Not So Merri Creek

Wednesday last week began ordinarily enough. I was jogging (somewhat reluctantly) along my usual route by the creek, when I passed a mum and her toddler looking at something in the water. I ran past, glancing over at what I supposed was a duck or moorhen, only to see, swimming against the far bank, the unmistakable form of a duck-billed platypus. Here in the inner north of Melbourne, a real live platypus!  I stopped instantly (and not at all reluctantly), sat down by the woman and her toddler and gazed in wonder at the murky little shape on the other bank. I knew that there were recent reports of platypus in the Merri Creek near Moreland Road and I knew that this meant the stretch of creek just upstream from my house in East Brunswick. The reports were entirely credible and yet somehow I didn’t really believe that something so wonderful could be living practically in my backyard.

The toddler’s cheerful cries of “duck, duck!” rang out across the mud-coloured waters. The platypus swam in and out from the bank, splashing gently - sometimes surfacing under the overhanging vegetation of the bank, sometimes a little further out but never more than half a meter from the far edge. I watched for a while and as I did my wonder was tinged by a niggling concern. What was a shy, crepuscular creature doing splashing about mid morning, seemingly oblivious to its audience of gobsmacked inner-city humans? Was it trapped in some way? Or hurt? Something seemed not quite right but the woman and I talked in excited whispers and I pushed away my concerns. Who were we to wonder at the motivations of a platypus? Surely it knew what it was doing... maybe even building a burrow!

The woman eventually picked up her child left but I stayed to watch for a while until the far bank went quiet and still. Then I jogged back home and reported the whole adventure breathlessly to my boyfriend and housemates. I was beyond excited at the thought of a platypus living happily, just down the road, in MY creek! Throughout the day my heart leapt with joy at the thought of it swimming, feeding and perhaps even burrowing, just around the corner! Yet every now and then, the wildlife-crusading eleven year old inside me was troubled by the not-quite-rightness of it all. I convinced my housemates, Eliza and Lachy, and my boyfriend, Sean, to come back with me at dusk for another look. They didn’t need much convincing. I could hardly wait.

Platypus have numbered amongst my favourite animals since third year uni, when a tall, curly-haired PhD student wooed me by taking me platypus-watching at a secret location on the banks of an outer Brisbane creek. I am willing to acknowledge that a certain amount of the evening’s excitement lay in the romance of the secluded bushland location and the company of a handsome “older” man. Yet I was taken completely by surprise at the uncanny wonder I felt when I caught my first glimpse of the platypus, swimming with strange grace across the surface of that suburban creek. 

My interest in the PhD student soon waned but my devotion to the delightful duck-billed creature remained. Over the years I have sat silently on the banks of numerous bushland creeks and lakes, from Cairns to Tassie, plagued by mozzies, squinting through the half dark, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the local platypus. 

Those who have watched for platypus know that there is nothing quite like waiting at dusk or dawn, every moment doubting, about to give up and leave; then all of a sudden catching sight of that utterly distinctive shape as it slips across the water’s surface before diving back out of sight.  The elusive, mysterious, marvellous platypus, most primitive of mammals and yet so beautifully adapted it has remained unchanged across millennia; a creature so seemingly improbable and yet clearly so quietly comfortable in its own skin.

And so that evening we trailed back to the same spot, breath held, eyes peeled. As we approached, I crossed my fingers that we’d see the platypus gliding merrily across the creek, ducking and surfacing as it searched for dinner. But as soon as we reached the place where I’d sat that morning, I realised something was up. The shadows were long, the dusk light was dimming but the platypus was splashing against the bank exactly as it had been earlier that morning. 

We watched for a little while but deep down I knew that it was trapped in some way. I realised that as I’d watched that morning, as I’d walked away and every moment since, the poor creature had been struggling desperately free itself. My stomach sank as I grasped what should have been obvious all along. And yet, the eleven year old self inside me gave a silent cheer of excitement – it was time to get involved!

And so we did. All four of us sprang into action. Lachlan stayed where he was to direct us, while Eliza and I crossed to the far bank for a closer look. Eliza held my ankles securely while I lay down on my stomach and pushing aside the over-hanging plants, peered down past the edge of the bank and into the darkening water of the creek. Through the gloomy water I could see that the platypus had something looking suspiciously like a rubber band twined tightly around its torso, and that this was badly tangled in the roots hanging from the bank. 

I realised at once that I couldn’t untangle the mess with my hands so Sean rushed back home to get a knife, a torch and a bucket. Despite our efforts to work quietly and carefully, the platypus had managed to get even more tangled and had flipped itself onto its back. I couldn’t see much in the dark and I started to worry that if its head was underwater it would drown before Sean returned with a knife. Eliza, still firmly holding my ankles, had a MacGyver moment and suggested I try cutting it free with a key. She passed over her house key and I started sawing away carefully at the roots. To my joy, it worked!

The sawing of the key disturbed the platypus even further and it started making the strangest little gurgling growls which carried eerily across the dark water. I worried that the extra pressure of my sawing was pulling on the twine around its body and hurting it. However, the noise did make it easier to keep its head above water as I could clearly hear from the gurgles when it slipped underneath the surface. Things were, however, made trickier by the fact that we didn’t know if it was a male or a female. Male platypuses have a poisonous spur on their hind leg, and I had no intention of getting spiked. This meant that whatever happened, I had to keep my hands well clear of its back end.

I don’t know how long we worked on that dark, mozzie-infested creek bank but I remember, despite my concern being thrilled at the feel of the platypus’s velvety pelt under my fingers. A wild platypus, at my fingertips, in my creek! I sawed away frantically and eventually the poor beast was almost free. Sean arrived back with the gear just in time. There was a minor setback when the bike light I was holding between my teeth slipped irretrievably into the creek but by that stage we were nearly done. However careless I may have been with Sean's bike light, I make very sure that I held on most carefully to the terrible tangle that was still attached to the platypus. The mess of rubbish and roots was still firmly bound to its body and I could imagine nothing worse than having it escape in its current state and swim away into the blackness. Finally, I scooped the aggravated creature carefully into the big bucket and snipped the last of the roots with scissors. I tied my scarf around the bucket and everyone simultaneously hauled me and the platypus-filled bucket carefully up onto the bank. 

Despite its day-long ordeal, the platypus was incredibly strong and it tried repeatedly to scrabble over the side of the bucket. Tying the soggy scarf over the top to keep the beast contained, we hurried home, debating whether or not to cut it free ourselves or rush it straight to the vet and let them deal with it. The decision was made when we saw clearly in the hallway light just how tangled it was. The rubber band was cutting deeply across the poor animal’s neck and shoulders and there was a huge snarl of black roots still attached to its back like some kind of nightmarish alien parasite. 

It was decided that the empty bathtub would be the best place to work so wearing a pair of (disturbingly flimsy) washing up gloves and armed with a towel, I held down the struggling platypus (gently) by the head and tail while Liza snipped carefully away the snarl of roots, rubber band and what turned out to be several coils of black plastic twine. Sean dodged around us snapping pictures where he could while Lachie consulted Google to get the number for a late night vet. 

There was a moment of strange exaltation when Eliza snipped the last bit of debris free. We lifted the platypus out of the bathtub. None of us could quite believe what we’d done and that we were sitting here in an inner city flat with a real, live platypus. There wasn’t time to ogle or coo, we were keen to get straight to the vet, but there was no mistaking the uncanny, furry, strong, duck-billed, platypussyness of it, so wild and weirdly out of place amongst the white tiles and toilet paper of this suburban bathroom.

And that was it, we tucked the brown body amongst towels in an esky, piled into the car and, directed by Lachie, hightailed it to the Essendon Emergency vet. They whisked it away and I left my number in the hope of finding out the rest of the story. And I was lucky. The next morning I received a call from the dedicated wildlife carer, Helen who had collected the platypus and taken it up to Healesville for an appointment with Jess, the platypus specialist. The vets at Healesville were fairly positive about things. Apparently he (it was a he) had some nasty gashes around his neck from the entanglement but all going well he would be released that evening.

Photo by Healesville Sanctuary

The rubbish and roots in which the platypus was tangled.

The grotty stretch of creek that our platypus appears to call home.

By well-intentioned law, the platypus had to be re-released in exactly the same spot it was found. I was at first dismayed, actually, horrified at the idea of putting the poor creature back into a stretch of creek chocked with litter. It could only be a matter of time before some rubbishy snag appeared and the platypus was unwittingly trapped once more. And yet as the evening approached and I organised to meet the wildlife carer at the creek, I came to realise that that law was (who would have thought it?!) quite right. It was put in place to ensure that wild animals are released into their own, familiar territory and not into the unknown dangers of somewhere new. But there is a deeper wisdom to it as well. Releasing animals back where they were found puts the power back into the paws, claws, fins and flippers of the wild animals themselves. 

Because it’s not our place to question the platypus’s choice. For reasons known only to himself, he chose to travel through, perhaps even live in that stretch of Merri Creek. The fact that he was in good condition, big, strong and glowing with health suggests that until he was inadvertently tangled, he was doing pretty well for himself. Perhaps the work we put into our suburban creeks, monitoring water quality, holding cleanup days and replanting native vegetation means that despite the rubbish and the roadside runoff, they’ve actually become a decent habitat for platypus. 

Regardless of whether or not we agree with the animal’s choices, whatever our inner wildlife warriors might tell us, sometimes it’s important not to interfere. If platypus want to try their luck in Merri Creek, we should probably let them. Indeed, when it all comes down to it, we really shouldn’t be removing the platypus because of the rubbish - damn it, we should be removing the rubbish because of the platypus!

And so, twenty four hours after his dramatic rescue and just meters away from the bank where we’d found him trapped, I watched the platypus slip quietly, for better or worse, back into the dirty brown waters of Merri Creek. 

To find out when the next Merri Creek clean up day is, visit Friends of Merri Creek.
 

The Pick of the Bunch

Call me old fashioned but I love cut flowers. I am a compulsive plucker, and I almost always have a vase, jar or jug of something somewhere around the house. With the arrival of spring, all sorts of flowering lovelies have exploded down at the garden just begging to be picked and put into vases. And, despite a lack of planning I've even got a few cute things flowering in the pots out the back.

My enduring favourite would have to be the sweet peas. When I was a little girl, our next door neighbour, Robert, erected a trellis one spring and planted the most spectacular bed of sweet peas. It was great fun watching them grow up the trellis and when they flowered they were breathtaking. Mum cut big bunches of them and I used to love going over and staring at the wall of scented loveliness. I've had a fondness for sweet peas ever since.

I have a couple of sweet pea plants in my plot at the moment and there's lots of sweetpeas going off their heads in some of the neighbouring plots as well. Next year, come spring, I might just take a leaf out of Robert's book and plant the plot with a wall to wall tangle of sweet pea fabulousness.

Anyway, the following photos are all of recent blooms.... a few of them are double ups. I think it's fascinating the way a bunch of flowers takes on a different character in different lights and I love the way they change over time. All of the flowers pictured were picked from the roadside or from my garden(s). The only exceptions being the last two photos, a bunch of glorious florist-bought poppies from my true love that I just couldn't resist including. Sigh.

 

 

 

M and F thought it was hilarious to pose beautifully with their posies for a moment, only to fall down shrieking with laughter every time I tried to take a photo. Turned out it was pretty funny. The posies didn't last long but plenty of fun was had by all.

 

 

  

xx

Poppy love.

Broad Bean Lovin'

 

Broad beans are the thing in the garden at the moment, big clumps of them, tall and round-leafed, stand proudly in almost every plot. And my plot is no exception. Lize and I put some in at the start of winter and they’ve just started cropping. We picked the first beans on Friday and I was determined to show them off at a pot luck Sunday lunch. Down at the garden on Sunday morning, harvesting more beans I got chatting to Gavin and Amanda about cooking them. They brought up the slightly frustrating element of broad bean cookery, the fact that once you’re done shelling them and skinning them, your huge pile of beans becomes a surprisingly small handful of actual edible beans.

I got a reasonable haul from my plot but as I was making a dish to serve about 10 people, I decided to find a way to stretch my beans as far as possible. Combining them with a pasta salad seemed the obvious choice and I decided to avoid the broad bean law of diminishing returns by making sure I used as much of the bean as possible. This meant combining several recipes and cooking methods, a risky strategy for a Sunday show off luncheon but I think it paid off in the end.

My recipe ended up being a combination/bastardisation of a few different recipes and cooking suggestions. I served it on Sunday with the wonderfully wanky title (thanks Rylee!), Pasta with Broad Beans Three Ways. This didn’t sit quite right with me though (too Masterchef) so I decided to ratchet up the wank factor and rename it something a little more Frenchy and chic.  And so, ladies and gentleman, without further ado, I give you....

Broad Bean Ménage a Trois 

Basically everything gets made separately then combined with the cooked pasta at the end. It’s a little time consuming (took me about an hour and a half) perfect for Sunday lunch but maybe not for Monday night dinner.  The three different broad bean approaches are outlined below.

Part 1) Getting Smashed

This part of the recipe uses the larger beans (which need to be removed from their tough outer shells) in a bastardisation of the Moroccan Broad Bean Dip from Stephanie. Because the beans are cooked for longer than usual, the skin softens and can be left on, which means more bean for your buck.

I cooked the shelled beans in salted boiling water for 15 minutes, strained them (reserved the cooking water) and chucked them in mortar and pestle with lemon juice, a couple of cloves of garlic, salt, pepper, a little olive oil and a splash or two of the cooking water. Then I simply bashed them up until I had a chunky paste. I tasted it to check the seasoning, as luck would have it, mine turned out to be bang on... but you could always adjust as required.

Part 2) In the Raw

Jamie Oliver mentions in Jamie at Home that you can eat baby broad beans raw AND that the shoots are great in salads. I took him up on this and picked a bunch of bean tips, washed them and chopped them up with some sorrel. I also put aside the smaller sized beans when I was shelling them for the smash (above) and tossed these through the salad too.

Part 3) Long and Slow

This part formed the bulk of the beans in my salad. It uses the smaller beans and is a variation on Stephanie’s Andalucían recipe. Stephanie suggests only using beans less than 12cms – because of their smaller size (and the slow cooking process) they can be eaten pod and all, whoo!

So, I topped and tailed the broad beans (washed first) then cut them into segments, trying my best to cut between the individual beans not through them. If I’d had more garlic I would have cooked a little in oil first then added my beans to the fry pan. As it was I turned the beans in olive oil a couple of time before adding lemon juice, a dash of water, salt, pepper, bay and thyme (a dash of white wine and some lemon peel would also go nicely). When the whole thing began to simmer I tipped it into an oven proof dish popped on the lid and put it in the oven at 180 degrees C to cook slowly for an hour.

Bits on the Side

While my slow beans were cooking I put the fry pan back to use, first to cook up a batch of caramelised red onions (cook covered with a sprig of rosemary, a bay leaf and lots of oil for 15 mins, stirring often then uncover and cook further until they taste just right). When the onions were done I toasted a bunch of pine nuts, flaked almonds would also be good. I also shaved a whole lot of good quality parmesan to mix through.

I boiled the pasta (I used fancy fusilli), strained it, then chucked it back in the pot with the rest of the cooking water from the smashed beans. I let it sit for a few minute then strained off the excess water.

The Final Toss

Once the pasta has soaked in the cooking water, it'd be good to add the bean smash to mix it through well. I didn’t this time, in fact I forgot to mix in the smashed beans all together and only remembered to do so after a couple of bland-ish mouthfuls at the table. Could have been a disaster! Take home message - don't, whatever you do, forget the smashed beans.

Anyway, once the slow beans are done, all that remains is to assemble the salad. Toss everything together and garnish with a few extra shaves of Parmesan, a dash of lemon juice and olive oil if necessary, and a good sprinkle of pine nuts. Serve up and enjoy with good mates and good wine.

 

 

Spring Rain

 Rain on the parsley,

Rain on the peas,

Rain on the broad beans,

And rain on me!

Spring rain finally arrived in Melbourne! It was a dry September and I was getting worried about heading into summer without a good spring soaking. But the rain has come and it's stayed around. It's raining as I write, "falling down like love" as the Go-Betweens sang.

Speaking of spring rain...the other week, Mum and I brought a whole lot of plants and headed down to the garden to give a spring overhaul. Because Mum was only here for a couple of days we couldn't be very flexible with our time and we ended up gardening in the middle of a thunderstorm. By the end of the afternoon we were soaked to the bone, covered in mud, and my nerves were shot from the proximity of the lightning and thunder (we were gardening under powerlines). 

The garden, however, was transformed: the soil was turned and fed and mulched, winter plants removed and composted, stepping stones relaid, baby lettuce, basil and coriander planted and most importantly the tomatoes in and staked, ready for summer. I discovered the joys of chopping up plants for the compost (like making a giant coleslaw) and I came to relish the satisfying smack of snail under boot. All in all, it was a wonderful afternoon and, I hope, a great start to the growing season!!

Spring has Springed...

Spring has sprung,

The grass has riz,

I wonder where the birdie is?

The little bird is on the wing....

No, that's absurd!

The wing is on the little bird.

Spike Milligan

You know, there's something special about gardens. That whole bringing people together thing. Sounds sappy but damn it, it's true. Without even trying, our garden already manages to foster a sense of, well... community. We aren't near any council flats, there's no magical melding of people from across the globe. Nor does the garden reach across any sort of socio-economic spectrum, we're all pretty much middle class whities with a genteel gardening addiction. Nonetheless, doing my bit at the working bee on Saturday, I couldn't help but notice a definite sense of community. It was there in the quiet conversation of myself and my fellow gardeners, it was there in the jokes we made as we worked together, pulling weeds and spreading mulch and it was there at the end of the day when we proudly swapped the veggies and flowers we'd grown in our plots.

This irresistible wave of community (and curiosity) also drew in passers-by. Two older men, one from Russia, one from Germany stopped by and chatted about gardens in Germany and a cousin with a plot in a garden in St Kilda. An old Italian man and his small white dog paused to admire my weeding. In halting but enthusiastic English the man explained that he was walking the dog for his friend who was sick and he briefly foisted the dog on me for a pat. A quiet young hipster with dark glasses and bad teeth inquired whether we had any veggies for sale and he was immediately rewarded with an armful of free produce. 

 

But, most interesting of all was the couple, about my parents' age, who stopped to chat while I was mulching the front verge. I couldn't work out if they were husband and wife or brother and sister but they explained that they'd both grown up in Brunswick, just around the corner off Albion Street. It was their first trip back in years. They'd spent the morning revisiting old haunts and had brunch at a cafe that used to be their local milk bar (A Minor Place). The area we were standing on, they explained, had been vacant, surrounded by empty land and run-down factories. 

They couldn't believe the transformation that had happened in the area and they enjoyed sharing their reminiscences as much as I enjoyed hearing them. They were blown away by the garden, I told them how it had started and about our ongoing plans for the sensory beds and the gazebo; and they promised to come back and visit in the future to watch it grow. As I handed them two heads of lettuce from my plot I realised that the garden had done it again, this time reaching across time and effortlessly bringing people together through the past and the present and the future.