Sloppy Joe

On a somewhat regular basis, Tracy, my boss at On the Wallaby, would ask me to cook dinner for those of us working there. We got barbeque (steak and sausage or veggie patty, salads, and mashed potato) every night, which could get a little old. Since I love to cook, I was happy to help.

Tracy is a vegetarian, so I had to make sure to leave the meat out of whatever I was preparing. For a couple weeks, I’d been talking up these vegetarian sloppy joes my sister had made, having to explain to Trace what sloppy joes are in the first place (because it’s not a dish in Australia) and how I would make them vegetarian.

I had finally remembered to get the recipe, so the next time we did a grocery run for the lodge, I picked out the lentils and everything else I would need. The plan was make them that Friday because Judith, one of our regular guests who is friends with the owner and Tracy, was coming up for the weekend. Trace had texted Jude to bring her appetite since we were having Monica’s sloppy joes for dinner.

Tracy’s roommate was also over for dinner and was going on blind faith that the meal would be edible—he’d had my food before so wasn’t worried. He works with Americans and had asked them what sloppy joes are, but they couldn’t explain how I could possibly make them vegetarian, seeing as the main ingredient is ground beef.

When Jude showed up, she was confused that our meal was called sloppy joes because, never having heard of the dish, she had interpreted the message “Monica’s sloppy joe” as a new euphemism for some guy named Joe who I was messing around with, like the whole thing was a sloppy mess. And that Joe would be at dinner.


* For any non-Americans, sloppy joes are a crumbly hamburger with onions, green bell peppers (capsicum), celery, and a ketchup-based (tomato sauce) sauce mixed in. They’re served on a hamburger bun (bread roll) and may be eaten picked up as a sandwich, but they’re usually so sloppy that it’s easier to consume open-faced with a knife and fork.

Not Really Christmas

That’s how I felt this year, like it wasn’t really Christmas. In the States, from mid-October through Christmas, it’s pretty much all Christmas all the time whenever you’re outside your home (I can't vouch for what goes on inside). It basically looks like Christmas threw up on, well, everything--lights and decorations everywhere. The Gingerbread Latte and Peppermint Mocha make their annual arrival. You can’t walk into a store without non-stop Yuletide songs, and you inevitably leave with the most annoying ones stuck in your head (I won't mention any names, Mariah). Those smushed-up words come out, too: Christmahanukwanzakah, turducken. For Christians, there's the debate on whether Xmas takes "Christ" out of Christmas. Local performances of The Nutcracker Ballet and A Christmas Carol are put on.

The weather is a signal that Christmas is approaching. It gets cold, hat and scarf weather, and it just might snow. It's so uncomfortable; I feel like the kid in A Christmas Story because “I can’t put my arms down.” Of course, for the Americans, there’s Thanksgiving a month before, so you gorge yourself for the whole month leading up to it. Everyone asks all month whether you have your Christmas shopping done, because we all know that gifts are the most important part of Christmas.

Australia, on the other hand, takes a milder approach to the holiday. First, it’s a summer holiday for them, so you’re more likely to have a barbeque than turkey and stuffing. Because who wants all that heavy food when it’s hot out? The mall Santas look out of place in their North Pole gear when it's 90 ° F out. And they decorate, sure, but it’s just a few decorations here and there. And you might hear a festive tune while shopping, but it’s not a guarantee. Boxing Day, not Christmas Eve, is celebrated.

Christmas at Lake Tinaroo

This year, I did not really have Christmas shopping to do. Oh, I made some ornaments, but not the all-out crafting I usually do. I only made 4 kinds of cookies, instead of my normal 10. And since I didn’t have presents, I almost didn’t get to wrap anything. But my friend Andrew and his family pulled through for me and let me wrap many gifts. I love wrapping presents, so this was exciting for me. Then on Christmas, I went to a breakfast and Lake Tinaroo with some friends. My boss had a seafood extravaganza for dinner.

So when people asked if I was missing my family for the holiday, “yea, I miss them, but it doesn’t really feel like Christmas.”

Who Wears Short Shorts?

surreptitious picture of the shorts

“Real men wear shorts to work”--direct quote from one of my co-workers at Kurundi Station, another cattle station job. It’s true that some of the guys here work in shorts. I just don’t understand why they have to wear shorty shorts--think along the lines of 1980s men’s basketball shorts.

For station work, they’re around cattle all day long. It’s mustering season, so they muster (bring cattle into the yards), draft (sort by sex and/or age), and brand. The branding process involves de-horning, castration, ear-marking, and hormone tags for the steers in addition to the actual branding.

When cattle are de-horned, they spurt blood from the head. Castration and branding sometimes causes them to shit themselves. So these guys come back covered in…you guessed it…blood and poo, not on their jeans, but on their legs. I can’t imagine it’s fun to clean out of leg hairs.

wearing shorts to feed Lucille

But who am I to judge? I wore shorts when feeding the poddy (orphaned) calves at my last station job, and I would inevitably end up with milk, poo, and sometimes blood  (don’t ask, sometimes blood happens caring for calves) on my legs. Manure in the boots was the worst. I’m just glad I didn’t have the leg hair-cleaning problem. And I could immediately clean and not have to wear it all day.

What Star Sign Are You?

This was an actual interview question (back in May) for a kitchenhand position in Australia.
“Cancer"
“So you’re a homebody?”

“Well kind of, but I’m here [in Australia].”

I had a weird feeling about the job in the first place, and I didn’t pursue it after that because really? My zodiac sign has bearing on how well I would work in a kitchen? At least it was a phone interview, so the guy didn’t see my reaction.

It’s OK Because You Said It in an Accent, part 1

Australia is backpackerlandia. Seriously, I have met more people from England, Sweden, and Germany each than I have Australians. Interacting with people with accents can be quite entertaining, especially when English is not their first language. Sometimes they say things that might be considered rude or inappropriate; other times, they just don't know how to phrase it; and yet other times, it just sounds funny with an accent. The following stories are courtesy of Stefan, a German backpacker I met at the lovely On the Wallaby lodge in Yungaburra, Queensland, Australia.

Trying to get my attention, Stefan started poking my arm…hard. I gave him a look that said WTF? Forgetting what he was going to say but continuing to poke my arm not quite as hard, he confusedly asked, "Are you easy?" 
"I don't think that's the question you want to ask."

"Are you easy? Bruises?" 
Oh, gotcha. "Do you bruise easily?" 

As I pulled my bangs back with a barrette, I got a quizzical look from Stefan. 
"What are you doing?"
"Getting my hair out of my face."
"Why?"
"Because it bothers me when it touches my face."
"I was thinking of shaving my head. Maybe you should, too. Then you won't have hair in your face."
"But I feel like if I shaved my head, I would look like a lesbian."
"Are you a lesbian?"
"No."
"Then keep your hair the way it is." 

There was a large group of college students that were checking into the hostel, and Stefan asserted that it was probably illegal for him to sleep with any of them. He was moving rooms, and the CFL in the new room was dim. I suggested it was mood lighting. He agreed and said he would just lay naked and let the girls come to him. However, they would have to pay first. “It works for girls, so it must work for guys.” 

But it all sounds so much better in an accent.