Making the Cut

for Penny
The chickens have flown the coop.

Penny and Isla, our two recently acquired plump Red Shaver hens have shunned the little chook house my husband and I recently acquired. It’s a double story, with a pull out tray for easier cleaning, and light enough to move anywhere we want it in the yard.

After the recommended week of keeping them locked in and well fed at regular times, we let them out. Free range. We worried about neighbors complaining as our newly liberated hens roamed the neighborhood, pooping incessantly, and quite possibly scratching up others’ gardens. But no one came knocking. There were no dirty looks while out strolling with my little girl. And the hens always returned each night as the sun got low in the sky, with a gentle coaxing and the promise of a scoop of feed. Then one night it was nearly dark before Isla came back, hinting out back with her quiet clucking, letting us know she’d returned.  But there was no sign of Penny. We left the door to the coop open, hoping she’d find her way in later that night. But in the morning, there was no sign of her. We’d given up hope, assumed an angry neighbor had gotten fed up and grabbed her, or chicken thieves? A cat? A car? Who knew? We thought she was a goner. But the next night she showed up.

And so it began. Our chickens became free range in every sense of the word. Isla’s sojourn into the great wide open marked a turning point in their lives. We can’t be sure what happened out there, but Isla was no longer content to be a follower. Before her great escape Isla could always be found trailing Penny, sometimes running smack into her tail-side or bumping beaks with her, causing a great spreading of wings and frustrated chortles.  No, Isla, and in turn Penny, would no longer ease back into that little house for a sleep amongst clean wood shavings and fresh hay. From that day forward they have made their roost on the mast of our little sail boat, in a tree, and (not on my watch) my daughter’s stroller. Goopy droppings now litter every inch of our driveway. And the eggs? The eggs we were meant to find each morning nestled in the straw like little treasures, awaiting crispy omelets, steaming frittatas, and buttery baked goods, are nowhere to be seen.

Oh the eggs: meringues, quiches, bennies. I pictured their shells speckled brown, their yokes bright, golden and poached medium-soft, oozing and seeping into the craters of toasted whole wheat each weekend. I’d take deviled eggs to parties and learn the Kiwi art of Pavlova, our ova-riches would be in such excess. 

Without a nest, there would be no place to lay their cache, we reasoned.  Eggs weren’t dropping from the tree or the mast. Their loot had to be somewhere. My thoughts now turned to Charlotte’s Web and that looting rat’s stink bomb, and wee little chicks roaming everywhere, fertilized by a rogue rooster from the farm across the stream.

This is when the cutting was set in motion. Behind that tree Penny and Isla had been favoring for their perch was an amalgamation of bushes I simply couldn’t bear the thought of conquering a few months back when we first move into our home In Holdens Bay. I had gone wild with my shears at that time, whacking down anything that didn’t hold promise of blossoming; already well into summer, in our very overgrown and neglected garden. Why anyone would let such a garden get into that state is beyond me, but that is for another day.  Those bushes in the back though, proved a match for me. The one with the bright yellow blooms was alive and buzzing all of January with the fattest bumble bees I have ever seen. There was also a floppy hydrangea, and could it be: a Bougainvillea without flowers, its vines like ropes of steal twisting and tangling its way up to the roof.  But tucked away into those bushes the chickens spent much of their days digging, protected from the rain and sun, and the heavy breath of the horse who leans over the fence to surprise them frequently. “This is where the eggs are,” I told my husband.

Those bees had long since stopped buzzing. The hydrangeas whose soft bushels of flowers, molted sky blue, lime and mauve, which I prized so much, had turned smoky purple and crumbly. Now was the time to tackle the job. That first apprehensive snip with the secateurs proved a great release. Liberated, I made another snip, and another. Soon clouds of leaves, broken branches and spider webs were flying everywhere. I was Edward Scissorhands! Hidden away in there were broken dishes, scraps of corrugated metal, and rotting planks of wood with rusty nails poking out. And what I also found was that once I started cutting I couldn’t stop. It felt so good.

Once finished (how can you ever be sure you’re finished when you’re pruning?) I wanted more. I found myself soon after with used gardening books spread out before me, looking up proper pruning techniques. I was happy to find the hydrangeas in the front yard (I think they are weeds here in New Zealand. These fluffy bushes are seen in every yard, and the rate of their growth is astounding) would need to be cut back hard, and sad to find I’d need to wait until the last frost to prune the tangle of roses, because frost would kill any new tender shoots that would grow from where they’d been cut back.

Later, cutting became a fixation.  Magazines were torn apart, with recipes, gardening tips, and pictures for collage neatly clipped and piled about the house. The food processor could be heard regularly, its sharp blades dicing, chopping and whizzing. From this, baby food was stockpiled, and squash soup, hummus, cashew curries, and expertly grated coleslaw.  New hairstyles were considered. Legs were shaved. Didn’t I need a lock of baby’s hair for a memento? Where would it end?

For just as it is in the garden; the more we trim back and take off the old, the more we set the stage for growth. Taking off those branches makes the tree less top-heavy; it lets in light and allows for air to circulate. Dormant buds are exposed and energy is diverted, strengthening weaker areas.  You can pinch back sideways growth to promote it upwards, or snip from the top to encourage bushiness. Death creates life. We can all benefit from a little air, strengthening and outward growth. Instead of investing time in finding a pen, it make more sense to clean of the table, leaving that time for drawing, meals together or a quick game of cards.

Pruning is a meant to be done delicately though. While many plants tolerate my style of whacking and hacking, big trees can take years to recover and a big chop is unsightly. Young flexible shrubs put up with pruning more readily than older ones, and a jagged cut won’t heal, exposing the plant to disease and rot, as will a poorly placed snip. Shearing is usually best done just above a bud or branch, or back to the trunk, ensuring re-growth or mending. As with a spontaneous short haircut, seeing those lifeless locks heaped on the hairdresser’s floor can be a shock to the system.

For now, my secateurs are hung up, and I watch Penny bathing herself idly in the patch of dirt now exposed beneath the cleared bushes. I keep my eyes open for eggs, though I know in the back of my mind it could be a long time before they settle into a pattern of laying. Also, they are still young and winter is fast approaching. There are fewer bugs for foraging out in the paddock behind our house, meaning less protein for good egg production. I will keep daydreaming about over-easy on rye, and shapely rose bushes, and even more about the masses of flowers it will help to create. I think I’ll put a bouquet of them on the breakfast table. But, I guess I’ll be eating oatmeal.

You Are Here

for Sunday Scribblings

When I was younger, I had an enormous explorer style world map above my bed. It was the source of both my dreams and nightmares, as there was this whole world of possibilities open to me, and all I had to do was make a choice. Contradictorily, all I had to do was make a choice.

It is difficult even for people who know me well to decide if my indecisiveness makes me easy-going or just too passive. I often prefer others to make choices for me when both options seem desirable. I can’t bear to be blamed if things don’t go well, and I sincerely want both, so how I could I possibly choose only one? On a solo trip to the Philippines though, I had no choice, but to choose.

I arrived in Manila with lots of ideas. There were places in every direction that I wanted to visit. There were buses, boats and planes, lakes, volcanoes and about 7000 islands. I stared at the map in my guidebook, stymied. Ready to close my eyes and go where my finger landed, I finally made my decision by choosing the location of the next festival. When boats and plane tickets were sold out for my first choice, I settled on the Dinagyang Festival in Iloilo, Panay. Dinagyang means merry-making in Ilonggo. It is a religious and cultural celebration and involves a lot of drumming with dancers painted black, wearing elaborate colorful costumes. It is loud, hot and crowded, and like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Large groups arrive from all over the country to participate on the fourth weekend of January every year.  

I arrived in the evening, a week early, and watched the preparations. Stalls were set up selling glass bottles of coke and San Miguel, and barbequed fish. There were speakers piled upon and speakers, nearly toppling over, and students practicing drum routines in the streets. I decided to spend the week on the island of Guimaras, home of the juiciest mangos in the Philippines, and return when the festival was in full swing.

Guimaras is just a short boat ride from Iloilo. My first stop was Valle Verde Mountain Resort, in the center of the island. From there I took steamy walks through the villages with a local guide and a grumpy old foreign man. He was slowly going blind, and waiting for the construction of his house nearby to be completed. I familiarized myself with jeepney etiquette, visited a monastery in an orchard, and cooled my feet in the pool, staring at the emerald mountains surrounding me; sticky mango peels piling up beside me.

But soon I longed for the beach, so reluctantly I left Valle Verde and ended up at Rico Beach resort in Alubihod, Guimaras. This is an older style resort, the kind favored by day-tripping picnickers. The restaurant served only portions of seafood big enough for whole families. It got very noisy. Watching all the families enjoying each others’ company made me lonely and only further reminded me of how out of place I felt. The Philippines is not a place to be alone. Throughout my journey people questioned me about my lack of companionship, astounded that I would travel alone.

Rico wasn’t the sort of resort I had in mind, so when I was invited on a boat ride, touring around to other beaches and a turtle sanctuary, I gladly took it. This is when I first stepped on Baras Beach. Baras Beach Resort was what I had in mind. I spent my days snorkeling, paddling a canoe and exploring this tiny beach, or soaking up the afternoon sunlight on my private cliff, waiting anxiously to be called to dinner, as the smell of it wafted up to my bungalow. Evenings were spent eating creamy seafood curries, communal style, and sipping Tanduay rum.

What made this spot so special to me wasn’t the views and fresh fish. This was only to be the first of many similar experiences on my four-month trip around the country. On the third day, the other tourists left, and as I watched a new boat arrive, and about 35 members of an extended family disembark with their own beer and food, I feared I was in for more of my Rico Beach experience. Instead, this lively and expansive family invited me to join them in their reunion.  Each year one of the daughters in this family, married to a Swiss man, returns with her husband and children to treat everyone to a memorable day out.  This family treated me as one of their own, and summoned me to all their activities including drinking games and a drag fashion show using life saving equipment. In the morning, the matriarch of the family wished me well, hoping we’d write to each other.

The best part of travelling in the Philippines is that most people speak English fluently, and because of it, conversations and real exchanges of culture, like these I shared at Baras Beach, were the most cherished mementos I took from my vacation.

Butternut Soup

Butternut squash soup is one of my absolute favorite soups, and it is very common in restaurants in South Africa. So common that “squash” is often left out and it is just called butternut. It surpasses the flavor of the pumpkin soups of Taiwan I so often ate. This recipe from Rainbow Nation is done the traditional South African way: Butternut Soup Recipe 
I am blenderless at the moment, so when my in-laws came to visit recently I roasted lots of different veggies in olive oil for about an hour, and pureed them with the blender I’d asked my mother-in-law to bring along on her visit. I then froze these to use in soups as I did here with the squash and onion. For the apple, I just used a masher once it was cooked through.  I replaced the nutmeg with cinnamon, and served the soup with lots of pepper, a dollop of plain yogurt, and homemade croutons. To make the croutons, cut bread into squares (I use old crusts I’ve kept in the freezer) and throw them on a cookie sheet with olive oil and herbs. These should be turned often and take about 15 minutes to get just hard. 

Karoo

Book Review

The Plains of Camdeboo: The Classic Book of the Karoo, by Eve Palmer, Penguin Books

“Few people have had the good fortune to be born in a desert. I was.”

So starts Eve Palmer’s tale of the Karoo, a semi-desert region, stretching across the Western and Eastern Cape provinces of South Africa. The word Karoo is derived from a Khoisan word meaning “land of thirst”, and though I wasn’t born there, I have had the good fortune to pass through it a few times, travelling between my family’s permanent home in dry diamond filled Kimberley, and their coastal vacation home.

The Plains of Camdeboo is an almost exhaustive account of life in a place thought to be without life. The Karoo is arid and seemingly colorless, yet Palmer paints a world of color and movement, full of birds and plants, and tales of lions and explorers. “…[O]urs is a country of life. We have only to walk or ride into the veld to know this and be caught up in its pattern: the squat, fat, angled plants; the hunting spiders that flicker between them;… the pale and wild gladioli; the cobras; the scorpions; the mantis coloured like a flower;… the koringkrieks lurching on immense and crooked legs. Here moves a steenbok, a duiker, a springbuck, a lark clapping its wings above us;... the smell of rain, wild asparagus; mountains and hills floating in a mirage of water; a white hot sky, the sound of cicadas and wings and wind.”

Her descriptions are extensive. Entire chapters are devoted to nothing but cobras or one species of tree. While the thoroughness might be tedious, you can’t help but get absorbed in her anecdotes. Instead of reading like a scientific study, you feel as if you were there at Cranemere Farm, alongside her family, the farm’s workers, and its many visitors as they divulge its histories and the charm of this unique area. These accounts read like poetry, and can only come from someone who truly values this world around her. I can relate, having grown up on a farm myself. There are patterns in nature that repeat themselves throughout the seasons, things to look forward to or mourn as the year moves on. There are details that are only realized upon close and frequent observation. Palmer sees order in the workings of nature. Her prose is heavy with science, yet what makes her work readable is her enthusiasm for both wild and tame, and the realization that some things lie “…in the realm of speculation, mysticism, and faith. The Karoo breeds few atheists. Perhaps this is accident and its plant and animal world, so bizarre and yet so methodical, plays no part in this at all; or perhaps, unguessed by its people, the pressure of a great plan is about them.”

Present

for Sunday Scribblings

I’ve always considered myself to be a very efficient person. My approach is to get a bothersome task done as quickly a possible, in order to have as much time as possible for my favorite pastime, relaxing. But once my daughter was born, things began to take a turn.

In the final weeks leading up to my baby’s birth, I felt purposeless, waiting for her to be born. Within moments of her arrival I couldn’t remember what it was that I’d filled my time with before her. And while her father and I gave her the gift of life, and took on the responsibility of guiding her, she has already, at her tender age, reciprocated and taught us something of great worth.

To live in the present is a present in itself. Much of my time now is spent nourishing her, changing her and soothing her. There is little time for much else. As I move into her third week of life, I am beginning to find pockets of time now, and to know when the perfect moment to take a shower or make a cup of tea is. Yet, something else is happening. Instead of cherishing these quiet moments to myself, or spending time alone with my spouse, I find myself transfixed by her eyes, by her lips. When my husband takes her, I don’t want to leave the room. What if I miss something good? On the contrary, when I do take time away from her, I’m reluctant to do a chore or errand. I want to soak up sunshine on the beach, and not be accountable to anyone, for a while. 

My daughter has given me these moments. She has taught me to appreciate the present more, instead of looking ahead to what can be accomplished. She has given me a gift.

Paradoxically, starting a family has given me time.

Parcels

http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/5607/salmon-and-leek-parcels

These salmon and leek parcels were easier to make than I expected. They turned out perfectly crisp and tasty. It seems I forgot to buy the fish, so had to make do with breaded fillets from the freezer, so I can’t imagine how good they’d be with salmon or any local white fish. Other changes I made were halving the leeks (only because I didn’t have enough) and then substituting fresh spinach and mushrooms, and doubling the fish and phyllo sheets, making four portions instead of two. I kept the amount of cheese the same though, and the result was something not so rich, as pastries made with phyllo often are. The only problem was separating the phyllo sheets, once thawed. A lot of them tore or couldn’t be separated, but I made do, and they still turned out well. Next time, I think I’ll serve them with a sweet pepper salsa. 

Slow Down

Gili Meno 

photo: Cobus Botes

Over the years, I have been lucky enough to visit many pockets of Indonesia. From Bali, vibrant with color, dance and indulgences, to Sumatra with its clove infused tea, reckless reefs, and great Batak houses, as well as to Sulawesi with its sea gypsies, coral gardens, and lonely islands.  While these locales offer adventure and intriguing encounters, none compare for me to Lombok’s Gili Meno, because what this place lacks in culture and curiosities, it makes up for in quiet relaxing community.

The Gilis, comprised of three small islands: Meno, Trawangan and Air, in northern Lombok aren’t off the beaten track. They are easily reached from Padangbai Harbor in Bali, with either a fast or slow boat to Sengigi or Bangsai on Lombok, with easy minibus connections or smaller boats taking you directly to the island of your choice. You could even fly to Lombok’s Mataram Airport as well. Once on Meno though, the only transportation you will find are small horse-drawn carts called cidomos, and bicycles.

photo: Cobus Botes

This is where life slows down. Often on vacations one tends to do as much and  see as many sights as possible. It makes sense; when so much time and money is put into something that might only happen for two weeks a year or even a lifetime. On Meno though you won’t have much choice. Here your days are filled with swimming, reading in your hammock and exchanging pleasantries with locals along the path on your way to a fruit shake.

photo: Cobus Botes

Our two favorite pastimes while there were snorkeling and walking around the island. There are many places to wade in and survey the undersea world, around the island. We often set off in the mornings, stopping wherever it looked easy to get in. Once we’d had our fill we might stop at a resort for a drink or meal, and continue on into the afternoon. A favorite spot was an area famous for its turtles and mild current that pushes you along so you don’t even have to kick.

photo: Cobus Botes

We also took great pleasure from exploring the many abandoned resorts around the island. Here the jungle has begun to reclaim the land, and the gardens, full of fragrant frangipani and glowing bougainvillea, once tended carefully, now cover every bit of free space. There are brightly mosaicked swimming pools cracked and drained. Exploring here makes you feel like you’re in modern tropical version of Angkor Wat.

Another day was spent on Gili Trawangan, the biggest and liveliest of the three islands. Here we could drink proper coffee, rent bicycles to explore the island, use the ATM, and have a beer at a floating bar.

photo: Cobus Botes

Back on Meno, every sunset and sunrise stunned us from our two-story bungalow at the Southern end of the main beach. We stayed at Biru Meno Resort for about $35 US a night, which included a small breakfast and a cold fresh-water shower. Our German/Indonesian hosts made us feel welcome, and brought many cups of ginger tea and cool Bintangs to our very secluded and airy coral cottage.

There are many places to eat on the main beach. Seating is often in private gazebos with ocean views. We ate local favorites like fried rice with prawn crackers, peanutty gado-gado, and fresh barbequed fish. We often spoiled ourselves with surprisingly very good pizzas and calzones as many of the restaurants have wood-burning ovens.

For more information on the Gilis, visit Lombok Network

Bring:

Snorkeling gear can be rented from dive shops, but having your own saves money and you can be assured of the quality. It also means you’ll be more likely to get it the water often, and instead of packing all your snorkeling into one day you can easily grab your fins and mask and hop in for a quick tour around whenever you feel like it.

A dry bag proved invaluable to us. These aren’t expensive, and it meant we never had to backtrack when snorkeling. We could bring money, flip-flops, sunscreen and a sarong, and instead of worrying about our things on an empty beach, we just towed it along with us and got out wherever when we were tired or cold. The flip-flops are especially important if your fins are booty-less, as getting in and out of rocky spots at low tide can be tricky.

What we should have brought was a few bottles of wine from Bali. It is much cheaper there, and the selection greater. You can get tired of beer, and as good as the food was, we had some awful cocktails while on Meno.

Mosquito repellant and coils can be bought on the island, but if you have a favorite kind, you may want to bring with. Long pants are definitely recommended for dusk. Flies can also be a problem during the day, at the restaurants. We made our peace with these minor disturbances early on luckily. We have also heard stories of malaria in the area. You should check what current conditions are before you go. We decided against malaria medication, and were not affected at all.