THE DOGWOOD SHANDY

 

[A story of theology and mixed drinks.]

 

If you were to venture out adrift in Wulga Wulga land upon a thirsty summertime, taking the red gravel road north of Elegant Ridge, over Cooper’s Crossing and on through former irrigation divisions now given over to the grey-leaved olive and to extraverted persimmons, you’d come to the district called Ruffleford, named after a notable clergyman who once ministered to graziers, drovers, shearers, tractor hands and new settlers alike. He was, to be precise, the celebrated Pastor Albert Ruffleford, of the Willing Baptists, in the big white church on Baxter Street, high on the hillock that crowns the town of Moolpadoo, steady hub of the region on a backwater of the curly Darling River.

 

And if you were, furthermore, to tarry to the only tavern in that town - steady hub of the region - the Harvester’s Hotel, right on the corner, you might test your thirst against a local favorite that, as it happens, was of the Pastor’s making, an infamous beverage known as the Dogwood Shandy. To date, some eight men have died taking the test. Dozens of others, who survived, have called the experience most uplifting. Willing Baptists often trek to Moolpadoo in the firm belief the drink is a cure for sinful ways. These days, though, it is primarily a secular undertaking. The locals, and increasingly tourists, drink it just for kicks.

 

The key ingredient of the refreshment is the tiny seeds of the quite rare Coney’s Dogwood. These impart a rich and transcendent aroma. They are also exceedingly toxic. They are collected in the first nudge of spring when the waxflowers splatter the ground in pink and red. Coney’s dogwood is a stunted cousin of the great Pacific dogwood, at home in urban gardens and the wide public array. It loiters hardy on the creek sides and erosion gullies in the flatland beyond the Prince Henry divide. It is a sign of limestone, as a rule. The seeds must have their husk removed. They are then sifted and dried slowly at room temperature, away from the sun, and stored with an airtight pluggy.

 

It was this particular dogwood, the notable Pastor did believe - and made the subject of his many sermons in the big white church on Baxter Street - from which was made the gruesome Cross of Our Lord. At the time, however, when the Holy Land was drenched in the Bible, the dogwood was a bolstered herbage, eight foot tall, and a sturdy grain beloved of shipwrights and wheelwrights in Pontius Pilate’s realm. Afterwards, Jesus reduced it to a stunted cousin of its former self. The four white bracts bespeak the Crucifixion. The red stamens be His nails. Thus did Christ imprint upon this stricken creation a shrubby destiny forever recollecting death and resurrection in the flesh.

 

To nullify the toxicity, soak the seeds in lemon juice overnight. Although it was here the Pastor noted supernatural intentions. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. And this, he reckoned, was proportionate to the factor of faith, that mysterious cure-all of the heart explained in the Pauline Epistles and what rectified Abraham in the beginning. A man of pure heart and true faith has nothing to fear.

 

The recipe is no secret. It is embossed on a board above the bar. The original reads:

 

Put one teaspoon of Dogwood seed into a pint glass.

Cover with the juice of one lemon.

Cover with a Bible, pray, and leave overnight.

In the morning, strain.

Add a third of apple cider.

Add three drops of Indian bitters for the three days in the tomb.

Add three drops of rose water for the Holy Trinity.

Top up with sparkling ale.

 

In some congregations, during the Depression, this concoction was referred to as the Protestant Roulette. Amongst shandies it compares favorably to the Gringo’s Honeymoon, a popular drink in Texas - beer and lime juice. Or a Diesel - beer and coke. A Cold Duck - pilsner and lemonade. A Dragon’s Bite - beer with ginger ale and vodka. And a Tango - draught beer with gooseberry cordial. The Pastor had a flare for the theology of mixed drinks. “The sparkling ale,” he did say, “is representative of the living waters of the New Covenant from the Gospel of John.” And he referred parishioners to the Wedding at Cana. The kick was in the Coney’s dogwood, like juniper in gin. It comes like a thief in the night. A native tang, nothing refreshes like the piquant of the dogwood seed, rich and otherworldly. If it doesn’t kill you.

 

If it does kill you, it is mercifully rapid. The toxins turn your liver into minced sausage. The lemon juice should work the transformation to prevent it, but not for the brazenly wicked. For reasons unexplained, the seeds would sometimes be resistant. In those cases the victim would slump forward at the bar frothing at the mouth, quickly pass into a coma and be dead before the bartender could either ring the bush nurse or fix a Harvey Wallbanger.

 

Survivors, on the other hand, report an almost mystical transport. Enthusiasts say it has a distinctly “Christian flavor”, whatever that might mean. Others say it is merely delicious, redolent of ancient vintages, revitalizing to body, mind and soul. On a hot dusty day, as feral camels loll about in the shade behind the General Store, nothing can compare.

 

Over the blustery years of the long war, pilots from the nearby base would take a shandy the night before flying out to face the foe. High command had to put a stop to it when they lost two of their finest. Undeterred, Australian lads in increasing numbers today head to the Harvester’s Hotel whenever one of their number is being married, that the groom-to-be might taste the precipice twixt bliss and oblivion before the weight of responsibility crushes his spirit forever.

 

The theology of this is rather elaborate. Trained in the classics, Ruffleford - stranded in the outback with a flock of uncouth dinkies - had in mind some utterly Socratic draught but, on second thoughts, felt that hemlock left no room for grace. Dogwood seed, however, offers no certainty - we imbibe with no illusion that our own works have even the slightest merit of themselves. No man knows where the pointy finger of God might strike today. Mixing, pouring, a dash of salt - it makes no difference at all. It was after drinking a dozen unscathed that Ruffleford decided that he must be, after all, among the Elect of which Cheery Calvin spoke.

 

Ruffleford shire, all the same, no longer boasts a rigorously devout population. Theological jibberings are hardly a motivation anymore. But most of the men at least, and some of the ladies, enjoy an occasional Dogwood Shandy, most often coinciding with Christmas or Easter or a big win at the races at Dubbo. Tourists are treated with general accord. It was once customary to drive out to the cemetery to see the graves of ill-fated drinkers but the townsfolk voted it macabre. Instead, a sign on the door details matters of liability as you walk in and if he has any doubts the publican, Phil, will ask for your I.D. The shandy is served in an icy schooner with a bowl of chilli peanut nibbles on the side. Certain traditions persist. It is still served with a Bible and before lifting the glass to one’s lips it is considered appropriate to say “Amen.”

 

It is reported that the Pastor survived no fewer than several hundred shandies. Eventually, he died of syphilis at the age of forty-three. His deacon, however, Nick of the Candlestick, died of shandy on a reckless New Year’s eve at the age of thirty-two just a month or so thereafter. The congregation did lament. Coney’s dogwood extracts the saturnine desolation of the vast interior. It is a nasty sort of plant, ugly to the eye, immune even to the predations of the hungry gnarls of feral goats.

 

All the same, for exhilaration, quenching the existential thirst of contemporary men, a drive out to the Harvester is an experience towards a new appreciation of the magnitudinous horizon and its ferric steadiness under a relentless sun. Every sip is a miracle. Survivors walk away galvanized. On their website, the Southern Australian Tourist Commission advertises it as a cure for bland ennui. Locals play pool as you think “bottom’s up” and sample the ambrosial rush of refreshment. Leaving aside its potentially fatal afterburn, it is one of the world’s great shandies, nectarous and gratifying and full of fruity bubbles.

 

Hours later, still alive, leaving the steady hub of the region nearing dusk, the complex array of flavors lingers on the palette. There is a sumptuous earthiness beneath the kick of dogwood, and sweet notes that fade and come back again. It is a drink that puts life back in perspective. The thrill endures. The hotel does a very good steak and chips, but those who sample the Dogwood Shandy often want to savour it forever and go home without remembering to eat.

 

Grey shards of bark buckle under the sun, even as it sets fire to the west. Pastor Ruffleford - we know from his diaries - thought the land accursed and took the Coney’s dogwood - the runt of the genus - as evidence of affliction. The whole shire is more prosperous now. Italians came and replanted. The golf course was completed in 1983. There are rows and rows and rows of olive groves before you reach the edge of scraggy waste. It is just one of many attractions. Even the big white church on Baxter Street brings in the architecturally inclined.

 

It is a slightly mystical day. The hotel is crowded with patrons. The beer garden is full. Driving back to Elegant Ridge, turning into the Interstate 95, by-passing Cooper’s Crossing on the way home, beholden of the sunset and stark shadows, gazing over the empty Wulga Wulga land in all its extra-Biblical desolation, the taste of life and death still on your lips, you muse if there might not be other products of the native earth that have both culinary and christological implications. If there are, this is where you’ll find them.

 

- O. Spaniel Murray