Latest news with #Pavlovian
Japan Forward
3 days ago
- Japan Forward
Why to Try a Slow Train Ride Through Nagano
Stop this trainI want to get off and go home againI can't take the speed it's moving inI know I can't But honestly, won't someone stop this train ? ー John Mayer Departing Sakudaira Station on the Koumi Line, Nagano Prefecture, apartment buildings quickly become single-standing homes. In turn, those transform into freshly planted rice paddies, then mountains. I place a can of cold, black coffee on the windowsill next to my hiking pack and poles. At home, nothing tastes better than a hot cup of freshly ground coffee made with decent beans. But before a trip, like a Pavlovian dog, the stale, cold coffee makes me excited for the upcoming adventure. For some reason, the food on a long trip tastes better, too. A granola bar and some unsalted nuts are all you need to feast like a king. Departing Sakudaira Station (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) I ride this train for the sole reason that I have never done so before. The mountain climber in me needs no excuse other than the mountain (or train line) existing. I'm also a sucker for roads I have never driven. Finally, having the time to take a slow train is also no small luxury after a long spring season filled with work trips. Still, I cannot appreciate leisure without the busyness. I am thankful for each. During the pandemic, a chain of unbroken holidays was a burden, not a privilege, for a restless soul like me. Today, my plans extend no further than riding the train, alighting where I fancy, walking, and seeing what I encounter. The first surprise occurs when, lost in thought, I finally notice, "Gosh, this is a long stop." The conductor gestures, then gruffly says, "We have reached the Shuten, the final stop." Matsubarako, the station I intend to visit, is two stops and 4 kilometers away. "It's going to be a while until the next train," he says casually. By this, he means a train will arrive in two and a half hours. (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) That is how I find myself walking to Matsubarako Station along a beautiful countryside road lined with rice paddies, rivers, and carefully manicured gardens, with an equal number of abandoned homes. When I finally arrive, Lake Matsubarako, set against the snow-capped Yasugatake range, resembles a postcard. But I rather prefer the walk. It's often the unexpected stops and so-called mishaps that prove the most memorable. The train ride and long walk provide ample time to ruminate. This was my true aim: uninterrupted time to think. I look around and consider rural depopulation, where villages across Japan like this one are disappearing. There is loneliness, but also beauty in the desolation. The abandoned homes contain memories. It saddens me to see communities vanishing. But developed lands returning to the wild doesn't seem like the worst outcome either. The far more common human tendency of developing wild places into concrete jungles seems the bigger travesty. Although Japan faces economic challenges due to its demographic situation, there may be benefits in ways we cannot yet calculate or see. (©Daniel Moore) With population decline comes the loss of small train lines, too. For this, I feel unqualified lament. I still remember my fourth-grade teacher in Japanese elementary school, who bemoaned the loss of a train line due to the construction of the bullet train in preparation for the 1998 Winter Olympics. "We used to relax and enjoy the obento box to Tokyo. Now, by the time you realize it, you are already there." As a teacher, he must have enjoyed the enforced break away from students. As an adult, I finally understand the luxury of not being rushed. Japan still boasts hundreds of local train lines across its 47 prefectures. I can only discuss Nagano Prefecture with any authority. Wherever you find yourself, there is bound to be a lonely train line with plenty to explore, though. The Chikuma River in Nagano Prefecture. (©Daniel Moore) The Iiyama Line starts at Nagano Station, going North into Niigata Prefecture. The countryside in both prefectures is mountainous, sparsely populated, and receives copious snowfall. At Togari Nozawa Station, almost everyone alights. The already minuscule three-car train detaches, and a single car continues its solitary journey North. Don't worry, hardly anyone rides the train, so there are plenty of seats. This is where the real viewing action begins. The Iiyama Line (©Daniel Moore) Following the winding Chikuma River, one understands how aptly the "river of a thousand turns" is named. It winds its way through steep valleys and mountains, twisting, turning, and ever-expanding on its path to the Sea of Japan. For a small country, the volume of water available in Japan is mind-boggling. For bonus points, read Yasunari Kawabata's Snow Country (Penguin Books, English translation) while taking the trip, as the novel takes place in nearby Yuzawa. Some things have changed since the days of the novel, but I suspect not as much as one would think. (©Daniel Moore) While more agricultural and suburban, the Nagano Dentetsu Line offers equally stunning views of Nagano's mountains. The line might sound familiar to those who have visited the world-famous Jigokudani Snow Monkey Park. Because it is a private line, it holds the dubious distinction of being the most expensive in Japan, considering the distance it covers. However, on a clear day, the Hokushin Gogaku (Five Peaks) range is capped with snow and majestic, reminiscent of the Swiss Alps. I have climbed and snowboarded all of them, and I highly recommend an extended stay in the area, regardless of the season. In the summer and autumn, the ride is a veritable safari of fruit and vegetable farms. Everyone is a farmer in the countryside, and peeking into people's gardens feels like a window to the soul of the Japanese countryside. I admire this region so much I even named my Airbnbs after the peaks. Chuo Line Stations list (©Daniel Moore) The Shinano Express Line runs three hours between Nagano and Nagoya. While far from a bullet train, the express train still rushes past the Kiso Valley with disheartening speed. The narrow valley, rushing river, charming villages, and changing scenery rushing past make you wish the train would go slower. (©Daniel Moore) To really stop and smell the roses, take a local train on the Chuo Line between Matsumoto and Nakatsugawa Stations. The line shares a name with the Chuo Line in Tokyo running from Tokyo Station to Shinjuku and beyond. Otherwise, the lines share nothing else in common. (©Daniel Moore) In the Kiso Valley, the trains are more frequent, allowing visitors to get off and explore before hopping back on. Well-marked trails and the popularity of the Nakasendo trail make finding your way in the Kiso Valley a cinch. (©Daniel Moore) When planning a Japan itinerary, it is tempting to plan every minute, not wanting to waste any precious sightseeing time. It's scary, but I recommend leaving a blank page in the calendar. You might meet someone who recommends a spot not in the guidebooks, or you may need a day to relax. And of course, you may take a slow train to the end of the line. At the end, I often wish I could continue further. In those moments, I think about John Mayer's words and the need to slow down. I want my life to be a local train stopping along the way, not an express whizzing by the important moments. A single-car train is a physical reminder to stop, relax, and breathe. The great thing is, you never know what you will encounter along the way. (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) (©Daniel Moore) Author: Daniel Moore Learn more about the wild side of Japan through Daniel's essays . Leave questions or comments in the section below, or reach Daniel through Active Travel Japan .
Sydney Morning Herald
12-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
Sharp counter meals, maverick art: how this corner pub was given The Royal treatment
Built in 1882, this inner-city landmark offers insights into (West) Aussie pub culture circa 2025 and beyond. Previous SlideNext Slide 14/20How we score To anyone who clicked straight through to this week's review after reading the headline above and decoding my not-so-cryptic clue, congratulations. As a prize, you get to go home five minutes early. Hopefully, that's enough of a head start to get to The Royal Hotel – the CBD one, not the East Perth one – in time to take advantage of the happy hour beer special being offered daily between 4pm and 5pm. But if the thought of pints for a tenner triggered some sort of Pavlovian response to shake the person next to you or bombard WhatsApp group chats in excitement, don't feel bad. At a time where risings costs are shaping more of our choices, excitement about low-cost lager is understandable. Especially when said blanket pricing applies to all six of the beers on tap, from the workhorse Swanny D and guest craft beers to Guinness. If The Royal isn't home to Perth's cheapest (happy hour) pint of the black stuff, it'd have to be one of the title's more serious contenders: at least as far as grand, lovingly restored CBD hotels go, anyway. Despite The Royal's distinguished history, I knew it largely as a rickety shell on Wellington Street that's housed a barber, backpackers and squatters. Then in mid-2018, John Parker of The Parker Group (The Standard, Busselton Pavilion) took it over and spent 18 months and $13 million dollars helping the 140-year-old building rediscover its Gold Rush-era swagger. Specialist leadlight glass repairers were called in. Subversive art was bought and hung. The first-floor balcony overlooking Yagan Square and William Street was carefully restored and now seats 200 of the 725 guests that this two-storey pub can accommodate. For anyone who gets energised by noise, chaos and a crowd, this is the landmark for you. This scale and scope also influence the pub's cooking. While the ground floor is home to the calorific Detroit-style pizza of Willi's Pizza Bar and suave new-age bistro Fleur, the main bar upstairs keeps things familiar via a roll call of pub hits that everyone knows the words to, supplemented by some modern Australian cornerstones. Beer-battered snapper is meaty of flesh and crunchy of armour, the accompanying tartare sauce providing cut-through. On Wednesdays – the pub rotates through daily food specials – $30 gets you juicy scotch fillet accessorised with garlic butter, salad and chips that are pale of hue, chunky of cut and closer in DNA to British chippies than crisp American-style fries. In a cute twist, the house burger has been dubbed The Royale. (Enter stage right, Pulp Fiction references.) It's been years since I've eaten a Quarter Pounder, but I'm certain that the clown's burgers weren't succulent smash patty-style joys like this. Just as finding skin-contact vermentino on the wine list is a welcome surprise, so too is discovering that jazzing up ceviche with chilli flakes and a glossy avocado mousse can help offset kingfish fatigue. Hot chicken wings are prepared Korean-style and golden-fried, then doused in a chilli sauce with fermented bite. Twists of casarecce pasta in a comforting sugo alla vodka are a nod to American red sauce deliciousness. It's not all smooth sailing, however. The golden, thinly pounded pork schnitzel tastes wanting as is, but finds it voice when slicked with the dense brown butter and caper gravy it's served with. Impotent chilli squid yearns for crunch. Sticks of broccolini in an otherwise fine Arabic hummus and zaatar arrangement weren't grilled as promised, but blanched, limp and unloved. As is often the case with big operations, consistency can be an issue, not just with cooking, but also with front-of-house. Large spaces need large floor teams: the crew here ranges from disinterested bartenders to engaged, earpiece-equipped hosts eager to help. And just like other high-volume venues, The Royal lets you order and pay via QR codes with varying degrees of success. (Pro: not having to leave the table or conversation to get more pinot! Con: entrees and mains all arriving at once!) It's still early days for the technology, but I can't help but wonder what effect reducing human interactions will have on service standards. But enough of the future, let's focus on the now. And the fact that The Royal is a very likeable ode to pub culture and proof of the power of self-belief. It's a beautiful space to be in, and its price point is accessible to many, especially if you time your visit right and order smartly. A primetime address near a major intersection and train station makes it ideal for after-work drinks, dates, work lunches and, vitally, people-watching and people-meeting. Public houses don't work without a public. And over the last three months, I've met members of the public here that have challenged me, surprised me and even taught me. The bubbly Canadian from the same province as my late aunt. The wiry, serious-looking bloke who, unprompted, put out his ciggy and apologised for lighting up upwind from our table because he didn't see us. The lady with pink-tinted hair in a wheelchair who snuck onto the balcony for a quick suck on her vape. We swapped small talk about The Royal's accessibility (good) before she wheeled herself back inside. 'It's not bad for an old hotel,' she smiled. I smiled back in agreeance.
The Age
12-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
Sharp counter meals, maverick art: how this corner pub was given The Royal treatment
Built in 1882, this inner-city landmark offers insights into (West) Aussie pub culture circa 2025 and beyond. Previous SlideNext Slide 14/20How we score To anyone who clicked straight through to this week's review after reading the headline above and decoding my not-so-cryptic clue, congratulations. As a prize, you get to go home five minutes early. Hopefully, that's enough of a head start to get to The Royal Hotel – the CBD one, not the East Perth one – in time to take advantage of the happy hour beer special being offered daily between 4pm and 5pm. But if the thought of pints for a tenner triggered some sort of Pavlovian response to shake the person next to you or bombard WhatsApp group chats in excitement, don't feel bad. At a time where risings costs are shaping more of our choices, excitement about low-cost lager is understandable. Especially when said blanket pricing applies to all six of the beers on tap, from the workhorse Swanny D and guest craft beers to Guinness. If The Royal isn't home to Perth's cheapest (happy hour) pint of the black stuff, it'd have to be one of the title's more serious contenders: at least as far as grand, lovingly restored CBD hotels go, anyway. Despite The Royal's distinguished history, I knew it largely as a rickety shell on Wellington Street that's housed a barber, backpackers and squatters. Then in mid-2018, John Parker of The Parker Group (The Standard, Busselton Pavilion) took it over and spent 18 months and $13 million dollars helping the 140-year-old building rediscover its Gold Rush-era swagger. Specialist leadlight glass repairers were called in. Subversive art was bought and hung. The first-floor balcony overlooking Yagan Square and William Street was carefully restored and now seats 200 of the 725 guests that this two-storey pub can accommodate. For anyone who gets energised by noise, chaos and a crowd, this is the landmark for you. This scale and scope also influence the pub's cooking. While the ground floor is home to the calorific Detroit-style pizza of Willi's Pizza Bar and suave new-age bistro Fleur, the main bar upstairs keeps things familiar via a roll call of pub hits that everyone knows the words to, supplemented by some modern Australian cornerstones. Beer-battered snapper is meaty of flesh and crunchy of armour, the accompanying tartare sauce providing cut-through. On Wednesdays – the pub rotates through daily food specials – $30 gets you juicy scotch fillet accessorised with garlic butter, salad and chips that are pale of hue, chunky of cut and closer in DNA to British chippies than crisp American-style fries. In a cute twist, the house burger has been dubbed The Royale. (Enter stage right, Pulp Fiction references.) It's been years since I've eaten a Quarter Pounder, but I'm certain that the clown's burgers weren't succulent smash patty-style joys like this. Just as finding skin-contact vermentino on the wine list is a welcome surprise, so too is discovering that jazzing up ceviche with chilli flakes and a glossy avocado mousse can help offset kingfish fatigue. Hot chicken wings are prepared Korean-style and golden-fried, then doused in a chilli sauce with fermented bite. Twists of casarecce pasta in a comforting sugo alla vodka are a nod to American red sauce deliciousness. It's not all smooth sailing, however. The golden, thinly pounded pork schnitzel tastes wanting as is, but finds it voice when slicked with the dense brown butter and caper gravy it's served with. Impotent chilli squid yearns for crunch. Sticks of broccolini in an otherwise fine Arabic hummus and zaatar arrangement weren't grilled as promised, but blanched, limp and unloved. As is often the case with big operations, consistency can be an issue, not just with cooking, but also with front-of-house. Large spaces need large floor teams: the crew here ranges from disinterested bartenders to engaged, earpiece-equipped hosts eager to help. And just like other high-volume venues, The Royal lets you order and pay via QR codes with varying degrees of success. (Pro: not having to leave the table or conversation to get more pinot! Con: entrees and mains all arriving at once!) It's still early days for the technology, but I can't help but wonder what effect reducing human interactions will have on service standards. But enough of the future, let's focus on the now. And the fact that The Royal is a very likeable ode to pub culture and proof of the power of self-belief. It's a beautiful space to be in, and its price point is accessible to many, especially if you time your visit right and order smartly. A primetime address near a major intersection and train station makes it ideal for after-work drinks, dates, work lunches and, vitally, people-watching and people-meeting. Public houses don't work without a public. And over the last three months, I've met members of the public here that have challenged me, surprised me and even taught me. The bubbly Canadian from the same province as my late aunt. The wiry, serious-looking bloke who, unprompted, put out his ciggy and apologised for lighting up upwind from our table because he didn't see us. The lady with pink-tinted hair in a wheelchair who snuck onto the balcony for a quick suck on her vape. We swapped small talk about The Royal's accessibility (good) before she wheeled herself back inside. 'It's not bad for an old hotel,' she smiled. I smiled back in agreeance.
Yahoo
12-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Boos, cheers and a heavy dose of irony as Trump takes in Les Mis against backdrop of LA protests
'Do you hear the people sing? / Singing the song of angry men? / It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!' When the rousing anthem of revolution filled the Kennedy Center on Wednesday night, Donald Trump may have had a Pavlovian response along the lines of 'Get me Stephen Miller' or 'Send in the marines'. We will never know. The tuxedo-clad US president had stood on a red carpet, accompanied by first lady Melania in a long black dress, promising a 'golden era' for America before attending the musical Les Misérables, which translates as The Miserable Ones or The Wretched. Related: Los Angeles, city of immigrant protests: why it's no surprise LA rose up against Trump The story of Les Mis is inspired by the June Rebellion, an 1832 insurrection by republicans against the authoritarianism of a newly established French king. No one is expecting a replay from Republicans in June 2025. Characters include Jean Valjean, who is imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread then seeks redemption, and Inspector Javert, who is obsessed with law and order and hunts Valjean without mercy. One reporter asked Trump whether he identifies more with Valjean or Javert. 'Oh, that's a tough one,' chuckled the wannabe strongman who sent troops to crush immigration protests in Los Angeles and is about to stage a tank parade on his birthday. 'You better answer that one, honey,' he deflected to Melania. 'I don't know.' It was Trump's first production at the Kennedy Center, the performing arts complex where he pulled a Viktor Orbán and seized control in February. He pushed out the centre's former chair, fired its longtime president and pledged to overhaul an institution that he criticized as too woke. But ticket sales have fallen since and some performers have cancelled shows. On Wednesday, as he took his seat, 78-year-old Trump was greeted with a high-octane mix of cheers and boos that stopped after a round of 'USA' chants. Several drag queens in full regalia sat in the audience, presumably in response to Trump's criticism of the venue for hosting drag shows. One person shouted 'Viva Los Angeles!' as Trump stepped out of the presidential box at the intermission. The president's appearance was meant to boost fundraising for the Kennedy Center and he said donors raised more than $10m. But Maga's efforts to break into the thespian world went about as well as Napoleon's invasion of Russia. Red carpet arrivals for the show were a far cry from the glamour of Cannes, Hollywood or London's West End. Instead of crowds of fans clamouring for autographs and selfies, Trump and his allies walked through an eerily deserted Hall of Nations and looked unsure whether to answer questions yelled by the media. Those who did revelled in cultural ignorance. First came Corey Lewandowski, a former Trump campaign manager who has faced allegations of sexual harassment. He said: 'What's amazing is, out of all the years I've been in Washington DC, I've never been in this building.' JD Vance, the vice-president, walked the red carpet with wife Usha, now on the Kennedy Center's board of trustees, and denied that Trump had staged a 'hostile takeover'. He then tweeted: 'About to see Les Miserables with POTUS at the Kennedy Center. Me to Usha: so what's this about? A barber who kills people? Usha; [hysterical laughter].' Accompanied by his wife, the actor Cheryl Hines, Robert F Kennedy Jr recalled how his uncle, John F Kennedy – the president, whose giant bust looms in the atrium – used to say the Greeks were remembered for their architecture, sculpture, plays and poetry. 'A civilisation ultimately is judged based upon its culture and its art. He wanted to make sure that American civilisation would be judged by that and President Trump shares that vision.' Trump spent last Saturday night with Mike Tyson watching people beat the hell out of each other behind a chain-link fence in the Ultimate Fighting Championship, which is quite possibly how American civilisation will actually be judged. Indeed, on his watch, the Kennedy Center no longer feels very Kennedy-esque. The atmosphere is different from the days when Democrats Barack Obama and Nancy Pelosi glided in for the annual Kennedy Center Honors. Framed portraits of the Trumps and the Vances are mounted on a marble wall and, on Wednesday, were bathed in holy light. Washington is now a city under occupation. The president, who reportedly once derided 'shithole countries' in Africa, walked in beneath national flags that include Uganda, Zambia and Zimbabwe and past the opera house stage door. His impromptu press conference was a surreal combination of theatre and geopolitics, veering from his favourite musicals one moment to the prospect of Middle East war the next. 'I love Les Mis,' Trump said. 'We've seen it many times. We love it. One of my favourites.' He was untroubled by reports that understudies may perform due to boycotts by cast members. 'I couldn't care less,' he said. 'Honestly, I couldn't. All I do is run the country well.' Then on Iran: 'They can't have a nuclear weapon. Very simple. They can't have a nuclear weapon. We're not going to allow that.' Then back to showbiz. Brian Glenn of Real America's Voice, who is congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene's boyfriend, proclaimed: 'Mr President, we're making theatre great again, aren't we tonight?… You're bringing class back. The golden era of theatre!' Trump lapped it up as a cat does milk. 'And we have a golden era here in the country,' he said. 'We're bringing the country back fast and I'm very proud to have helped Los Angeles survive. Los Angeles right now, if we didn't do what we did, would be burning to the ground.' Glenn wasn't done. 'You're a New Yorker. You've been to a million theatres. Do you remember your first theatre production that you attended?' Trump looked pensive, as if mulling over countless nights absorbing the works of Samuel Beckett, Eugène Ionesco, Tom Stoppard, Tennessee Williams and August Wilson. 'A long time ago,' he mused. 'I would say maybe it was Cats.' Glenn put the same question to Melania, who had held Trump's hand while maintaining a sphinx-like expression. She cited The Phantom of the Opera, which must have been music to the ears of man whose cultural hinterland runs the gamut from 1980 to 1989. But on the night that Maga stormed America's citadel of culture, one man was nowhere to be seen. Elon Musk's banishment continues despite his recent attempts to end his feud with the president. Perhaps the tech bro was out there somewhere in the gloomy streets of Washington, channelling Les Mis's Éponine: On my own Pretending he's beside me All alone I walk with him 'til morning … Without me His world will go on turning A world that's full of happiness That I have never known
The Advertiser
01-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Advertiser
Protein all the rage for (Mr) men and women of a certain age
One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs.
