Saturday, 1 December 2012

Hurahura raspberry jam

There were a number of things that drew me to Hurahura, and one of them is tucked behind the sleepout, nestled between the carport and the citrus trees: our raspberry patch. 

I had no idea that kiwi gardens could include crops like raspberries, and when we first viewed the property I suspected that it was a fanciful folly rather than a going concern.

Last year, after we'd cleared out the overgrown patch in October, a few spindly canes remained which produced a surprisingly good crop in November/December. We ate raspberry shortbread and I froze a couple of kilos of berries. In autumn, I consulted the worldwide web on pruning and cut out the canes that had borne fruit. 


This year we are having a bumper crop. I started picking a few weeks ago and my daily yield has been steadily increasing. Today I picked a kilo of berries! Mila sits in her high chair in the shade of the apple tree while I pick. I think I need to think about introducing some sort of order to the patch as getting into the middle is perilous and I am covered in scratches.

What to do with all these berries? I've made a Victoria sponge (beat 200g butter, 200g sugar, 200g SR flour and four eggs for five minutes, put into two lined tins and bake at 190C for 20 minutes) a couple of times, and the Little & Friday donuts, and Smitten Kitchen's breakfast bars. And I've been freezing the overflow and am running out of room in the freezer. I'd been resisting jam as raspberry is not my favourite - I prefer plum, blackberry, boysenberry and blueberry. But I relented today and after tasting it, I've revised my position. It is delicious. And I only used half my pickings for the day and got four jars.



4 cups mashed raspberries
4 cups sugar

Bring raspberries to a rolling boil in a large heavy pot. Boil for two minutes. Add sugar and return to the boil. Boil for two minutes, stirring throughout. Remove from the heat and beat with a handheld beater for four minutes. Decant into sterilised jars and seal.

Papa was a rolling stone

Three to six months were a bit of a blur. Our wonderful sleep-through-the-night A-grade baby turned everything upside down and was waking at all hours from the three-month mark. Mama was a zombie. Excuse me. I blame this third-person talk on the lack of sleep. Matt has no such excuse. We had an old friend down to visit last weekend and Matt kept referring to himself as "Daddy". As in, "Daddy wants a beer now, yes he does!". I'll understand if you just did a mini-vom in your mouth. I digress. Back to the fascinating topic of new parents' lack of sleep... ...Ahem, perhaps I should leave that with the third person Mama talk, in the same place as detailed analysis of Mila's nappies (it's like reading tea leaves, I swear).


Almost like clockwork, Mila hit six months and started sleeping through the night again. And bang on six months, Mila spent her first night away from us. She stayed at her Nanny's overnight while we ventured out for wine and food. It was wonderful. We started with wine tasting on the harbour. I'm afraid that it was a bit of a case of "Goddamn! That's the best cracker I ever ate in my life" on the wine front. We got talking to the people seated next to us and when they were discussing the wine, comparing the various samples, and opining on its quality, all I could do was grin like a goon and think that it all tasted like ambrosia to me.

The occasion warranted a photo

We walked along the river at sunset and drank Champagne with dinner. Aglow with the flush of wine and independence, I smiled and told Matt how nice it was to be out with him. He gave me a slightly bemused look, pointed at my chest and said: "You're leaking".

Exhausted from her all-nighter with Nanny

Thursday, 8 November 2012

Why do mums have to wear big knickers?

Clearly my world revolves around addressing the big issues. Obama's back in and while he calls on Americans to unite and do their bit for their country, I'll focus my ponderings on the issues that unite mothers - this is a first-world problem for sure, but a problem (or should I say buttocks) halved is a problem solved. Why must new mums, in addition to all manner of indignities - be subjected to VPL? Let's face it, this is not a time we want to draw any attention to our asses.
All maternity underwear I've come across involves granny pants (although I must confess I haven't included Agent Provocateur in my sample group). Okay, so maybe there is a sudden uptake in big knickers in the aftermath of childbirth but I'd at least like the option of regular-size matching panties to my clip-on, clip-off nursing bras thank you very much Elle MacPherson, Bendon and Topshop.

Monday, 22 October 2012

Our world


A couple of months ago my mum said that looking back to when my brother and I were little and we'd visit Elliot's Beach - our version of the collective Kiwi childhood idyll, all sunshine, golden sand, tumbling waves and the sweet sting of salt water in our eyes - she used to wonder why she never walked all the way to the end of the bay. Then she heard a psychologist being interviewed on the radio who said that when you have a baby your world shrinks and your interests narrow. I feel like my world has expanded - but it's like microbiology, the minutiae is suddenly dazzling in its detail.


It's all about the small things with a baby. You spend so much time observing, watching and nurturing their every development that little things become major triumphs, weighty endeavours and acts of wonder. My heart swells on the slightest smile, touch, tilt of her head. My little Mila is a whole new world.



Sunday, 12 August 2012

The sweetest thing


Mila is already three months old and all's been very quiet on the blogging front. I am not sure whether I'm capable of stringing cohesive thoughts - let alone sentences - together, but here goes.

It's been a busy few months. Between the endless cycle of feeding, winding, changing and sleeping, we've had a mini family holiday to Napier when Mila was five weeks old and a three-week stint in Auckland from the seven week mark (which included Mila's first night with a babysitter while we went to Flight of the Conchords and her first full night's sleep). And work continues on the house - we took the plunge and pressed "Go" on the bathroom renovation so we're currently ensconced at Matt's mum's house while our plumbing is out of action.


Mila is changing fast and we're totally absorbed in the minutiae of her development - the way she throws her arms above her head in a victory stretch after a feed (to which Matt always says: "Winning!"), wiggles her head from side to side, goo-goos and gaa-gaas, kicks her legs, strains forward to sit up, smacks the elephant around that dangles from her baby gym, thumps on my chest as if demanding "More milk! More!", and gnaws on our fingers and growls like a little lioness.

A lot seems to revolve around her bodily functions - Vomitron and ThunderPants are hard-earned nick-names, recently joined by MachineGunBum.









Our little midget took Auckland by storm, charming everyone she met. When we see friends and family they don't even make eye contact with us anymore - all eyes are on Mila. I've explained to Matt that Dodge World has been absorbed into a whole new universe, dominated by the immense gravitational pull of Planet Mila. He's trying to fight it, but there's no denying the force is strong in him.



Sunday, 3 June 2012

Dude looks like a lady

It's been a while, huh? Blog silence is down to one thing, and that one thing will probably be the subject of most of the words on this site for some time. After months of anticipation, our baby arrived on 2 May at Gisborne Hospital. Kicking sand in the face of her stunt name, Roscoe, the baby that Matt lifted out of the birthing pool was a little girl who we've named Mila.


I could invoke every new-parent cliche going: she's the best thing that's ever happened to us... we're utterly besotted... etc, and although it is true, it seems trite and unworthy. That said, Mila is taking us on a daily journey of baby minutiae, steep learning curves and renewed wonderment.


A friend asked me how our first outing went and how it felt leaving the house for the first time. She said she remembered traffic seeming much louder and there being a bit of a struggle to get her words out at the corner store. Mila was born on a Wednesday and I left the house the following Monday, by myself, to pick up some provisions. I was surprised by how fragile I felt and hoped I wouldn't bump into anyone. It was like the day after a bender, a bad come down. Yet at the same time, I think I had baby goggles on as I drove through town. The river looked majestic, the sky vast with cascading volleys of birds arching across the blue, everything was drenched in autumnal golden light, the trees with their toffee hues, ahhh ahhh ahhh! I was like that guy from American Beauty. I had to gulp hard against the beauty and remind myself that hormones were probably making me tearful.

It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in. 

Giving birth is definitely the craziest thing I've ever done - the most challenging and the most amazing. Contractions started on the morning of 29 April, and I spent the next three days and nights in what the experts describe as "passive" labour. My midwife was concerned that I would be too exhausted once active labour kicked in and suggested an epidural or morphine. Matt and I were both pretty anti intervention and drugs as we'd been told about how they could affect the baby, so we persisted.

Finally, on Wednesday morning, I'd had enough. I'd been up for four nights, during which I had been engaged in a long conversation with myself where I was questioning whether my contractions were even real, whether I would be able to cope with the pain of "real" labour, what the hell I was doing (at one point I remember clearly thinking that I would NOT recommend doing this to ANYONE, then another me pointed out that even those people who I consider to be totally mental who take part in marathons (which people often say labour is like) probably don't enjoy the actual marathon as much as crossing the finish line).

At four o'clock in the morning it started to rain, and in my wisdom I decided that it was a sign, my baby was coming and I could do it. I hatched a plan to wait until a decent hour, wake Matt up and issue my demands.

At eight o'clock I said to Matt: "Matt, wake up. Wake up! You need to wake up and call the midwife and tell her that I am having two contractions every ten minutes, my waters have broken and she needs to either come here to check me out or we are driving to the hospital and I am getting into the birthing pool."

The midwife came, observed my contractions and was unconvinced. I asked her to check my cervix and she resisted, warning me that it may have only dilated a couple of centimetres and that for many women this would be a major psychological setback. I was adamant, and when she examined me, she said I was seven centimetres, it was time to get to the hospital and we weren't to dilly dally.

Four or five hours later, with lots of coaching from Matt and a fair amount of vocal expression from me, Mila emerged. I'd watched this brilliant documentary called "The Business of Being Born", in which this NYC midwife explains that every woman in labour gets to a point that she calls 'the rock and the hard place'. She says that the rock is that you don't want to push because it hurts, and the hard place is that if you don't push, it's gonna keep on hurting. I crouched in that crevice for a while.


Mum arrived just as we moved from the birthing room to post-natal so was the first one apart from me and Matt to hold Mila.


We arrived home to following day to an avalanche of flowers and gifts - there was such a flood of love and goodwill from friends, family and strangers. One of the pieces of advice that kept coming back to me while I was in labour was actually from a woman who works at the local lighting store. I'd gone in to pick up some light bulbs a few days before Mila was due and she'd asked me my due date. When I said "This Saturday", she said, "Oh, you must be carrying in the back. I've had five". I said "Good for you, you are an old hand then. Any tips?". She looked me dead in the eye and said: "Surrender to the pain and breathing is critical". She was right.


Oh, and the car ride to hospital? Relative silence from me and very gentle, considered driving from Matt. Unlike the trip to the midwifery rooms a couple of days before with me clinging to the door during contractions, Matt heading in the wrong direction, then overshooting our turn-off, slamming on the brakes and pulling a g-force-grade U-turn while I unleashed hell. How's that for a dry run, honey?

Wednesday, 11 April 2012

I don't think you ready

Two weeks until d-day. Well, one of them anyway. One week until another of the estimates. And three weeks until Dodge's date (he thinks he gets to decide on these matters).

Breach @ 36 weeks

Roscoe had not adopted the correct position so my midwife suggested acupuncture. I had one session and baby was still feet down. Then Mum came to visit and we went to the local Jazz Festival with Matt and his mum and during the "jam session" Roscoe did some serious movements ("Chain of Fools" kicked him off) and next thing I knew, I could feel the hiccups in the right place... yes: down there.

We started ante natal classes last week and they have been a bit of a revelation to Matt "zero-preparatory-reading-because-I-know-everything-about-everything" Hodges. It's a fairly big class with all the mums due a good month later than me and the average age a good seven years younger than us. There's a Sikh couple, a young Maori couple, a British couple, a bogan couple (complete with ugg boots and mullet), and the rest are white rural types (not sure how this differs from bogan). It's a group of first-time parents and a nice opportunity to talk about the emotional, physiological and medical sides of giving birth.

It strikes me that people who have kids often behave as if they've just joined a cult or fervently adopted a new religion. There are the knowing (some might say smug) looks and statements from those on the "other side". There's the dogged determination that their way is the right way. There's the glazed look in their eyes as they describe their experiences (generally as the way). Everyone has an opinion and everyone wants to share it.

That said, there's also something quite nice about how pregnant women are treated in my experience. People are genuinely excited for you. They are genuinely interested in your experience of being pregnant.

It was my birthday yesterday - it didn't feel like a usual birthday with my focus very much on the big birth day that is looming. It's been raining non-stop here but the clouds parted and the sun came out. It seemed like every surfer in Gizzy had pulled a sicky and hit the beach. Perfect, clean waves were rolling in at Wainui and Makorori and I settled down with "Clash Of Kings" while Matt joined the line-up.

Birthday beach bump @ 38 weeks

Monday, 19 March 2012

Baby got back

A couple of days ago, I saw the inside of my belly button. This piece of skin hasn't seen the light of day since 1977. Pregnant women (or very fat men) with protruding belly buttons always scared me. Mine has been threatening to pop under the increasing stretch of pregnancy for quite some time. For the record, it is still an inny, but with a little manipulation that twist of scar tissue and evidence of belly-dwelling pops out for all to see.

35 week bump @ Piha

This week I'm feeling HUGE. And tired. We're in Auckland while Matt rounds out the final weeks of his current contract. I flew up to see him two weeks ago and we had planned to drive back to Gisborne. However, a storm hit the North Island, sensationally dubbed a "weather bomb" by the New Zealand media, which exploded in the Waioeka Gorge through which the road from Auckland to Gisborne passes. Not anymore. Not for at least six weeks apparently. The gorge is beautiful. The road follows a winding river through steep hills of lush native bush, a portion of which collapsed during the storm: http://tvnz.co.nz/national-news/raw-video-waioeka-gorge-slip-4767632.

So we're flying back on Thursday. Matt's work is winding down to 80% for the next three months - perfect timing to have a baby.

Roscoe is rapidly colonising parts of my body that I naively thought still belonged to me. Legs are thrust out to the side and up under my ribs. If my bladder gets a little large for baby's liking, the kid punches it into submission! As we fast approach the "business end" of the gestation (Matt's terminology), friends and strangers seem progressively less censored and more inclined to tell me the gory details of their nightmarish birth scenarios.

Matt has been trying to convince me that a "dry run" drive from our house to the hospital is in order. After brushing off his initial requests, I was finally cornered into explaining my resistance. Surely it makes perfect sense not to want to put us through the experience more than once? I can envisage the whole thing and it mainly involves Matt speeding, me yelling and a lot of unnecessary stress. The reality will probably be utter silence and clinical precision. Or - ironically - Matt driving ridiculously and uncharacteristically slowly and me yelling. I refuse to give it any further thought.

Monday, 27 February 2012

Your baby ain't sweet like mine

Somewhat disconcertingly, the radiologist seemed to take great delight in announcing: "Your lives are so over" during our 12-week scan back in October. When we compared notes on crazy things people say about becoming parents, my sister-in-law said that she and my brother, Joel, had been told that "having a baby is like going to war". My brother Olly laughed and said that after four kids and a tour of Afghanistan he could confirm that going to war is a lot easier. Holy shit.

Bravely facing impending doom: bump @ 32 weeks

Our little one - currently going by the placeholder of Roscoe - is due to make its entrance in mid April and spends its days sleeping and hiccupping and nights flipping and kicking about like an animatronic extra from Alien. The first few months of pregnancy seemed to inch along, stalling completely at about six months - due to the Western world's dogged insistence that gestation is nine months - before suddenly picking up pace and throttling towards D-day.

We've bought a buggy, cat seat and (real) nappies (more on that later) and inherited a whackload of baby clothing and paraphernalia so, in terms of the requisite equipment, I think we're pretty much good to go.

It turns out that the world of babies is complex - there is a language and I suspect a compulsory lobotomy that goes with the territory. Men who I'd previously thought had the emotional range of a potato seemed to turn to fawning marshmallow upon becoming fathers. Everyone's personal experience seems to qualify them as the global authority on parenthood and "what babies need", and the only thing I have gleaned is that there is no single answer to any question relating to babies.

At a friend's party a couple of weeks ago I came face-to-bump with a woman who was the archetypal older posh mummy. She had six weeks to go and looked like she was ready to launch a torpedo out of her abdomen. Her first question was "Who is your specialist?". She was horrified when I confessed that I didn't have one, wailing "But all my friends have one!". I was regaled with nightmare scenarios and explanations of why a specialist is de rigueur. When I mentioned I'd had two appointments with my midwife, Posh Mummy yelped and said she'd already seen her specialist at least 30 times! She swore by "What to Expect When You're Expecting" and gave me the name of a celebrated Auckland "baby whisperer" who would be able to assist should I need anything.

The following day I was at a family barbie and met a next-door neighbour who was the antithesis of Posh Mummy, having given birth to her second baby in the lounge just a few feet from where we sat.

My bump is fairly apparent now - though in the right light, with the right outfit, some people still completely miss it - so last week we took some photos to document its existence.

Belly button poised to pop
Roscoe gets some vitamin D

Tuesday, 31 January 2012

Hurahura harvest Thai curry

This curry was made after the gardens at Hurahura Road were left unattended (other than daily watering by Uncle Eirin Rebel Dunn, who was house-sitting for us) for three weeks in January. We returned to a glut of vegetables and nothing but some chicken thighs in the freezer. I think thighs are the best for chicken curry, the darker meat is much better than bland old breast.

All the quantities are fairly approximate as I am rubbish at measuring.


400-800g skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into chunks
2 kaffir lime leaves
1-2 chili peppers (depending on taste), finely chopped
1 lime
1 handful Thai basil leaves
2-4T red curry paste, according to taste
2T fish sauce
1-2T palm sugar
400ml coconut cream
1/2c water
2 handfuls of waxy new potatoes
1 handful of cherry tomatoes
1 large or 2 small red capsicums, sliced
2 courgettes, cut on an angle into 1cm chunks
1 small red onion, sliced
2 handfuls of green and yellow beans, cut on an angle into 3cm lengths
6-8 baby kamokamo (with flowers), halved or quartered lengthways (if you can get them, otherwise, eggplant would be a good substitute)
1 handful of baby carrots (mine were "Purple Haze"), halved or quartered lengthways
1 handful broad beans (shelled, skin on)


Heat 4T of coconut cream in saute pan until oily looking. Add curry paste, chilies and torn kaffir lime leaves and stir until fragrant.


Add half the coconut cream and the water. Meanwhile, cook the potatoes in a pot of boiling water. Add the chicken to the curry mixture, cook for a couple of minutes and add the vegetables (along with the drained potatoes) and palm sugar (add the tomatoes last).


Cover for several minutes until the chicken and veges are cooked. Add the rest of the coconut cream along with the fish sauce. Taste and adjust seasoning (adding salt and more palm sugar or fish sauce if required). Squeeze lime into curry, stir and scatter with Thai basil (or coriander if you prefer, or both). Serve with Jasmine rice.

The Good Life: gardening & eating @ Hurahura Road

One of the first things I did at our house on Hurahura Road was to plant a vegetable garden and stock the greenhouse. My parents have always had vege gardens and my grandfather was a legendary gardener, producing gargantuan kumara (New Zealand sweet potato) and beefsteak tomatoes.

Let the gardening commence
Weeded and ready for compost

Grandad had a massive section in Auckland's North Shore which ran from Hurstmere Road to the lake's edge with fruit trees (including bananas, plums and ugly fruit), orderly vege patches (potatoes, onions, beans, leaks, carrots, tomatoes and kumaras), two large compost bins, a garden shed and chickens. When he was a boy, in the early 1900s, the harbour bridge linking Takapuna to Auckland didn't exist so a fairly bucolic existence could be had on the Shore.

In his lifetime the bridge was constructed and Takapuna was transformed from the place he'd hunted for rabbits and fished for eels in the lake and snapper in the sea into a haven for the wealthy filled with large gated homes.

Despite the change in his wider environment, life went on for Grandad in much the same way. He tended his garden and chickens, occasionally leaving a box of "windfalls" at the gate for passers by who might fancy a free apple or two, filling his wooden trolley with fishing gear and crossing Hurstmere Road to the beach where he rowed his wooden dinghy out to "halfway spot" (between the shore and Rangitoto Island) and landed snapper, each evening getting out of his gardening gear and into a shirt and slacks, donning his beret, gripping his walking stick and walking between Takapuna beach and Thorns, warmly greeting each person he passed. Oh how I miss him.

So, inspiration and genetic predisposition explained, you understand why my idea of living in New Zealand could not be complete without a garden, specifically, a vege garden.

The first planting
Greenhouse: weeded, washed and planted

That said, I am virtually clueless as to the finer points of the art. Undeterred, I attacked the garden with gusto, preparing the soil, digging in compost and consulting the Internet for appropriate early summer plantings.

Potatoes went in first, I chose Maori potatoes. When Maori first arrived in New Zealand in their massive canoes they brought with them potatoes and kumara, which were planted in settlements across the country. I knew nothing about how to plant potatoes but had seen them in many gardens growing in mounded rows. Little did I know that the mounds came later. The potatoes should be planted directly into prepared soil and then once they start growing, the soil is mounded up from each side to "force" the crop. This means that by covering some of the growth above ground, growth below ground, ie, where the potatoes are born, is encouraged. So, I planted mine directly into neat little mounded rows and then buggered off to Auckland for a month, missing my window for "earthing up".

First planting, after some serious salad consumption

I also planted tomatoes (cherry, beefsteak and Italian plum), coriander, flat leaf parsley (Matt has an irrational and morbid fear of curly leaf parsley), basil (Thai, Greek and Italian), dill, oregano, bay, rosemary, marjoram, tarragon, thyme, sage, romanesco, bok choy, beans, chili, corn, rucola, spinach, tatsoi, mesclun, carrots, peas, rhubarb, New Zealand native spinach and squash (kamokamo), capsicum, cucumber, courgettes, beets, red onions, lemongrass, radishes. Chard and squash self seeded and and sprouted throughout my plantings.

Greens: ready to eat

By the time Mum, Joel, Joey and Elsie came to visit in early November, the salad greens were ready for harvest so we ate salads of rucola, spinach, mesclun and tatsoi.

Mesclun
Rucola
Radishes
Salad

By Christmas, the beans were in full production, as was the raspberry patch, so we feasted on steamed beans and bean salads and raspberry shortcake with whipped cream.

A ruby red Phoenix rises
Harvest happened twice a day
Raspberry shortcake

We spent most of January in Auckland and when we returned last week the garden and greenhouse evoked scenes from Little Shop of Horrors. Kamokamo was choking everything, much had gone to seed and a big clean-up was required. Tomatoes have filled the greenhouse so I've been making consommé and salads.

Tomatoes: beefsteak, cherry & Italian plum

I used much of the clean-up harvest to make a Thai curry. From the garden and into the pan came beans, baby kamokamo, new potatoes (they grew despite my failure to earth up!), cherry tomatoes, red onion, Thai basil, kaffir lime leaves, chili, lime, red capsicum, sugarsnap peas, purple carrots and courgettes.

Bounty from Hurahura awaiting "curryfication"
Hurahura curry: ready to eat

The demands of maintaining a garden and greenhouse are endless and I am still a complete novice, often overwhelmed by weeds and stumped as to what to plant next - and once grown, what to cook. In London we tended to eat seasonally as I bought most of my veges from the local farmers market, but having your own garden is seasonal eating at an extreme, and my particular form of naiveté means eating from glut to famine.