Are You OK

Published October 12, 2025 by helentastic67

Are You OK

I always ask people how they are? I think it’s a good habit to have. My recent adventure to the market produced this response. They said they were good that day but on the weekend the market had featured an Italian theme. I had seen a mention in an email somewhere, they said it had been the same four songs on repeat all day.

Honestly, this is the jam in a day and why you ask people. I suggested the older Italians would die off one day and he just needed to outlive them. He picked up a serrated edged knife and using a sawing motion ran it across his wrist. I confess, I hadn’t seen it the first time he had done it. I then demonstrated how to indicate blowing one’s brains out. Which he appreciated.

Amusing still, this encounter proceeded the “I love you too” moment. Took a dark turn, didn’t it? This is the benefits of having regular places I go and people I see out in my community.

This post I’m not advocating or encouraging the use or self-harm. If you have mental health issues, please seek help from a trained professional.

Bruises

Published November 11, 2024 by helentastic67

Bruises

A woman saw the bruise on my chin today. Six days later, she asked “You fall over? For what? Nothing!”

I didn’t bother explaining to her and shrugged and then the best response I’ve had all week, one word. “Fuck!”

Also, it helps to know I was in an Italian supermarket. Well Greek, but wog I guess so sometimes I love the non-PC and non-business-like response I can get from this sector. I seem “white” to many people in Australia, but in the “wog sector” I’m part of their own, as my father was Italian and I look enough European in that setting, they will not mince words. I appreciate that and respect it.

About 2 weeks after my fall and the bruise was mostly gone, I was at my favourite cafe and the longest serving hospitality staff member Gabby said rather simply “It could have been worse, you could have lost all your teeth!”

And she was bang on the money. Respect.

English as a First Language

Published April 14, 2024 by helentastic67

English As a First Language

Sometimes I question how lucky I am to have English as my first language and yes, it’s my only language however, I have a few Italian words, Greek even. Not the good ones, but the Italian ones are mostly all good ones, and even a few French ones.

So, I’m very conscious about how confusing my thoughts or words are when said out loud. How confusing they might be to people with a minimal grasp of English. But I mean spelling sometimes is a minefield.

Ragu. (Ragu is Italian, Ragout is French)

Why is it not spelt Ragoo?
It’s not because it tastes sooooo good.
Is it because it’s Italian?
It’s not a question.
I already consulted google.

Who Names These Coffee Varieties

Published March 20, 2023 by helentastic67

Who Names These Coffee Varieties

A recent trip to a coffee roaster saw us answering the questions about what kind of coffee is drunk in the household?

Just imagine I’m the latte drinker. Yes, my favourite meme for this is, “Latte is Italian for: you paid too much for that coffee!”

I described and created the coffee roast “I drank too much Sake last night!” Speaking for a friend. Poor young sales assistant looked at me questioning. Did you read the above? I drink latte and I was THERE!

Note! I’ve not thrown anyone specifically under the bus here, but this relates to the time around my father’s passing, she says diplomatically.

Say No to Tommy K on Pasta

Published February 24, 2020 by helentastic67

Say No to Tommy K on Pasta

In some ways I am a shame on my Nona (and my Italian heritage), who I only have few memories of, as she died when I was around six years old.

But the memories I have are of great love and fondness. So, in a sense I’m a shame on my Italian heritage, because I barely understand garlic. I use it on very few things because I try to make my Nona proud “But chilli?!” Like, sweet Jesus!

WFT! Who can I blame this abomination for this? I’ve just had some at a café and my lips are numb and I feel dehydrated.

But, in one way I can never find an excuse.

IT IS NEVER OK TO PUT TOMATO SAUCE! NO! NEVER! IT IS NEVER OK TO PUT TOMMY K ON PASTA!

I got some very WHITE cousins and they are lucky I didn’t slap them.

Now, that is an abomination. If you can’t use a tin of tomatoes, throw in a few vegies (carrot, capsicum, broccoli etc) and some spices and make a quick lazy pasta sauce, you have bigger problems.

So, SAY NO TO TOMATO SAUCE ON PASTA!

Today’s Lunch – 5th February 2020

Published February 5, 2020 by helentastic67

Today’s Lunch

Good Mental Health Day

Despite the next month of foodie posts would have you believe I don’t go out for dinner very often. Saturday just gone I went out for dinner with some friends. They are actually closer friends of a friend who couldn’t make it. So, I went out with a really lovely couple.

Anyway, my neighbourhood has an abundance of gourmet pizza places and burger places. Both exe Saturday night we did Italian pizza. A place called I’l Pizziaolo. Translation, the pizza maker. I did get better taking photos after the first course. In photos it went like this: going with other friends in a few weeks and one of those friends is more Wog than I am. He will cope.

Late Saturday night having already eaten what I refer to as my standard, standard Saturday wog lunch followed by more Italian for dinner. An ache in my side made me think for days, days! I had eaten too much food from the same food group. That being Wog.

Monday, I greeted my carer with the question, what’s in here? (Pointing to my side) Then questioning, kidney, liver? Which internal organ is so pissed off with me? Alas, I think I found another reason why I do not do chilli and pepper. It hurts my internal organs. Still going there again, just can’t eat the home made traditional Italian salamis.

Meanwhile, back to the present. Today’s offering is, a bolognaise arancini with side salad and medicine.

Cheers,
H

Animal Print

Published October 18, 2019 by helentastic67

Animal Print

I confess to say I’m not a fan on the animal print on people. I know, I know, it’s been around for eons.

Thank God, wearing fur is largely over and done with. But, every now and again some fashion victim tries to bring back Leopard print on pants or bags or fucking something.

I know I’m sounding rather grumpy about it but, every now and again I see an eighty-year-old Italian lady wearing them.

Now, I know an eighty-year-old wearing them. Wow, Wow, NO! Her children are doing her a disservice, take your mum shopping for age appropriate clothes. Her arse is no longer a peach. Might never have been.

I realise I sound very grumpy. Sorry Not Sorry. I’m just saying, let animals do animal print. They do it best. Leave it be.

Grumpy over.

Not Racist

Published October 14, 2019 by helentastic67

Not Racist

You know those moments when you say something totally racist, when your intention is anything but, so says every racist. However, (see what I did there?)

Just like when people say “I don’t mean to be racist, but” and they say something totally racist. Standing outside my apartment complex the day my friend delivered my new couch.

Background about Frank, more Italian than I am. His parents were both older when they came to Australia in a different generation to me. Frank is the same age as me, however married with two fully grown children, whom I met when I worked for him about fifteen years ago and his kids were only little.

Frank arrives with the couch on the back of his van. At the same time, there is a van parked behind his with a woman sitting in the front passenger seat with the door open. Two men and another woman came down carrying things to put in the back of their van. Now, I had noticed their van parked there earlier in the day and some banter between the two men, shoulder slaps and verbal ribbing (teasing).

Did I mention, they were black? I don’t mean that in a racist way. There are plenty of Indian, Asian and African people in this area. However, I mean really black. I should point out now, over twenty years ago my sisters high school friend married a gentleman from Nigeria and so came the term “He’s as black as snow” and he has the most softly spoken voice. They have and assortment of chocolate coloured kids, however these four people were really black.

Frank was there and down the street came his friend to help. Frank and his friend started ribbing each other straight away. I asked how they knew each other, to which Frank quickly replied “Prison”. I’ve known Frank about twenty years now and he has definitely not been to prison.

Unbeknownst to Frank, I caught the eye of the woman sitting in the front seat of the van, at the mention of “Prison” her face showed surprise, shock and concern. I would like to say she paled somewhat, but that’s not true. I caught her eye and shook my head in the negative.

Frank and his friend were continuing their joke with who had the top bunk (while in prison). Anyway, when the two guys started bringing things (couch/fridge) down the steps Frank stepped forward to help because that’s what wogs do (they help) they don’t wait to be asked, they don’t offer, they just step up and help.

Every time Frank stepped up to help and also to help avert disaster, I gave him a little cheek too “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Frank and I started to racially profile the people moving out, in a non-racist way.

We were guessing what part of Africa they were from (Eretria) and we figured they had been in Australia for less than five years, however the way they communicated with each other and the banter and cheek between the two men meant they were likely, brothers-in-laws or siblings and Frank and I considered where his parents had been like when they arrived here.

I had spoken to the supervisor in the front passenger seat and we agreed you only encounter people when you are moving in or out of the apartment. They had been here three years and it’s the only time I’d seen them. Now they are gone, which is sad because they seemed nice people.

And well, my friends seemed alright despite one (Frank) having been to Prison.

P.S. Prison, apparently a common term for going to church. Too funny.

Heritage – Part 1

Published May 10, 2019 by helentastic67

Heritage Part 1

I was introducing a friend last night to the best thing about roasted vegies (if I tell you I have to kill you) and it led me to tell her the difference between my mum’s family heritage and my fathers. So, the basics were when I was growing up, we on a rare occasion we went to my grandparents’ house for dinner and we had a roast. Pork crackling yummy goodness, my older sister and I would sit at the ‘kids table’ (I know, doesn’t happen now, does it?) We would sniff around the kitchen and offer to help and beg for Pork crackling. “If you eat it all now, there will be none to go with dinner” like we cared.

My mum’s side seemed very English with a Sunday roast for lunch or dinner. In complete contrast, the Italian side of my family was Sunday Lasagne. So, at home our Sunday roast was Lasagne and it would last for days. Garfield would be proud.

So, also in contrast to Nona’s, we would be served generous portions of spaghetti and Nona would be at the kitchen sink doing the dishes and not sitting with us. Mum would tell her to sit and join us, while my father and grandfather spoke Italian. Nona would ay to start without her. Mum would nudge her husband to tell Nona to join us and then, he would jut tell my mum to let her go. Mum would then look to me to go get Nona to sit and join us. She would be washing the big pot by this stage and shoo me away.

Isn’t it interesting how times and culture has changed?

Love or Hate, Hit Like

Published April 15, 2019 by helentastic67

Love or Hate, Hit Like

There will be some posts I write and you read when you won’t ‘Like’ at all what I have to say. You may not believe me even. You will be absolutely fair to want to HATE it.

However, you should still give me a ‘Like’ because I say it as I see it and then you can do something about what you have heard if you can and if you believe in it and think the world can be a better place for everyone.

These days I live in a rather wog area of Melbourne, they are mostly baby-boomers in age, their children having moved out, started their own families with more room in suburbs slightly further out.

On a rare occasion, there is a 50-somethiing still living with parents in this neighbourhood and it’s because on occasion the “child” is still in many ways a “child”.