AGES AND STAGES

by Mocco Wollert

DO YOU remember the days when meat was cheap? It was during the years of steak and three veg for dinner.

I was married to a carnivore. My beloved had chops for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Well, maybe not lunch but certainly for breakfast.

The word cholesterol was still unknown, and we fed our men sausages and chops as much as they wanted. Salad was something green that belonged in the garden and was regarded suspiciously by the man of the house and his children.

Going out to dinner, most restaurants offered the same type of food. Thinking about some of the dishes, I literally salivate. Most of them have now disappeared from menus.

New, healthy choices which will guarantee a healthy body, are now offered in bowls instead of on plates; the main ingredients seem to be spinach leaves and kale.

I quite like the spinach leaves but kale? Sorry, not for yours truly. It might be good for my health but it makes me feel like I am a cow.

What has happened to all those wonderful dishes of the ’50s , ’60s and ’70s? Forgive me if I wallow in nostalgia but who can forget steak diane, veal marsala, bangers and mash, chicken maryland, fillet mignon, beef wellington and that old favourite, savoury mince?

What happened to the crowning glory of special nights: Chateaubriand?

Entrée choices were limited, and the favourite was prawn cocktail. Oysters, while not cheap, were still reasonably priced and were a much-loved start to a restaurant dinner. They came in all varieties: Zarina, Mornay, Kilpatrick and of course natural.

The more upmarket restaurants usually had a sweets trolley. While I find it easy to say “no” to the description of a bowl of fresh strawberries on a bed of mouth-watering cream, I could never say “no” when a bowl of fresh strawberries with cream was waved under my nose or a slice of Black Forest torte winked at me.

Who could forget crepe suzettes prepared beside the table? Bombe Alaska was the crowning finish of many a wonderful meal.

Drinks of course have also changed. Pimm’s was the drink for ladies – or fruit punch. However, the first wines were appearing. They had simple, often descriptive names: Queen Adelaide, Houghton’s White Burgundy, Sparkling Red Burgundy and the much loved but dreadful sugar-sweet fizzers, Barossa Pearl and Porphyry Pearl.

Of course, most men still drank beer. Males who drank wine were called a bad word I do not want to commit to paper here.

There was, of course, never any water on the table. Water was for washing up not for drinking.

My husband and I owned a restaurant at the time in Darwin and we sometimes had American customers. We were flabbergasted when the first thing they asked for was iced water. What a strange request.

To-day, the first thing that appears on the table is water and we all dutifully drink it – whether we like it or not.

May you enjoy spinach leaves – or tuck into a chocolate gateau.

After a few practice throws, it was time to tee off from the metal pegs that marked the start for each “hole”.

The men in my group were all seasoned players and their discs spun in long, glorious arcs toward the target. Mine, while mostly heading in the right direction, had nowhere near the distance.

It often took two or three goes to reach the landing point of their first one.

The targets were a strange, basket like structure with metal chains that either helped the frisbee remain in, or annoyingly bounced it out. The course featured a creek, many trees and members of the public. We tried not to hit any of them.

I learnt that O.B. means out of bounds and plastic does not always float.

Receiving plenty of encouragement from the boys, I pressed on. My score was somewhere between so-so and horrendous. I was surprised at my accuracy with “putting” which helped my score.

The beauty of this sport is that it is suitable for all ages. If you are capable of a stroll in the park and can hurl a plastic disc, you can play it.

Having survived all 18 holes, I thanked my fellow “golfers” for their tuition, tips and most of all, their patience.

by Cheryl Lockwood

YEARS ago, my one and only attempt at golf resulted in frustration and embarrassment, caused by the numerous swings that hit nothing but air.

This made me nervous about my spur of the moment decision to try a game with the word golf in the title.

I resisted the urge to leave. I was at a park with a bunch of blokes I’d never met and about to play a sport. What could go wrong?

Disc golf, also known as frisbee golf, has been around for years, but I’d never seen it, much less played it. The concept is straightforward – throwing frisbees around a set course with the aim of landing them in purpose-built receptacles.

Like regular golf, the less throws it takes, the better the score.

The cost was a $5, but I was welcomed to give it a try for free: “Tag along for a few throws and see what you think.”

Clutching the two discs kindly loaned to me, I was glad I didn’t turn up with my standard, beach variety frisbee.

While round and plastic, the discs for this sport are a little different and like golf clubs, more than one can be used. Most of the guys had quite a few discs lined up like colourful picnic plates in bags slung over their shoulders.