Just hatched at the puparium in the Natural History Museum, London: a gynandromorph Papilio Memnon (great mormon) has been born who is, literally, half male and half female.

The Museum states that:

Insects can become gynandromorphs if the sex chromosomes do not properly separate during the first division of a fertilized egg, resulting in an insect with both male and female cells. They can also occur when an egg with two sex chromosomes, instead of a single one, gets fertilized by two sperm … Of the 9 million butterflies and moths (4.5 million of which are butterflies) looked after at the Museum, only 200 are gynandromorphs.

So, (s)he’s rare, but not alone. The gynandromorph Great mormon has distinctly different male and female markings — darker colourings on the male side and paler colours, with flecks of dramatic blue, red and tortoiseshell on the female side. The butterfly’s sexual organs are half male and half female, and its beautiful antennae are even of different lengths.

In humans,  male and female pseudohermaphrodite definitions reflect a shift from a gonadal to a chromosomal assignment of sex. A male pseudohermaphrodite (usually caused by androgen receptor mutations) has a female phenotype but male gonads, while a female pseudohermaphrodite (usually caused by congenital adrenal hyperplasia where the adrenal gland secretes testosterone) has a male phenotype, but has ovaries. In her work on the five sexes, Fausto-Sterling proposes that instead of two sexes, there is a continuum, with five major sexual categories: male, ferm (female pseudohermaphrodite), hermaphrodite, merm (male pseudohermaphrodite), and female. She further estimates that the frequency of all sexually mosaic conditions (hermaphrodites and pseudohermaphrodites) in humans is about 1% of the population. That is, humans have a significantly higher rate of naturally occurring hermaphroditism and pseudohermaphroditism than the butterflies at the National History Museum.

Keep it in mind the next time someone tries to tell you that it’s “just not natural”.

Sleeping Hermaphroditus. Hermaphroditus: Greek marble, Roman copy of the 2nd century CE after a Hellenistic original of the 2nd century BC, restored in 1619 by David Larique; mattress: Carrara marble, made by Gianlorenzo Bernini in 1619 on Cardinal Borghese's request.

The restless boy still obstinately strove
To free himself, and still refus’d her love.
Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs intwin’d,
“And why, coy youth,” she cries, “why thus unkind!
Oh may the Gods thus keep us ever join’d!
Oh may we never, never part again!”

So pray’d the nymph, nor did she pray in vain:
For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest,
Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast;
‘Till, piercing each the other’s flesh, they run
Together, and incorporate in one:
Last in one face are both their faces join’d,
As when the stock and grafted twig combin’d
Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind:
Both bodies in a single body mix,
A single body with a double sex.
(from Ovid’s Metamorphosis)

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Took an afternoon yesterday, in the crisp, clear winter air, to walk the Trachyte Circuit at Mount Tibrogargan. A warming two-hours strolling through eucalypt and melaleuca forest, casuarina groves, woodland and heathland. The path is flat and largely flat, compacted clay and sandy soil. A pleasure to walk. Unfortunately, the calls of the birds and – one of my favourite sounds – the hush of the wind fingering its way through the she-oaks was occasionally drowned out by the sounds of four-wheel drives, and bogans, particularly on the early part of the Trachyte circuit, which crosses over four-wheel drive access roads several times, and passes through managed pine forests before finally, easefully, meandering into the conservation area.

We clambered up to the Jack Ferris lookout, where the view across Mounts Tibberoowuccum, Beerwah, Coonowrin and Ngungan as well as the glorious hulk of Mount Tibro himself is glorious, only to find it occupied by a group of smokers. Eight folk in black sucking back cigarettes and taking in the view while discussing how drunk they’d been the night before, what they drank, etc. It didn’t spoil the view – what could? – but it did drive us off the peak, down into the forest, sooner than the cool breeze would have.

The Trachyte circuit is named for the Trachyte Ridge, a low-lying ridge composed largely of porphyritic trachyte: a volcanic rock that forms the basis of most of the peaks in the Glasshouse Mountains, including Tibrogargan and his wife, Beerwah.

Half an hour later, after wandering through bushland studded with grass trees and stunning, low-growing banksia in full, golden bloom – like a field of thick, day-bright candles -  we crossed the low, cool Tibrogargan Creek. A thin slip of completely different flora and fauna: here, hop bushes (Dodonaea triquetra) and the insect-eating sundews (Drosera Spatulata) flourish in the cool shade.

While the area was well-known to local Indigenous people for centuries before invasion and settlement, and the story of Tibrogargan and his wives is one of the first local stories I heard, one of the first whitefellas to explore the area was Matthew Flinders, who climbed Mount Beerburrum in July 1799. Captain Cook had sighted the Glasshouse Mountains in May, 1770, and named them.He wrote:

These hills lie but a little way inland, and not far from each other: they are remarkable for the singular form of their elevation, which very much resembles a glass house, and for this reason I called them the Glass Houses …

Matthew Flinders was travelling north to Glasshouse (now Moreton) Bay and Hervey Bay on the good ship Norfolk. He wrote in his journal:

On the 16th, whilst beating up amongst the shoals, an opening was perceived round the point; and being much in want of a place to lay the sloop on shore, on account of the leak, I tried to enter it; but not finding it accessible from the south, was obliged to make the examination with the boat, whilst the sloop lay at anchor five miles off. There was a party of natives on the point, and our communication was at first friendly; but after receiving presents they made an attack, and one of them was wounded by our fire. Proceeding up the opening, I found it to be more than a mile in width; and from the quantities of pumice stone on the borders, it was named Pumice-stone River. It led towards the remarkable peaks called the Glass Houses, which were now suspected to be volcanic, and excited my curiosity

…

July 25. The leaky plank being secured, and the sloop restowed and completed with water, we proceeded two miles further up the river,
amongst mangrove islets and muddy flats. Next morning I landed on the west side, as far above the sloop as the boat could advance; and with my friend Bongaree and two sailors, steered north-westward for the Glasshouse peaks. After nine miles of laborious walking, mostly through swamps or over a rocky country, we reached the top of a stony mount, from whence the highest peak was four miles distant to the north-west. Three or four leagues beyond it was a ridge of mountain, from which various small streams descend into Pumice-stone River; the principal place of their junction seeming to be at a considerable extent of water which bore N. 80 deg. E., and was about six miles above the sloop. Early on the 27th, we reached the foot of the nearest Glass House, a flat-topped peak, one mile and a half north of the stony mount. It was impossible to ascend this almost perpendicular rock; and finding no marks of volcanic eruption, we returned to the boat, and to the sloop the same evening.

Our own journey was far less dramatic: no one was injured, let alone killed, thought there was one fellow who – though he never knew it – was at great risk of being attached by us! On the whole, however, the walk was peaceful and inspiring. As our walk drew to a close, we were already contemplating which local walk to undertake next, and when we might take on Mount Tibrogargan’s summit.

Tibrogargan Creek

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In 2009, Felicity Castagna visited Olvar Wood. She was one of four recipients of an Olvar Wood Fellowship Award, alongside Paul Garretty, Les Zigomanis and Kylie Mulcahy. We had the pleasure of reading Felicity’s work, and of working with her as part of the Fellowship as she further developed her short story collection. Next month, Felicity’s book of short stories will be released by Transit Lounge. The collection is titled Small Indiscretions: Stories of Travel in Asia.

We just received a copy in the post from Felicity: how thrilling it was to hold the book in my hands, all tied up in a pretty pink bow! Here’s an enormous congratulations to a fabulously talented author (and teacher).

If you can’t wait until August to find out what all the fuss is about, you can read one of Felicity’s stories (A Lesson in English Grammar) in Perilous Adventures, here.

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Over at The Guardian they have a very cool series in the ‘Children’s Books’ section where various illustrators provide instructions on illustrating for young artists. My favourite is by Oliver Jeffers. Jeffers is an artist and illustrator. We have a few of Jeffers’s books about the house, including one of our favourites, The Great Paper Caper: “a thrilling tale of mystery, crime, alibis, paper planes and bear who wanted to win”. I also adore Lost and Found: “What is a boy to do when a PENGUIN turns up at his door? Find out where it came from, of course, and return it. Even if it means rowing to the South Pole”. I adore this book, which reminds me of the urban legend I’ve always adored, about a boy who sneaks a penguin home in his backpack after befriending it at the local zoo.

Jeffers’s illustrations are the kind you fall in love with; they seem simple, but are also wonderfully witty and emotionally true. Somehow, he captures through gesture and posture the depths of characters and their relationships with each other. In his ‘How To’ over at The Guardian he provides a twelve-step program set of instructions for drawing a penguin that are so easy to follow, and so witty and charming in their own right, that you can enjoy them on your own (that is, without the supervision of a child), or use them to help someone you know paint their very own Perfect P. Here’s a taste:

Just to prove that the instructions are simple to follow and produce great results, even for little folk, I sent the link to my (grand)daughter, who had a go, and wallah! Penguin painting:

'Penguin (after Oliver Jeffers)' by Aanika

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It’s strange, being a grandmother.

Imogen Brazell Williams

though possibly not as strange as being a grandchild.

Aanika

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One at a time, prepare the artichokes as follows:

Remove the stem by bending it at the base of the artichoke until it snaps off, thus detaching with the stem any tough filaments which may have pushed up into the heart.

Break off the small leaves at the base of the artichoke. Trim the base with a knife so the artichoke will stand solidly upright.

Lay the artichoke on its side and slice three quarters of an inch off the top of the center cone of leaves. Trim off the points of the rest of the leaves with scissors. Wash under cold running water.

Rub the cut portions of the artichoke with lemon juice. Drop it into a basin of cold water containing 1 tablespoon of vinegar per quart of water. The acid prevents the artichoke from discoloring. [Julia Child. Mastering the Art of French Cooking]

11

(Artichoke, after Child): Holding the heart base up, rotate it slowly with your left hand against the blade of a knife held firmly in your right hand to remove all pieces of ambition & expose the pale surface of the heart. Frequently rub the cut portions with gall. Drop each heart as it is finished into acidulated water. The choke can be removed after cooking. [Erica Jong. Fruits and Vegetables]

These days, the emphasis in lots of writing about food, and particularly about cooking, is on the pleasures of simple food. Fast, simple food. Buying into the contemporary Western trend for claiming we’re too busy for almost anything, it seems many of us can find time to watch others cooking, on TV, but baulk at spending quality time in the market, garden and kitchen.

And yet, if you enjoy cooking and food, there is something comforting about cooking and serving elaborate meals. In a world of frenzied busy-ness, taking the time to make your own pastry, for example, can be incredibly meditative, even restorative. Standing in the kitchen, beating eggs, whipping cream, slicing jerusalem artichokes the frayed, too-fast world recedes. I don’t check my email when I’m cooking, or answer the phone. My hands are too sticky or floury, or I’m in the middle of a recipe that requires I constantly beat while pouring in a stream of melted butter.

The email can wait. The call can go to message bank. The béarnaise holds my full and undivided attention.

And, after several hours, and a few sinkloads of dishes, I can plate up. I take enormous pleasure from serving food to family and guests: a well-prepared meal, after all, is a simple and unadulterated gift for those who sit at your table. The gift of your time, forethought, energy and attention. For those who sit at my table, I have pored through recipe books, strolled the lanes of the market, watered, weeded and seeded my garden, harvested and dreamed. Whipped, beaten, rolled and trussed.

This week, the artichokes are in season. In fact, it is that brief but glorious time of year when both artichokes and jerusalem artichokes are in season. The thistle heads, heavy and close-mouthed, with their purpling tips. The nutty, gleaming flesh of the jerusalems, with their knobbled bodies each a different shape, surprisingly soft despite their gnomic, earthy appearance.

In French, there is a saying: Avoir un coeur d’artichaut (To have the heart of an artichoke). The saying dates from the late 19th century and is used to describe a person who is easily moved, or – more commonly – who falls in love easily and often. Their heart is likened to that of an artichoke, with its many leaves, each of which can be given to a different person. The saying comes from the proverb “couer d’artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde” (artichoke heart, a leaf for everyone). I wonder whether one can reclaim the affections of a wandering lover with an artichoke, feeding them, faithfully, every leaf of a denuded heart rather than being more profligate and dividing the thistle among a dozen, or more, amants?

This week, I have cooked artichoke hearts, in lemon myrtle butter, and served them on tiny jerusalem artichoke pancakes, with a wicked lemon myrtle béarnaise sauce. The recipe(s) are from Juleigh Robins book, Wild Food, which is a celebration of Australian native foods, focusing on fourteen ingredients: anisata, Davidson’s plums, Kakadu plums, lemon myrtle, macadamias, wild lime, bush tomatoes, Tasmanian mountain pepperberries, lemon aspen, native mint, quandong, riberries, wattleseed and wild rosellas. Not all of the recipes are complex, in fact, most are simple and wholesome combinations of unusual ingredients and familiar forms: a blend of native ingredients and traditional cuisines.

Juleigh’s recipe has three elements: baked artichoke heart with lemon myrtle butter; lemon myrtle béarnaise; and jerusalem artichoke pancakes.

Every mixing bowl, every pot, every mixing spoon in the kitchen has been called into service. I have strewn the bench with flour, separated eggs through my fingers, heated oil, clipped and trimmed and ‘choked’ the artichokes and wrapped them individually, with dobs of butter, lemon myrtle, pepper and lemon, in sheets of foil. The last lot of hollandaise I attempted was a disaster – and my mother-in-law was visiting – so it was wonderful when the béarnaise came true: the butter frothing and thickening with the shallots, white wine vinegar and (more!) lemon myrtle.

On the plate, the colours were pleasingly autumnal: purple and cream and gold and brown. The artichokes each enthroned on their jerusalem artichoke pancakes. The combination was rich, warm, thrillingly nutty and sweet and wild. The béarnaise overflowed the hearts, spilling over the plate in a lush, gleaming swirl.

There was a lot of béarnaise. It filled the pan: a buttery, silken delight that we have also eaten, in the days after the artichokes, poured over poached eggs when we get up, in the dark, to light the fire and eat breakfast.

As Neruda wrote, in his Ode to the Artichoke:

…

escama por escama
desvestimos
la delicia
y comemos
la pacífica pasta
de su corazón verde.

 

[scale after scale
we undress
the deliciousness
and we eat
the peaceful pulp
of his green heart.]

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An extract from my work in progress has been published in the latest issue of Kurungabaa, alongside some great fiction, poetry and non-fiction. There’s an essay by Chris Morgan called ‘Surfing with Camus’, poetry by e e cummings, John Egan and Gail Willems, and some great writing on surf, sea and sand by Karen de Perthuis (Getting Back in the Water), Sarah Drummond (Strangers and Selkies of the Antipodes), Jim Hearn (That was the River, This is the Sea) and lots more.

‘Kurungabaa’ is a Dharawal word for the Australian pelican, a handsome bird with a peculiar way of gliding low over the waves. We have chosen it to express respect for the Dharawal country where we love to surf, to celebrate the continuing culture of the Dharawal people, and to acknowledge the memory of the Dharawal people’s ancestors.

Kurungabaa is a not-for-profit volunteer publication, and is published bi-annually (June and December) as a hard copy by the generosity of subscribers and donors.

Alongside the wonderful writing, this issue includes some gorgeous photography by Patrick Gorbunovs as well as artwork by Bryant Austin and Keith Nesbitt. You can grab an issue at The Six Ounce Board Store in Manly, The Sugarmill in Narrabeen, or The Top Shop in Byron Bay, or subscribe online at Kurungabaa.net

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Maria Arena [of La Vie Creativity] and I will be running a series of writing masterclasses on the Sunshine Coast, from July to December. The masterclass series is called Writing Off the Edge, and the plan is to push you beyond the usual writing class formulae and rules. We’ll be doing some intensely close reading of a selection of truly wonderful short stories, and using what we learn from that close reading to push our own writing ‘off the edge’.

You can find more information on the webpage, by clicking here.

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… on her thirteenth birthday. Welcome to your teenage years. May the Birthday Fairy grant you the grace and the courage to be yourself, and the strength to search for and grab hold of your dreams. You are a truly amazing young woman, with a rich and exciting future ahead of you. Grasp it with both hands. It may be a wild and tumultuous ride, but it’s yours.

And … a brief reminder of when you were smaller:

xxx

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THIS is how I feel today. Thank heavens for good news.

Walking on Sunshine

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