close to that magical day when I turned 28.
Everything changed when we found the delightful 'Cafe Essen' in Civic, which served sweetcorn fritters with bacon and maple syrup. Sounds disgusting, you might think. I did. But the more I thought about it the better it sounded, and by the time I'd kept down a large glass of 'fat Coke' I was ready to try it.
To this day, it's the world's best brekkie for a hangover. Or any other Saturday, come to that. For years I despaired of ever being able to replicate it, until last year I found a recipe in a book in the Oxford library. And it works!
Far more than just my drinking habits have changed since those days, but today, apropos of nothing, I made the 'worlds best hangover brekkie' again, It was magnificent.
It put me in mind of hundreds of weekend breakfasts in Seymour and Abbotsford, Luxembourg, Finland, England and Austria, France and Belgium. I don't know anyone who does breakfast with as much aplomb as the Mikko did.
From sprawled on the floor devouring the weekend papers, to bottomless coffees with eggs benedict in some groovy cafe in Fitzroy, Collingwood or South Melbourne, breakfast was a Mikko morning ritual, an institution. Fry ups after a feast. Pancakes.
And that most memorable one of all, where he asked what I wanted for my birthday brekkie at his parents' house. Smoked salmon with scrambled eggs, please, I replied. My morning started with a glass of champagne, and an invitation to laze around under the doona until brekkie was ready.
Brekkie took quite some time.
After about an hour, a slightly flustered Mikko came up the stairs, apologising profusely cos he'd never actually made 'scrumbled' eggs before and he hadn't a clue where to start and did 'this' look vaguely right.
They were perfect, as was the salmon, the other glass of champagne, and our long wintry walk around the old Luxembourg Ville. Smoked Salmon and scrambled eggs is still my favourite brekkie for birthdays - although only once has the delivery ever even come close to that magical day when I turned 28.
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