[26.09.06]

With all this talk in recent months of terrorists blowing whole planes to pieces via explosive devices in carry on luggage, I have begun to ponder air travel on a deeper level than I would normally allow. I have been thinking about my next international adventure and the horror of being denied the luxury, nay the necessity, of taking books, laptops, makeup, music and a big bag of broccoli on board. Broccoli? Yes that’s right, your eyes do not deceive you - carry on luggage just wouldn’t be complete without a hearty supply of the healthy green stuff. Well it wouldn’t if you were my friend Rosy (named changed) anyway.

A few months ago Rosy and I embarked on an outback roadtrip. We flew to Adelaide where a campervan was waiting to carry us off into our wildest Thelma and Louise desert-style fantasies. Just out of town, we stop at a market to stock up for the long drive ahead. I’m in roadtrip mode as I wander the aisles grabbing foodstuffs-that-remind-Monica-of-trips-of-old: potato chips, cheese, crackers, French onion dip, a giant packet of Allen’s Strawberries and Cream, chocolate biscuits, cheezles and any other crunchy, salty, savoury and sweet snack that will enable me hours of mindless eating pleasure. Rosy, on the other hand, is thinking health farm. Her basket is full of things like bok choy, crunchy apples, cauliflower, a sack of uncooked pepitas, half a pumpkin and a hearty kilo of broccoli.

“Broccoliiii,” I whine, disappointed by her sensible culinary choices. “But, but…what are we gonna do with that?”

Rosy gives me a look, as if I have asked the world’s dumbest question. “I thought we could do a broccoli soup of course,” she says matter-of-factly. “Look how healthy all the vegies are here! They’re so green, and crisp and fresh. Look at the juicy broccoli…”

My eyes glaze over as Rosy continues with her juicy vegetable orgasm.

Mmm, I can see it now, I think sagely to myself. We’ve stopped on the side of the road for a well-earned lunch break. We have a loaf of bread, some ham, a slab of cheese and a bag of potato chips. But why bother with such trifling conveniences when we also have broccoli, which Rosy can whip up into a delicious soup in no time! Other weary travellers will veer off the road, enticed, coaxed, intoxicated by the aroma of broccoli soup as it simmers away in the small but well-equipped campervan kitchen.

I’m also thinking, what would Thelma and Louise do? Thelma and Louise would probably say “fuck that shit” and tear open a packet of pork rinds. Nevertheless, I don’t want to tell Rosy to fuck that shit so early on in the trip and wisely decide to humour her for a while.

As we snake our way to our first port of call, and, incidentally, as I eat my way through two jumbo packets of chips, we manage to pick up other essential food items. Crammed into the bar fridge along with the vegetable garden is a half-eaten, tomato sauce-soaked Cornish pastie that Rosy thinks will be delicious for breakfast tomorrow morning.

A few days later there’s a party going on in our fridge. We’ve got a packet of ham (mine), hommus (hers), vegemite (mine), a chamomile-and-dandelion tea infusion (hers), a slab of chocolate (mine) and some organic pasta (hers). The Cornish pastie is still sitting there, slowly congealing in it’s soggy sauce soaked paper bag (we had my French onion dip smeared on bread for breakfast). The pumpkin, bok choy and cauliflower are begging to be cooked (we’ve been dining out) and the broccoli, well I’m sure that the momentous occasion that will be broccoli soup is coming up any day now…any day now.

When can I say “fuck that shit” like Thelma and Louise?

On our last day, we arrive at the campervan drop-off point with a mere 20 minutes to make our flight back to Sydney. We are running behind schedule because there were important things to be done on our final drive through the desert. This included stopping at every breathtaking vista for impromptu photoshoots, calling into quaint outback shops to buy a year’s supply of native fruit jams, marinades, spices and quandong pies, spending a good hour in an antique store purchasing scarves, jewellery, small pieces of furniture and bags of vintage buttons and, on the home stretch, cruising leisurely through wine country swigging on a bottle of merlot.

Rosy frantically shovels our dusty clothes and souvenirs into suitcases while I open a big garbage bag and begin to empty the fridge.

I can finally say it.

Yeah baby, that’s the shit. Fuck that shit!

PLONK. In goes the forgotten Cornish pastie.

Uh-huh, work it girl, work it. Ffffuuuucckkk that shit.

SMOOSH. In drops the liquefying cauliflower.

Oh yeah, oh yeah! Broccoli, you’re gonna die. You’re gonna die and go to hell, bitch.

Rosy looks up from her packing, registers what is about to be binned, and in one fell swoop she has wrenched the broccoli from my hands.

“Don’t throw that away Monica,” she says, hugging the veggie possessively to her chest. “We can take it back to Sydney with us!”

Um, yeah. Because…like…you know, Sydney doesn’t sell broccoli and all. Grreeeaaat idea, Rosy.

She gathers up all the food items bought on day one - the broccoli, the pepitas, the apples, the bok choy, the pumpkin, plus the additional morsels we’d acquired along the way . “There’ll be room,” she says by way of reasoning with me and my hungry garbage bag.

But our carry on luggage is already overflowing with tacky souvenirs. “No room for the food!”, I gloat triumphantly. But Rosy is determined to take her vegies home so they’re promptly loaded into clear plastic shopping bags and between us, we dash to the domestic terminal with two suitcases and around 7 pieces of carry-on luggage each.

Once we’ve checked in, Rosy leaves me for a spell to make a phone call. I drag my way to a bench and gratefully plonk myself down, arranging our 14 carry-on goodies around me. It’s a plastic bag extravaganza and I look like a bag lady. Actually, I look like I’ve flown to Adelaide for a shopping spree at Coles. Other travellers glide past me. They’re well groomed and sleek to my dusty outback funk. They have crocodile leather carry-on luggage while I have shopping bags. I blush burgundy as they smirk at the piece of broccoli ejecting itself from its conspicuous hiding place.

Fuck that shit! I scream at them in my head. It’s broccoli. BRO-CCO-LI, man. And when I get home, I’m going to have the most explosive broccoli soup you only WISH you could taste.

Perhaps it was God punishing at me for swearing at the nice travellers in my head or maybe it was because I needed a health injection after a week of junk: whatever the case may be, Rosy invited me over for dinner the following night. On the menu was broccoli soup, sprinkled with pepitas roasted with a dash of soy.

It was quite fucking delicious actually.