The Road Trip Diet

"Write about it, write about", urged Mary Hitler, who was known for her bossiness", "but you must be true to the story. No ball peen hammers,"

Julian was nonplussed. Ball peen hammers abounded. They were everywhere. How could she not write about them? And the truth? How could she possibly write about the truth? Everybody was far too precious, Mary Hitler being right up amongst them.

The Road Trip Diet seemed a safe topic and incredibly interesting. Julian was able to relate to the German Gertrude Dierhappy that most women kept there potato peelers in the second drawer down.
"It is TRUE", Gertrude exclaimed happily, but then, "it is the truth that has helped me to EXIST. Where would I be without truth...."
"Lovely to see you, Gertrude, I have to go now," Julian politely excused herself and rushed over to Candy, who was merely visiting.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Ask Victoria."

The road trip diet expanded and adapted to many different women's kitchens. Hermione and Julian fitted in and chopped and sliced and cleaned and washed everywhere that they went. Some kitchens were raw, some were everything and some were careful. It was so good that Julian wanted to do it again and again and again. Sharing was what this was all about, and all you had to be was organised.

Julian was that.

Menu's included freshly picked greens from the most fabulous vegie garden, chicken curry from a Bombay cook, chilled local white wines and the most amazing raw chocolate fudge cake with cashew nut cream. Cor. Not forgetting the Melbourne, Canberra and Perth Aussie barbecues and the Perth Pavlova and the incredible everywhere salads and the Port Augusta seafood platter. Hermione and Julian were on a roll. In between these fabulous and wonderful meals, they nibbled and crunched their way through tins of tuna, apples, cucumbers, nuts and goji berries. The worst meal of the trip for Julian had to be the roadhouse salad. She had been specific in her desire and the roadhouse cook, proud in his filthy white apron and his large mound of belly pork, had been eager and keen to please. Wilted iceberg, old tomatoes, cucumbers and tiny slivers of red onion could not even be lifted by Paul Newman's amazing salad dressing. Julian waded through half of it and tried to hide the rest in the outside barrel that doubled as a refuse bin. The cook had been so proud to be able to show his skills and his ability to be of unusual service. Most were happy with canola oil soaked potatoes and meats served on slightly soggy white bread rolls. Here was his ability to shine. A salad! And so precise! He could do it and he did it with love. Except that his ingredients had already been so unloved that it became an impossible task.

Julian munched through it as she shared an outside table next to the barrel with an older middle aged couple. The woman was heavy in shorts and t-shirt and niggly. The day was hot. He was quiet, heavy and forbearing. The vista of red dirt and road and scrub uninteresting except in that it was something rarely seen.

Meanwhile, Hermione was trudging through a pretend museum that showed old photographs of the dirt track that was now the road crossing Australia with olden day cars bogged in huge ruts and the driver smiling proudly standing knee deep in road next to his car. There were pictures of Indians with turbans and camel trains and stories of death and water holes and injustice. They were most proud of their piece of Skylab that took pride of place in the wooden, old, dusty room.

Hermione and Julian, with cars and bellies suitable filled, continued on this fascinating journey, ready for more of Wuthering Heights, the book on CD, read by an accomplished actress. They were up to the point where Cathy had married Linton and Heathcliffe had come back, now a man of money. It was exciting. They listened and watched the road. For hours and hours, they listened and watched the road. It was safer that way.