That is, cooking with too much butter.

Savagely, I cut onion, celery and carrots.

Much too much butter.

Sizzled chunks of chuck steak and finally, deglazed the pan with a research series Tamar Ridge Pinot Noir.

It was the eve of our 27th wedding anniversary, and I was home from work early enough to put beef bourguignon into the oven to slow cook for our anniversary dinner.

It was worth it. The smell of the onions, carrot and celery sizzling knee deep in butter lifted my mood and reminded me why I love cooking, especially in the icy chasm of a Tasmanian winter.

There was a time when I would assiduously follow a recipe and go shopping for this and that.

Not so now.

Today I grow my own herbs, always have speck in the fridge and don't think twice about pinching the old man's wine for a winter casserole.

The good life. A grateful life. Daffodils popping up between parsley, oregano clump nudging, rosemary, sage ranging wildly, all crowded together by our front door.

Do you see beauty easily?

I feel for the person who cannot find joy in a tuft of oregano or the smell of too much butter sizzling with celery, onion and carrot.

Last week I saw simple beauty at a funeral and I felt very Tasmanian.

We knew we were at a farming funeral because the chatter was all about water.

Last Friday was one of those sunshine, icy winter days made for tweed jackets and a funeral.

We attended out of respect for a friend and colleague ... the funeral of a woman I'd never met.

She was the 89-year-old mum of one of the dearest Tasmanians I've had the joy and privilege to know.

It was a simple funeral.

A casket covered with red roses and two sons, my age, talked about their mum, Margaret.

While I didn't know Margaret, I know she found joy in her garden and by knowing her son, I gleaned that his great big Tasmanian spirit of sharing whatever you can, was learned from his mum.

John Dent is a mighty legacy to his Margaret.

A historian, father, husband, surveyor and friend; one of those community stalwarts that makes you want to be the better person.

Decent.

I didn't weep, 'till John wept.

Time flies.

What a strange old world it is, where we get to the moon, come back and spend 50 years planning the next trip.

I know it's not Bridport, but really 50 years?

In the midst of the full moon media moment, on our wedding anniversary, I did an audit of our marriage.

You know I am shite with numbers. I thought it was 26 years. Rubbery.

The audit was fun. I encourage you to play this little game:

We have shared: three children, three beds, three houses, five cats, three dogs, four deceased parents, one trip abroad, 10 summer holidays to Bridport, five in Mooloolaba, many many good movies, a couple of bad movies (the worst of which was Waterworld), about 30 live music performances (from Bob Dylan, Leo Kottke, Leonard Cohen, Calexico to Tex and the Beasts of Bourbon); we've endured three serious illnesses and forged this Tasmanian life.

To celebrate we stayed at Cradle Mountain, in a smoke-filled, pencil pine cabin ... Something we haven't done since the kids were little.

My favourite thing about Cradle is small. It's the smell of winter, the oils from the native pines and gums.