A Moment to Cherish

Something wonderful happened on the way to the Deardens. The resurrection of a great kiwi tradition. Something I never thought my son would experience.

Experience in New Zealand, that is, let alone Australia. And least of all in a supermarket.

The scene was the service deli counter at Woolworths Balmain. With my chicken and bacon weighed and wrapped, the young man behind the counter asked if I’d like anything else.

Yes, I said, one cocktail sausage please. Like jandal, cheerio would have gone way over his Australian head.

Realising it was for Austin, he handed it to me (gripping it with a plastic bag) and told me it was on the house.

Bugger me if I didn’t find this uplifting and heart-warming. To be honest, it made my day. And not because we’d saved 34 cents. This was totally unexpected. The tradition was still alive.

Alive for my boy. And very much against the odds.

Four major forces have brought about the demise of butchers giving free cheerios to kids. The first is that there are more supermarket service deli staff than butchers. Second, as a result, the common day cheerio is generally rubbish. The taste and texture aren’t what they used to be and they tend to split even when you bring them to the boil slowly and simmer them very gently.

Then there was the media frenzy whipped up in the late 1990s about the health risks of uncooked cheerios. Media frenzies being what they are, my lasting memory was that the tradition had been banned altogether.

It might as well have been, but the truth is that it had just been a warning from a single area health board.

And a certain Dr Pink.

Canterbury’s Officer of Medical Health, he had issued a statement saying that cheerios had to be heated prior to consumption to wipe out any residual bacteria and that handing them out to kids in butchers’ shops was therefore a no-no.

Residual bacteria? Isn’t that what the acidity of the tomato sauce is for?

Perhaps, but an investigation by the Canterbury District Health Board had found that six children suffering from yersiniosis had eaten cheerios. Six out of how many is unclear but, according to the statement, attempts by butchers to maintain their charitable tradition had been associated with previous local outbreaks of salmonella and campylobacter.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it took just one medical officer to bring down the walls. What’s more, he issued his statement less than a month before Christmas.

As if thousands of kids wouldn’t suffer enough.

That said, Dr Pink is not our Grinch. That honour goes to Mainland Products.

Just when you thought poor tradesmanship and bureaucratic nonsense had done enough damage for one processed meat product, they come along and trademarked what most would consider a great kiwi colloquialism and therefore off-limits to branding and legal types.

An example of the impact of this is outlined in a 2008 story from the Christchurch Press, written by one Elizabeth Osmers Gordon.

Three years prior she has given a public lecture in which she expressed regret that the cheerio was being “chased out by the interloping cocktail sausage”.

Weeks later she received a four-page lawyer’s letter telling her that ‘cheerio’ was trademarked by Mainland. If talking about these pink party favorites, it instructed, she must instead use the term ‘CHEERIOS - cocktail sausages’.

Talk about the end of the golden weather.

And yet there may be hope. At least in Balmain. Austin is too young to tell me how it tasted, and the name on the sign was certainly Mainland Products wrong, but this was one afternoon on which a beautiful tradition was handed down from proud father to smiling son.

And I’d like to think it won’t be the last.

The Joy of Gardening and the Almost Forgotten Art of Carrot Storage

Back in London, the start of each spring would see me wander through Tooting Bec Common to our local garden centre to purchase my tomato plants. The chili plants would already be at home, strong and healthy, having been grown from last year's seeds. Come summer, all would be thriving in pots on our sun-drenched and decked back yard.

Hardly an allotment, but great fun nonetheless.

The tradition has been maintained in our first spring back in Sydney. What's different is that here I am without my own seeds and, at least for now, left to experiment with a few varieties of local chilis and tomatoes.

This and that with us fortunate enough to have a decent garden I've claimed a bit for a vege patch. Beans, carrots and a token in-ground tomato, as well as basil, thyme and continental parsley.

You can take the boy out of Europe, as they say.

It might be more expansive, but it hasn't been all plain sailing. First there's the neighbours' cats. Being the softest part of the garden they found it an ideal toilet. The beans were robust enough to take the punishment but the carrots and herbs have suffered.

My sister had the same problem last summer. Taking a leaf from her book I put sticks and small stakes into the ground to stop the cats from squatting.

Sure enough, problem solved.

Next my darling son. A small fence was erected to stop him walking onto the garden and, much to his mother's surprise, it has withstood his shakes and remains upstanding. The only problem is that with so many sticks in the ground on the other side he thinks this is where all sticks belong.

When not picking them up, or replacing the potting mix he has redistributed from around my potted plants, I sometimes consult my gardening book to find out what other, more typical problems might lie ahead.

Green top, fanging, sclerotinia rot. Stuff like that.

My book is Dr D.G. Hessayon's The Vegetable & Herb Expert, purchased a few years ago because it looked like the sort of book every bloke should have, albeit a bit over the top for one with nothing more than half a dozen terracotta pots.

Despite this, and the planting guides following northern hemisphere seasons, it's both handy and a darn good read.

The book is a best seller in Britain and one of 22 'Expert' books the green-thumbed doctor has published since 1958. To quote Dr Brent Elliot, librarian at Britain's Royal Horticultural Society, "the Expert Books have been the biggest innovation in gardening publications since the death of William Robinson in 1938."

That could very well say it all.

That and the life Dr Hessayon continues to breathe life into what I can only imagine is the dying art of carrot storage.

Carrot storage, that is, sans fridge.

It's a trick designed for the British summer and its all-too-often abrupt end which leaves mature carrots unharvested and exposed to the elements.

Using only those which can be picked without damaging the roots, the leaves are cut back to half an inch and the carrots placed in a 'stout box' between layers of sand or dry peat. You have to make sure they don't touch. Then it's simply a case of keeping the box in a dry shed and checking the carrots occasionally to make sure none have started to rot.

Apparently they'll keep this way for five months. If you have a dry shed. Not to mention the curiosity and conviction.

Fathers Day Fare

Tomorrow is Fathers Day. My second and last before Austin can at least muster up an 'I love you dad'.

"I love you dad, but I've eaten my lunch and I'm bored. Can I go to the park?"

Something to look forward to.

Something still a long way off, thankfully. For now I'll just have to imagine what he's thinking.

So I do.

Earlier this morning he looked up at me with a tender glance and babbled away with bright eyes and big smile. It took some effort, but his words eventually took the shape of "You're the best dad ever and what you deserve this Fathers Day is a top-notch Sunday lunch. You know, the kind with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and proper, made-from-scratch gravy. While you're at it, you should open one of those nice bottles of Pinot. You've earned it."

He's right, of course. And very articulate. The only problem with his plan is that, being a Domestic Goddess, I'll have to cook the bloody thing myself.

And it will be bloody. Just a bit. Nice and pink.

To follow there will naturally be some football on the telly. Well a DVD anyway. And a quiet beer. Perhaps one of the great Gerrard games - Olympiakos in 2004 or the FA Cup Final of 2006.

The boy and I will both wear the red shirt. Not that he'll stay by my side for more than a few minutes, although I'm sure he'll wander back from time to time.

He'll stick it out in the future, though. That much I know. And forgo the park. On this day at least.

One For All

Every at-home dad needs an easy-to-prepare, sure-to-please desert. A sweet surprise. An element of the dinner party that no one saw coming.

Well, at least not from a bloke.

Mine is an adaptation of the Apple & Pecan Crumble Cake from Michele Cranston's Marie Claire Fresh; the adaptation being that mine is a Pear & Pecan Crumble Cake.

It's not that I didn't like her recipe, or that I prefer pears to apples. In fact, quite the opposite. It's more that I once bought a box of pears for $10 from the Flemington Market. Austin could only eat so many, which meant I was left looking for other things to do with them.

And in doing so I stumbled across an absolute winner.

The beauty of this cake lies in its different textures. Juicy slices of pear sandwiched between a soft biscuit base and a crunchy nut cake. The top has an almost meringue-like crust, while around the sides there's the sweet caramelisation of the sugar and pear.

It does take an hour to cook but is only 20 minutes in the preparation. It's also just as good one or two days later, and any at-home parent and/or domestic goddess will tell you how handy that is.

Or you could find out for yourself. All you'll need is:

125g plain flour
370g brown sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons cinnamon
125g butter
125ml milk
2 eggs
100g coarsely chopped pecan nuts
2 pears, peeled and finely sliced

Preheat your oven to 180ºC/350ºF and line a round 20cm cake tin with baking paper. This is important because of the amount of caramelisation that occurs.

And, no, that's not a word I would ever have used before Masterchef came along.

Now blend the flour, sugar, baking powder and cinnamon. The book says to use a food processor and stop when it resembles breadcrumbs, but I find this easier to achieve using my fingers. Either way, once you're there put half in the cake tin and gently press it down. Carefully place the pear slices on top.

For the next bit you do need a food processor. Well, that's what I use, but I imagine a cake mixer would also do the trick. Whatever you use, the important thing is that you add the eggs and milk to the other half of your crumble and mix until you have a smooth batter. Fold in the nuts and pour into the cake tin.

Bake for one hour and serve either cold or slightly warm with a big dollop of whipped cream. The book says it serves 10 but I recommend a more generous approach.

Besides, it's much easier to cut eight evenly-sized wedges.

Enjoy - and feel free to pass it on. Just tell people where you found the recipe and encourage them to buy Michele Cranston's book. You might even be inspired to do so yourself.

Keeping Up With Kiddie Food

Last night I received an online slap on the wrist for dumping an email exchange with my big sister to watch the latest installment of MasterChef. I might otherwise have continued the dialogue during the ad breaks, but I was too busy finishing and 'plating up' our own meal.

Yep, that's what the show does to you.

And it turns out there may be a parental justification. These are otherwise known as the moral high ground.

There's been a lot written about how popular the show is. Cripes, it's been in my Top 5 Online Distractions for a record four weeks. Great minds, as they say.

And so it continues. In today's Sydney Morning Herald's, Miranda Devine has written a piece on how kids are hooked on shows like this - and on food - both here and around the world.

At just 15 months, Austin is too young to watch MasterChef, let alone cook, and for reasons that include these and our own self-interest is put to bed at 6.59pm.

The show starts one minute later.

However, if this is part of a bigger, probably global, possibly enduring "kiddie food movement", I'd like to think I'm doing the right thing by prioritising my kitchen skills now to enable me to nurture (or, if TV does that, endure) Austin's in nine or ten years time

Better safe than sorry, don't you think sis?

Read the SMH story here.

Milking the Kids Dollar

We recently started buying Dairy Farmers' Kids milk for Austin. Being "natural brain food" and providing "75% of daily Omega-3", we figured it was worth the extra dollar or so on a two-litre bottle.

That was until this morning.

Having used the last of the adult milk on my first coffee of the day, I was left no choice but to borrow some from the lad for cup number two. As is my habit, this went into the microwave to heat up while the coffee was brewing. With cup in hand, I then parked myself on the couch to watch a breakfast TV item about how women are putting their careers on hold in favour of domestic duties.

Before I could say 'Hello! Am I not proof that this is not a gender thing?', I was distracted by the strange taste of what I was drinking. At first I thought it was just a little weak. Then I tasted fish.

But it couldn't be, could it?

Having drunk half a cup, I only wish it could not.

Any doubt disappeared with the making of Austin's breakfast, today's being banana porridge. When it came out of the microwave, much hotter than my coffee milk, there was no mistaking the odour - particularly when your running circuit takes you past the fish market three or four times a week.

No hint of it when cold but unmistakable when hot. I bet those Dairy Farmers thought they were super clever.

Super honest too.

Looking at the label it was there for all to see. At number two on the list of ingredients (after milk, thankfully) is Omega-3 DHA Oil, otherwise known as fish oil.

We figured this stuff would be an easy way to compliment Austin's fish intake, not add to it. Brain food it may be, but some things just aren't meant to go together.

I guess you can't blame Dairy Farmers for chasing the kids dollar. Innovation in the face of recession really should be applauded.

But did it not occur to them that this stuff is more often than not going to be heated up?

The banana seemed to mask it in the end, and I'm sure enough Milo would too, but once you've caught a whiff of fish milk you can never go there again.

And, let's face it, in a land that's girt by sea, why should any of us?

Two Strike Tucker

The slice of pear was just the first taste of lunch but its contact with the floor put the boy on Strike One. Another and lunch would be over. Anything tossed to the ground would do it - a piece of finger food, a spoon from his main course.

A strike is a strike.

Welcome the world of Tracy Hogg, author of The Baby Whisperer. The book's subtitle says it 'solves all your problems' and what few we've had it generally has. At least that's my understanding - being a bloke I've not actually read it. As stay-at-home dad I probably should, but thankfully Kate was smart enough to uncover the two strike rule and tell me what I needed to do.

Thanks to baseball, this didn't take long. There was even enough time left in the ad break to get another beer.

Enough tomfoolery. This is a serious and terribly important parenting project. The Rule was our solution to Austin's obsession with tossing food to the floor if done with or dissatisfactory - something which, if left till boarding school age, could get darn right embarrassing.

Thankfully, the Baby Whisperer had a plan. One based on tough love, sure, but as far as we were concerned one well worth a crack.

Well worth it indeed. Two days in and I've only once had to call off a meal. Most get to Strike One before Austin remembers where the line is drawn. Even his early foul play with today's pear was backed up with an otherwise faultless performance.

It's enough to make you wonder what other gems the Baby Whisperer has up her sleeve. I'm sure there are a few. I also know Kate will tell me about them when I need to know.

Those 21 Days of Silence

That's right, it's been three weeks since this blog was updated. Arianna Huffington would be appalled. Any reaction there would be a compliment.

Two people actually have asked me to explain. It may not be critical mass, but it is an audience. And there is a good reason.

Two, actually.

For a start, Austin is walking. This is both exciting and something that requires careful attention. And then there's Clark Co - the working title for my freelance communications business which now has two clients and several briefs to deliver on. Needless to say there's been no cake baking or Brad Pitt movie marathons.

But there has been a lot going on. One thing you learn when you're at home is that there's a whole world of stuff that only happens if there is someone at home. People coming to check this, people coming to deliver that. Today it's off to the post office to collect a letter, tomorrow it's the car's first service.

How is anyone supposed to watch daytime television?

Despite all this, and the demands of freelancing and watching a toddler, a lot of blogworthy things have happened over the past 21 days. By way of a catch up, these have included:

Football Dramas
Chelsea crashed out of the Champions League in hilarious fashion while Lane Cove West (simply the best) followed up a two-game winning streak with a performance riddled with schoolboy errors. It wasn't noted in the match report, but I played quite well. And, as my mother's been saying since I was nine, it has to get through ten players before it gets to me.

More Fun with Meat
Texas chili, barbequed butterfly cut leg of lamb and Kerrigan rissoles. Alas, not at the same time.

More Bad Customer Service
Six weeks after it was ordered our dining table finally arrived but without the chairs. By the time these turned up (two weeks hence) the table had been returned to fix the poor varnishing. Thank heaven we were given trays for our wedding.

Speaking of which, we also celebrated our third anniversary with a long-awaited return to Cafe Sydney.

Some Parenting Wins
It drove us crazy for a few days but we soon found a solution to his nappy change rock n' roll routine. Give him a Mr Men book and he lies perfectly still. It has to be Mr Men though: he threw the AA Road Atlas of the South Island straight on the floor. He now also responds to requests for him to go back to drinking his bottle. Amazingly, he always knows where it is.

If only I could always say the same for my wine glass.

Fun With Meat

My mate Aaron has an eye for meat. That’s doesn’t mean he’s mardi gras material; just that he can spot a bargain sirloin from thirty feet.

And so it was on Sunday morning at Bondi Junction. Courtesy of his rare and wonderful talent we each picked up three kilos of rump steak for $21. These hefty packs contained six steaks, which, with each an inch thick and as big as one of my size 11 sneakers, is enough to feed a dozen people.

This being the case, and there not being ten people coming for dinner, I threw five into individual freezer bags. The sixth and biggest I put aside for a special Monday afternoon project: beef casserole.

This was by no means as ambitious as the Texas cake. My mother had the vision to get me into the kitchen from the age of seven or eight and I know enough about meat and vegetables to cook a casserole without a recipe. That said, come Monday morning, and with Austin down for his sleep, I made a coffee and settled down with just such a book.

I wasn’t looking for direction or inspiration. I was looking for entertainment and had waited a long time to flick through this one since a friend gifted it to me as a souvenir of a trip to Liverpool to watch Everton play Sunderland.

The Toffees might have put two past Sunderland that day but I'd always had an inkling this would turn out to be the score of the weekend.

Marguerite Patten’s 500 Recipes for Meat Dishes was written in a time that most meat eaters have long since forgotten. First published in 1971, its hefty swag of recipes also comes with helpful information on cooking methods, accompaniments and the various cuts of meat.

As Ms Pattern says in her forward, the book is designed “to ensure that your butcher recognises you as a housewife who knows exactly what she is buying.”

And she was certainly the woman to help.

Marguerite Patten worked for the Ministry of Food during the Second World War and had her own show on BBC radio. Over the years she has authored 170 books that have sold over 17 million copies.

Who better to go to when you need to clarify dripping, pressure cook meat or make devilled kidneys?

Who better indeed.

Look beyond the cliché dishes (there are many; it was 1971) and Ms Patten had a lot to offer the housewives of the day. Unfortunately, from what I’ve seen of my generation - their children - I don’t think many of them were ready for her.

Sure, there are all the old favourites and others equally English such as Hot Windsor Lamb and Lancashire Hot Pot, but her book also explains how to fricassee and curry, and includes recipes such as Cassoulet, Porcstronni and Saffron Steaks of Lamb.

Alison Holst should be ashamed.

I didn’t let Ms Patten’s wisdom alter the plans for my casserole, but 500 Recipes for Meat Dishes was a lot more than entertaining. I think I might try that saffron lamb dish. I’ll also be on the lookout for one of her other books: 500 Recipes for Working Wives.

Hopefully I can find it in time for our wedding anniversary at the end of the month.

Food Envy has a Silver Lining

It might not show, but Austin loves his food. He took to solids straight away and has always been a keen and cooperative eater.

He also has food envy.

This isn’t a huge surprise. I mean, don’t we all? At the same time it is something I should have realised earlier. It’s there in the way Austin’s focus shifts from his vegemite toast to my fruit and spice muffin, or indeed from his vegemite toast to my vegemite toast. Whatever he’s eating is the best thing in the world until the second he sees something else.

He has a less subtle version of a trait we all share. Everyone’s food looks better than our own. The grass is always greener. Tastier too if you’re a horse.

There are solutions for this, of course. I’m always careful to keep his next course out of sight and could easily be just as discrete with my own.

At the same time, I’d like to think there’s much to celebrate.

Firstly, he’s not unlike the rest of us and, it has to be reluctantly accepted, when you’re young conformity does breed confidence. More importantly, there’s a decent chance he’ll be like his mother and dining out will, for me, become a degustation affair.

One of the hundreds of ways in which Kate and I fit together perfectly is that when we eat out she almost always, without conferring, orders my second choice. Granted this is usually better for me that it is for her, but with the size of some portions these days there’s more than enough to go around. Even then, I always wait until my sample is offered and then take only the tiniest bit. Well, tiny-ish.

If Austin does share this trait and can instinctively identify my third pick then I’ll be onto a winner. Dining out will be expensive – I’m not wasting this on Cobb & Co or the local Thai – but it will be well worth it.

Alas, parenting is about patience. Like so many other things (blond or brown, drums or piano, off-spin or medium fast) I’ll find out in due course. In the meantime, the Friday lunchtime burger will have to wait until he goes down for his 1pm sleep.

And Then There Was Much Baking To Be Done

Democracy is nothing without participation, so I was delighted that 35 people chose to cast a vote for the shape of Austin’s first ever birthday cake.

Despite a late flurry of support for the rocket ship, it was the Texas cake that prevailed. Its 14 votes (40%) were five more than the rocket ship could muster, with the number one (5), 20cm round (4) and goalkeeping jersey (3) all lagging far behind.

And then it was time to bake.

Experienced parents know how to simplify and de-risk their children’s birthday cakes. The best example I’ve seen came from our Napier friend Teenica, who created a sandcastle ice cream cake in less than three minutes using two round tubs, biscuit crumbs, flags and chocolate shells.

Teenica is a pro. I am an obsessive, anally-retentive amateur.

I also love intensifying risk. It adds pressure and makes things more fun.

Firstly I had opened up the selection to a public vote. Then I took a shape that required me to fuse together four pieces cut from two cakes and went for chocolate to suit our adult guests rather than the challenge of creating Texas.

Sponges are ideal for this sort of thing. Chocolate cakes are dense and flat, so that meant two layers and four cakes.

Next I decided to use a recipe and icing (both from Nigella Lawson’s How to be a Domestic Goddess), which I had never used before. What I quickly discovered was that hand beating four eggs into a mousse is a pain in the ass, so I turned to my trusty Edmonds Cookbook for the others, replacing the cocoa and water approach favoured by my mother with melted dark chocolate.

Another unnecessary risk, sure, but it paid off in the end and fused with fresh raspberry icing the two halves complemented each other perfectly. Most importantly, no one noticed they were different.

The cake, like the party, was just what I’d hoped for. From what our guests had to say, it both looked and tasted great.

The task, although overly-elaborate, was also everything I’d hoped for. It was great to have a day dedicated to this tribute to our son, and it was rewarding to overcome all of the obstacles I threw in my path.

Making a big cake is like playing golf – all of your good plays can be undone by a subsequent bad one. I thought of this when I switched recipes and invented my raspberry icing. It also came to mind when I started to ice a cake which, because its pieces had been cut from a greater mass, was generally lacking a side crust, and when I rejected Kate’s idea of a stuck-on message and decided to pipe one on myself.

Tremendously rewarding, and I’d do it all again if I had the chance. I won’t, though, be forgetting Teenica’s sandcastle.

Click here to view photos of the big day.

Taking Vegetables Britannia From A Baby

Yesterday, middle of the afternoon. I was hungry. Nothing in the fridge took my fancy.

Then I had a brilliant idea. That mash potato thing Austin had for lunch would be fantastic between two slices of white toast. That mash potato thing is just what I want.

I opened the freezer but paused for a minute to consider the obvious ethical question: is it right for a parent to eat their child’s food?

Yes it seemed a bit iffy, but it wasn’t like I was scooping it off his plate while he hung his mouth open like a fairground clown. I merely taking a couple of ice cubes worth out of the freezer and heating them up.

What’s more, I had been the one who took the time and effort to create this frozen stash and would happily do so again in order to replenish his supply.

It’s practically a win-win.

It’s also bloody delicious. Despite the big name – inspired by its two primary ingredients and a tribute to Austin’s country of birth – it’s nothing more than mashed potato, peas, onion, parsley and cheese. That said, if you sauté just the right amount of onion and add the peas after mashing the potato, this is a rather delectable dish.

And I was right: fantastic between two slice of white toast.

Cooking For Invalids And Substituting For Eggs

With the cake poll closing on Wednesday it’s time to start thinking about recipes. This is exciting stuff as it gives me a reason to spend some time flicking through all the volumes we’ve collected over the years.

One instantly catches my eye: The Country Women’s Association of New South Wales Cookery Book, which I picked up on a 2004 trip to Forbes.

Fifteen editions have been published since 1937, when the first was compiled by Jessie Sawyer OBE and Sara Moore-Sims to mark the coronation of George VI. Little appears to have changed, however, and it remains very much , and most wonderfully, of its time.

Looking for cakes I naturally find chocolate, banana, sultana, pound and madiera. With them are marks left by the previous generation – centenary cake and the Victoria sponge – and two I imagine must have been omitted from at least the 1941 and 1945 editions: German cakes of the coffee and pound variety.

A common (and entertaining) feature of these old books is what appears here as the Household Hints chapter. I learn that gelatine added to a cake will take the place of three eggs and that when picknicking I can keep a bottle of milk fresh all day by adding a good pinch of bicarbonate of soda. These, I am certain, will one day come in handy.

Another chapter, Invalid Cookery, causes some initial confusion. I then realise this has nothing to do with protocols or regulations but instead concerns the preparation of food for poorly or convalescent people. This is a serious business and there are three rules that must ‘dominate’ food preparation:

1. Absolute cleanliness is essential.
2. All food prepared must be nourishing.
3. The food must be served daintily and dished attractively to tempt the patient’s appetite.

Pardon? I appreciate – or at least assume - that rice water, lemon foam and chicken broth are all highly nourishing, but how the hell you’d serve them daintily is beyond me. A sprinkle of parsley? A doyley? A small narrow vase with a single, appropriately-coloured carnation? Probably all of the above.

Then I remember that wisdom is perfected in more difficult times than I have known, and I choose to put my future mealtime happiness - and perhaps health - in the hands of the fine ladies of the great towns of regional New South Wales.

For the birthday cake, I may have to turn to Nigella.


Learn about the history and activities of the Country Women’s Association of New South Wales at www.cwaofnsw.org.au