Anticipation is a great thing. Most parcels sat unopened until the day.
On this frosty, but sunny morning, parcel-opening is a delight.
A heck of a lot of men have been born on this day. The first woman on the list is Eliza Ann Gardner b. 1831, an African-American abolitionist. (We won’t mention Rudy Giuliani b. 1944.) There’s Dame Thora Hird (‘Last of the Summer Wine’ – how appropriate), Kylie Minogue, Gladys Knight (Empress of Soul – ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’ could be the tune for today), and writers Ian Fleming, Maeve Binchy and Bernadine Evaristo (Booker Prize winner and teacher. I’m currently reading a book written by one of her PhD students). Some good company here.
I am on the cusp of the next decade, like a 19 year old about to step into the 20s and leave being a teenager behind.
The baskets on the trellis needed refreshing to cheer us up as we look out the window and winter sets in. I chose antirrhinums (aka snapdragons) and reliable pansies. Both are frost-hardy – there’s a -2C frost forecast tonight.
I chose a bright polyanthus (below, right) to cheer up a shady corner where I’d planted another months ago. It seems to be doing well, so I thought it might like company.
I went around the garden looking for more cheering colour and found a surprising number of fruiting or flowering plants.
Late afternoon sun on tree tops. Apples, lemons and abutilon still flowering.Nemesia flowering – and the red stalks of rhubarbBig, fat cranberriesAn abundance of berries on the NZ myrtle which the blackbirds are lovingFlowers on the fatsia japonica (aka false castor oil plant)
In the house, the fruit bowl brings colour inside. NZ persimmons, mandarins and kiwi fruit are in season and the feijoas are a surprise first harvest from my tree.
Occasionally, I comment on books which have impressed me. This one worked its way to the top of my pile of library books this week. After a few pages I thought I wouldn’t continue reading it (sometimes the inclination is to read less confronting books), but I got caught up in the story and finished it yesterday feeling more knowledgeable about Eastern Europe, specifically the Bosnian conflict, and utterly impressed by the writing, particularly the characterisation of the two protagonists, Sara and Lejla, one of whom (Sara) narrates the story. I had google maps open to follow their road trip from Mostar to Vienna.
Other books (such as Kamila Shamsie’s Best of Friends) are about women who have grown up in conflict zones, migrated and then assessed the past and their altered selves. There must be millions of women across the world with similar stories.
I think it’s the first translated book I’ve read which is translated by the author herself. She lives in Belgrade where, apparently, Serbian is the first language, but ‘everyone’ speaks English.
There are numbered chapters, but between them are square bracketed chapters which are flashbacks. Memories become increasingly significant as the story progresses and the reader pieces much of it together before the characters do, or before they admit the truth – although there’s that double thing, where the narrator as writer is fully aware. Towards the end it is evident that she is writing the story for her friend to read as a comfort or, perhaps, a cure for her torment – as well as for her own healing. The ending is a masterpiece in more ways than one, and I feel enriched for having persevered with this astounding and haunting book.
I walked to Singing for Pleasure today for the exercise and the thinking time. Since retiring, it’s still a novelty to have time without lists or ‘must-dos’. I don’t even mind waking in the night anymore as it gives me time to think about the day and is a good time to process whatever is going on.
After Singing, I wandered along to the central city, ending up in the rarified and calming atmosphere of Ballantynes, where I ran into a friend and a friend of a friend.
In need of sustenance before walking home, I stopped in at She Chocolaterie for a raspberry and rose hot chocolate. The new mural/wallpaper reminded me of Portugal, but I guess it’s likely to be Latin America as that is their theme. I worked out that I have treated myself to three hot chocolates here since I retired over 3 years ago – one a year isn’t bad! This time, I felt the need to counteract the richness with a thin slice of toasted sourdough when I got home.
On the way, I stopped in Victoria Square (formerly Market Square) to read an extract from a Fiona Farrell poem, look at the autumn colours and, further on, to admire a large toadstool by the Southern Cross hospital.
While nothing like the deluge in Auckland, the steady rain here this morning led to my guttering overflowing. This signalled a blockage, so donning an old raincoat, red band gumboots and rubber gloves, I climbed the ladder to check it out. The combination of autumn leaves and rain is not the best, but it looked as if I hadn’t cleared the gutters for a while. There was grass, moss and even a little tree growing up there. Surely it hadn’t been that long?! I filled a bucket with the sludge and tipped it on the garden.
While it was still raining and I had my wet weather gear on, I kicked leaves out of the gutters on the street to clear the drains.
It was all quite enjoyable somehow, even as the knees of my trousers became soggy and water ran up my sleeves. It doesn’t look as if Felix likes the rain much, though.
A friend with a very productive garden gave us some pumpkin this afternoon as we left her house after playing cards. I was intending to make an apricot dessert that evening, but one of our card players suggested pumpkin pie.
I found a recipe in my ancient Edmonds Cookbook, but used the short pastry recipe from another book. I had more pumpkin than I needed and used it all by doubling the recipe for the filling. I used half yoghurt and half milk, and golden syrup instead of treacle. After I’d boiled the pumpkin until it was just soft, I realised the recipe said to bake the pumpkin. That would have taken too long, but would have produced a drier pumpkin with more intense taste, I imagine.
An ancient Edmonds CookbookPumpkin Pie ready for the oven – the apricots are looked forward to for another dayThere were a lot of dishes afterwards!Forty minutes later it came out of the ovenCream on top for Mum and yoghurt for me
It tastes very nice; spicy with cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger. The pastry was a little hard to cut through with a spoon, perhaps because I used a recipe with one cup of flour instead of the two cups suggested in the Edmonds book, but I prefer a thinner crust. The pie will last us for several days. Yum!
Interrupting my bed-making this morning, Felix is happy to settle down on Mum’s warm sheets. Perhaps he approves of the cats. There’s a look on his face which might say, “This is fine. Don’t try to move me.” I’m okay with that.
In this case, it’s my expression of surprise at my fairy rose. Characterised as a healthy heritage rose, it is still producing flowers despite the frosts we’ve had so far this winter. I went into my garden looking for flowers for the bathroom and found this: at least 22 flowers on a single stem.
This hugely enjoyable and resonant movie has had dour reviews from some reviewers – and my brief survey reveals they are male. Perhaps they lack the perspective of a woman viewer who doesn’t need to be told the backstory of the women in the movie; we know it in our bones or have learned about the horrific Magdalene laundries, the long struggle for the vote, the oppression of women by religion, the ‘glass ceiling’, the manipulative undermining, and all the injustices for women in a patriarchal society. It is, apparently, not even respectable for a woman to play the guitar! In addition, the movie is set in the shadow of the recent World War, women’s war work is no longer valued, they often live in basic, dark, cheek-by-jowl housing with shared privies, they are bound by societal rules of propriety, and under the thumb of the male of the house. Something has to give. This, it seems to me, is what this movie is about.
Neatly staged groups of three show the progression of the movie. First the woman police officer with her self-satisfied and patronising colleagues backed up by the architecture of the establishment, then the friendships of the women, and finally, Woman Police Officer Moss (centre) in civvies, takes matters into her own hands (with back-up). The downed tools in the background suggest the men aren’t up to the job, while the three police officers, full of self-importance, are subtly undermined by the hens.
Sometimes at about 3 o’clock in the afternoon on these cooler days I enjoy a hot chocolate which is a bit more substantial than a cup of tea and, unlike coffee, won’t keep you awake at night. Microwaving might be a quick way to heat the milk, but I often burn my mouth, and watch nervously to make sure it doesn’t boil over. I tried a caste iron saucepan, but spent ages cleaning it afterwards. So I’ve bought a small milk pan with a pouring lip on each side.
With this marvellous piece of kitchen equipment, making hot chocolate has assumed the significance of a ritual. I heat the milk slowly, use a wooden spoon to stir in a square of dark chocolate, check it is hot enough (not boiling), then froth it (for a touch of luxury – and you need less milk) before pouring it into a warmed mug. Lovely. It goes well with an oaty biscuit!
The melted chocolate and milkFrothing the hot chocolateNotice the milk hasn’t stuck to the pan so it’s easy to clean (due to the gentle heating and stirring).
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