Riotous Retirement (12 page)

Friday night drinks, everyone gathers on the village centre verandah with their own bottle, and people usually take along a nibble or two. Gabriel and Brenda arrived with several dips and different types of cracker biscuits. Their dips looked very tasty. Gabriel was now experienced at shopping at Woolworths and knew where to get the most exotic and most expensive dips available.

As at all social gatherings where ‘don’t bring anything just yourself’ is supposed to be the rule, the pressure is still there to provide if everyone else provides. Even Duncan Stuart felt the pressure, but his contribution was homemade and cost virtually nothing. He brought along a type of dip and set it down next to Gabriel’s very generous plate of biscuits. Duncan’s dip was a firm jelly containing very small pieces of meat, so much meat and so finely shredded, that the jelly was opaque rather than translucent, and a very light brown colour in the main. Throughout the dip were small flecks of red and pale green. It had what one might describe as a bite to it and looked very attractive indeed.

“Is this your dip Duncan?” Brenda asked as she tried some on one of her own biscuits. “It’s absolutely delicious.” And Brenda could be seen scanning the plain white plastic container that held the dip. Duncan had the feeling he was going to be asked where he bought it but Brenda was more astute than that.

“This is homemade isn’t it Duncan? Come on you can tell me.” Duncan just smiled in return. By the end of the evening Duncan’s dip was the main talking point but they could not shake the recipe from him. All he would say was that it was made from Australian ingredients! A great night was had by all.

Duncan was lucky. He walked home with Susan from the drinks on the verandah. They had never been out together again since their infamous excursion to that restaurant six months ago, but each had forgiven the other and they recognised that there were faults on both sides.

Susan still had need of Duncan’s skills with cars so it was easy for her to forgive him, besides she had heard that he had to pay three fines for speeding that night and had also lost points. And on the other side Duncan had talked to Alex about their night out and Alex had put him straight about certain protocols that he had neglected and why Susan was so annoyed.

They walked home in silence. Duncan was desperately trying to think of a conversation topic, and just as he was about to broach the subject Susan beat him to it.

“You got rid of that bush turkey yet, Duncan?” she asked.

“Well I stoned it the other day and it ran into your garden under the bushes,” Duncan explained, “and it hasn’t been around for a while anyway.” Duncan was very glad that they had now moved on from that last disastrous night.

The following week another institution at the village, the Burnside Café, was organising a special function. Truth be known Gabriel, who had been behaving himself for many months now, was pressuring Brenda, who always helped organise the café, to persuade the café group to have a special day where a few of the residents could tell everyone present about their favourite recipe and how they cooked or baked it.

The plan was to have a sample tasting of these goodies as the eats available at the café that morning. Gabriel couldn’t wait to tell everyone about ‘our’
cul de veau
(veal rump stew)! Gabriel had now learned to refer to the dish as ‘our’
cul de veau
(inclusive of his wife) rather than ‘my’
cul de veau
, which he called it in the past. Brenda on the other hand had eventually been able to persuade Duncan to let everyone know about his special dip.

“Well done, bravo Gabriel.” Everyone was clapping and praising Gabriel for his great presentation about how to cook, and the history and geography of France that was associated with, his signature dish ‘
cul de veau a l’angevine
’—rump of veal casserole in wine to give it its full title. Mind you, the only resident that was not familiar with this dish or its French associations was one lady who had moved into Burnside Retirement Village the previous day!

“And now let me introduce Duncan Stuart,” said Robyn, the café organiser, “who has—after much persuading and even threats from Brenda—at long last agreed to give us the recipe for his ‘special biscuit dip’. Such a plain title for such a delicious gourmet offering but Duncan says this is what he has always called it.”

“It’s easy,” Duncan started. “If it is a big chicken I would roast it for about two and a half hours. Then comes the real easy bit, you eat what you want of it!” Everyone clapped and laughed. Duncan continued:

“If it is only half a bird you give it much less time because there is less depth of flesh for the heat to get through. Anyway after you have eaten what you want there is usually meat left over so I strip it from the bone and everything else that’s left goes into a pan with two or three cups of water or so and gets boiled for quite a while.

“For how long?”

“Exactly how much water?” Other questions were also shouted out.

“For a fair while and quite a bit of water, you can always boil it down. Just experiment!” Duncan was getting a bit flummoxed with all the questions so he hurried the last bit.

“Then you chop up the left over meat, half a small onion, a couple of chillies and some parsley all out of the garden. Chop everything very finely. Then strain all the bones and rubbish from the pan using a very fine sieve, saving the liquid. Skim any fat from the top of the liquid, add all the ingredients and simmer for a minute or so and then just let it cool in the dish you want it to set in.” Duncan then took a deep breath and sat down to great applause.

There were ladies all around Duncan for the next hour or so all wanting more detail and more exact measurements, most of which Duncan could not supply because he had never measured anything in his life while cooking, but they had all eaten his dip this day and they all remembered it from drinks on the verandah.

Towards the end of the event Robyn was summing up and thanking the presenters and there was nothing left of any of the dishes that had been presented, including Duncan’s dip. As she was thanking Duncan she asked him a question.

“I wonder if you could explain to us. Your dip at the drinks on the verandah the other night was quite a bit darker than that of today. Does that depend on the time you simmer the mixture at the end of the process?”

Duncan stood up. “No, no,” he said, “it’s got nothing to do with the cooking. It’s the colour of the bird’s flesh. The bird I made it with at the drinks on the verandah was that bloody bush turkey that was bothering us!”

There was a deathly hush as every member at the Burnside Café morning evaluated exactly what Duncan had just confessed to. Some had hands up to mouths and heads bowed and most of this group had attended the drinks on the verandah gathering.

It was Gabriel who saved the day. “Good on ya Duncan that was a terrific dip at drinks on the verandah we all enjoyed it ...we didn’t know what the hell it was of course, and that’s probably why we all enjoyed it. Now all I need from you is how to catch the little buggers and we can have some more!”

Special Biscuit Dip

Duncan’s Dip was enjoyed a lot
The comments he received were hot
The second batch was a lighter brew
Hey Duncan - whatever did you do
It’s Bush Tucker-Turkey in the pot

Security

“Well, gates and special security measures are all very well,” Helga explained at a residents’ meeting, “but we are all part of the greater local community and we all knew what we were getting into when we purchased our villas here. We all knew that this small area of Burnside Retirement Village is close to a major road. Perhaps we didn’t expect that some local people would use this as a short cut through to other areas of the suburb but we must be tolerant.”

“Tolerant, did you say tolerant?” Liz Waverly was on her feet and fuming. “You sold us these houses on the pretext that this place was secure. The word secure and security are plastered all over your sales material. Don’t you lecture me on being part of my local community. How would you like it if every time you put a foot outdoors you were in danger of being knocked down by some young hoon on a skateboard? Tolerance my ar...” and Liz’s voice trailed off as, exhausted, she sank into her seat again.

The problem was that this area of Burnside village was not only a short cut for the locals but it was also downhill and a narrow winding roadway, ideal for kids on skateboards! The PRIVATE signs had no effect whatsoever. Liz’s idea of fostering the correct relationship with the greater community was to catch these little buggers, thrash them to within an inch of their lives and then confiscate their skateboards and bikes. Liz was totally intractable until she did some research and discovered that this was now illegal—damn it!

However, even though she knew it was against the law, it didn’t prevent her going into great detail about how they might be trapped with invisible trip-wire, knocked off their bikes or boards and then the residents could pounce on them. Liz spent most of her waking hours scheming and planning and at night in her dreams it all happened! “Got the little buggers last night though,” she would tell her neighbours in the morning.

But the problem was most certainly getting worse for the affected residents. New gnomes were going missing; at least two garden hoses, and several solar powered garden lights had disappeared.

“I didn’t come here to spend half the day taking things in at night and putting them out in the morning. What’s the good of  garden lights if you have to take them in at night?” This from one quiet aged gent who never bothered to come to the regular residents’ meetings, let alone speak up at one, but he was determined to have his say. “I came out for a smoke and to read the paper, as I do every morning, and some little bastard had stolen my chair and the table! Are you going to replace them?” He directed his question to Helga.

So it was proposed and agreed by all that a Security Sub-Committee would be set up and make recommendations to the Body Corporate on these matters.

Gabriel Bovary was on his feet in a split second, motioning for the microphone and desperate to become involved. But Brenda knew instinctively what his intention was and before the microphone could arrive had pulled hard on the back of Gabriel’s jumper so he fell back into his chair.

“We agreed, Gabriel!” she hissed loudly and stared at him as only determined and angry wives can stare.

“Alright dear,” was all that Gabriel could muster as he adjusted himself in his seat.

The eventual appointee for the chair of the Security Sub-Committee was Hector Laird. Hector was always well organised. This was his greatest asset and his expectation that everyone else should be equally well organised and informed was probably his greatest weakness. But this slight drawback was made up for by his offsider on the sub-committee Lionel White, who believed that he (Lionel) had very good interpersonal skills. He was sure he could placate Hector if ever it became necessary. So Hector Laird, Lionel White, Liz Waverly and a couple of lesser mortals from the village made up the new security sub-committee. They received continual and uncalled for advice from Gabriel of course, no matter how hard they tried to avoid him. Liz Waverly paid attention to Gabriel’s suggestions because they were in line with her thoughts about how these little skateboarding vermin ought to be dealt with. Liz and Gabriel now had something in common to discuss and complain about, so past conflicts such as that caused by the health and safety audit incident, were soon forgotten.

“What we really need is a moat and a drawbridge right across the entrance to this area. Could we have a costing for that from the security sub-committee?” suggested one resident at the next meeting.

“Is that with or without the crocodiles?” asked another.

Many residents who did not live in the area of the village experiencing these problems were inclined to make fun of the situation. One resident had actually produced a drawing for the cover of the local newsletter with a huge gate across the entrance complete with sentry and sentry box. It was circulated but never published due to sensitivity about this topic.

Meanwhile Hector, who was holding the microphone and about to report on the activities of the security committee, was not amused.

“Could you please all just shut up? This is a serious matter and your security committee members have been working hard to solve this problem—thank you. We have been in touch through the manager with the village operator and they have agreed to fund half the cost of a gate.”