When life gives you lemons

I believe that anyone who enjoys making delicious food should have a lemon tree. Lemons are quite possibly my favourite fruit simply because they are one of the most versatile foods you'll find. They can be juiced, zested, preserved, squeezed, sliced into drinks, used in baking, dips, stuffings, sauces, meat dishes and salad dressings. They are an über-fruit in my book.

Unfortunately I can't grow lemons to save my life. My poor, tatty, weather-beaten Meyer lemon is in the final stages of a long, slow death. I have long had a dream to say casually to Harper, hey can you go get a lemon from the tree, as I stand quaintly before the kitchen bench. It's not to be.

But a friend has come to the rescue. She has an old tree that seems to have an endless supply, and she generously gave me a bag full. And in order to make the most of this bounty, I anticipate every meal I make from now until I can see the bottom of this bag, possibly sometime in mid 2014, will have some part of a lemon in it. I intend to use lemon in all it's glorious forms in as many ways as I can find. Right after I've had this gin and tonic.

First up, it's in hummus. This is no ordinary, 'buy it in a punnet and it tastes a litte like blended up cardboard'. No sirree. The beauty of making your own hummus is you can adapt it to the way you want it; more garlic here, a little less lemon there, a bit of chilli and coriander, you do it the way you like. You can also - have mercy! - not even use tahini, and I don't because it costs a freaking fortune. I use peanut butter instead, a staple in our house for toast, sarnies and just eating by the sneaky spoonful.  

Here's the recipe I used - by the domestic goddess herself Nigella Lawson, but I add a bit of fresh  coriander and some chilli flakes for extra oomph.

Where I've been

I've become a multi-blogger, writing about the garden here at Helston Heights for Stuff. If you haven't read it yet, it's called Woman vs Wild and is all about gardening. That doesn't mean I won't be blogging here anymore, - no - you'll still be able to get your fix of my blathering on about running, writing, crafting, parenting, DIY-ing, and overthinking. Watch this space.

Autumn Red

The weather has just recently turned a touch autumnal. Where summer is bright blue sky and yellow daisies, and winter is a sea of black coats walking headlong  into a southerly, autumn is the red of a ripe chilli pepper and a turning leaf. I'm noticing lots of red at the moment, especially in the tomato patch. Seems everyone's tomatoes are ripening slowly.  The cherry tomatoes have been ripening steadily for a few weeks now, but the last remaining grosse lisse tomato plant has just the one ripe tomato shining up like a beacon from the green of the plant. It is the first time in three years of gardening that I've had a large size tomato ripen, which is, in this climate, and with everything I've had to go through to keep these babies alive, a bit of a miracle.

Autumn makes me think of Tokoroa, and the start of hockey season. Hockey practice after school would end about 5pm, and I would walk home afterwards with it getting steadily darker, the sky big and wide and still. I was a dreamy teenager, kind of lost in some other place. I loved walking home and seeing the lights on in people's houses, seeing them going about their evening rituals. I wrote poems in my head as I walked. It was lovely to get home and find the fire on, I can hear the sound of my mother pulling the drapes closed across the patio door. The drapes were red. My cheeks, chilled by the crisp air, were red.

What a happy birthday looks like

H kicked off his 4th birthday with a present treasure hunt. His presents were all over the house with picture clues as to the location of the next present. 

I spent hours whipping up all sorts of kiwiana-style party treats. My first attempt at Rice Bubble Slice was not very successful. Lucky that onion dip is impossible to mess up.

The traditional Aunty Ange cake went down a treat. H couldn't decide what to wish for, and the letters on the candles were unreadable by the time he blew them out.

I had no idea H was so popular with the ladies.

Four

Tomorrow you turn four. Four years sounds very serious. Not quite serious enough for school, but not frivolous like a three year old. My mother, your Nana, always tells me about how she and my father walked around the rose garden the morning I was born. And then I arrived with a holler at 3.20pm, in time for afternoon tea. Before you were born I would roll my eyes and groan something teenage-y whenever I heard this story; oh Mum, you're embarassing me. But I get it now. I get it because every year on the 4th of February I do the same thing. I tell you about how your dad and I went and had a last supper, well, it was lunch, at Ernesto's. We ate hash browns and eggs and hollandaise. I went to the chemist and bought the last of the supplies I thought I would need to look after a little baby. We went home and packed those few last things in my red suitcase, which is now your suitcase, and then at 5pm we went to the hospital. It was a dull overcast day, a little windy. As we came down the hill to Newtown, Christy Moore was playing on the stereo, a song I'd been teasing your dad about. I asked him how he felt. Scared, he said. When we got the hospital, your dad took photos of me beside the sign at the hospital, with my suitcase and my bump where you were. I knew I wouldn't have the bump next time I stood in the carpark. The same Christy Moore song was on the stereo when we brought you home two days later.

So it's six hours until you are four. Tomorrow when you wake up you'll come into your mum and dad's room and clamber in between us. There will most probably be a tickle fight. I will look at you and see every day since the day you were born, and when you're five, I'll get nostalgic about it.

2011 - The year in review

What did you do in 2011 that you'd never done before? Where to start. There were so many firsts this year I'm bound to miss something out.

1. Went to Vancouver, Whistler and a tiny snippet of coastal British Columbia; that trip saw many firsts, like having a migraine while sea-kayaking, flying first class, encountering a baby bear, going shopping for maple syrup at 10pm with an old Kiwi friend in a suburban supermarket, and eating all sorts of amazing new foods like Arctic char, clamato juice and raw buffalo.

2. On the home front, I painted my own kitchen and made a blanket out of crochet.
3. Became a runner. I joined a women's running group, ran up hills I never thought were possible, entered a running race, got injured and had my first MRI.
4. Hung out with my cousins James and Morgan.

What countries did you visit? Canada; land of Mounties, salmon and maple syrup from the supermarket.

What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011? That elusive Canon award.
What date from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? February 22, 12.51pm. The day of the Christchurch Earthquake.
What was your biggest achievement of the year? Writing the Elsa story.
What was your biggest failure? Not finishing my first 10km because of a pesky migraine.
Did you suffer illness or injury? I had nine migraines this year, which is more than I've had in the decade. They were often at inopportune times. I have learnt to get over my panic when a migraine comes on now. I also had the aforementioned running injury.
What was the best thing you bought? My mountie tin.
Whose behaviour merited celebration? Those volunteers who dug people out, patched them up, shared facilities, raised money, and donated anything they had.
Where did most of your money go? Gardening and secret brunches at Cafe Thyme next door to the garden centre.
What did you get really, really, really excited about? The final of the RWC. Running up Mt Vic. Snow in my front yard - for three days.

What song will always remind you of 2011? The national anthem, sung with an ever changing lineup of lyrics by H R Graham. Who knew "in the bonzo love" and "God of masons" were the words? And the rainbow song, which Harper learnt from his beloved Nana.

What do you wish you'd done more of? Had more haircuts. I'm wearing a blankie of hair on my head right now.

Did you fall in love in 2011? Neh. I thought I would love the chooks, but they're a pain in the butt.

What did you want and get? Chooks. Revising that decision.

What did you want and not get? A thriving raspberry patch. A Canon award. A medal for finishing a running race.

To see 2010's wrap up, see here.

I will not complain about the weather this year

Image by  flickr user dmmd303

Wellington is windy. The wind's direction and strength play an integral part in this city's life. It determines whether or not a sailing on the ferry to or from the South Island is a good day out, or a dangerous and deadly event. It determines whether sitting outside on a sunny day is a lovely way to pass time, or will involve being hit in the head with flying objects. It might even determine whether you can walk or not.
The wind also plays a big part in the mood of our city's residents. It's pretty usual for the year to go a little something like this:
Autumn: at the first southerly, complain about winter coming
Winter: complain about how cold and windy it is as another 'icy blast' rolls through town
Spring: get hopes up of a good summer coming, but complain about November northerlies
Summer: complain about the summer that never came while holding down the barbecue in a northerly
It's fair to say that I do a lot of this complaining. The wind plays a big part in my life, though in subtle ways. My choice of vegetables and fruit to grow is largely determined by the wind, or at least that's the reason I give for never, ever growing runner beans. All my crops stay close to the ground. I won't grow climbing peas, and even dwarf peas get staked. I wear my hair long, with no fringe, so that I can tie it back and not have it in my face. I check Metservice for wind strength and direction more than for sun and rain. I choose to walk home a particular way because other routes are windier.
But this year, I will not complain about the wind. Instead, I will focus on all the ways wind enriches my life.
Wind is a cheap gym. Trying running against a gale force northerly. It's resistance and cooling all at once.
Wind has a purifying effect. The air here is always clean. I don't have to worry about airing out the house, because you open a window for ten minutes and voila, airing is done. Washing takes less time to dry in the wind.
Wind is dramatic. It howls at windows. A good southerly is like a kid dancing, making all the trees and curtains and things that aren't tied down dance with it. It whips up the harbour in different directions. It sends clouds racing over hills, it makes magnificent sunsets.
Wind means no-one in this town can use an umbrella. I really dislike umbrellas. Or more accurately, I really hate being poked in the eye by the ends of an umbrella's spoke. I love to see umbrellas that have been sucked inside out by the wind stuffed into rubbish bins.
Wind makes landing at the airport a newsworthy event, though I've had far worse landings in Auckland.
If you live in Auckland or Reefton or somewhere not windy, you don't appreciate the beauty of a truly still evening like those of us who are used to being buffetted. Those still evenings when the cicadas are sizzling and people are out walking their dogs are jewels; when leaves stay on the ground, when the water coming out of your watering can goes on the plants you are aiming it at. Those times are times to sit, to watch, to admire bees bravely going about their business.
I know lots of people who couldn't live here because of our weather. Sometimes I have thought of moving somewhere less active. But there are so many great things about this place, that the wind is a small price to pay for it. I come around that corner on SH1 where the harbour bursts out to meet you, I see the city huddled into it and the ingenious ways people have created a place to live and be here, and I know this will always be home.

'It's true you can't live here by chance, you have to do and be, not simply watch or even describe.  This is the city of action, the world headquarters of the verb.' - Lauris Edmond

Summer road trip: homeward bound

Tomato emptiness

If you choose to grow tomatoes in Wellington, with our chilly spring, our gale force winds and our clay soil, you are in for a hard, heart breaking road. This is the third year I've tried to grow tomatoes, the other two times have been utter failure.

This year, armed with a great deal more gardening knowledge, I have managed to coddle a few plants that I've raised from seed. I started with 14 plants - 7 cherry toms and 7 grosse lisse, back in August. I kept them inside and loving watered them, then transplanted them into larger pots and fed them with homemade liquid seaweed.

Over two weeks I hardened them off; taking them out onto the patio before work so they could adjust to the outside world, and tucking them in the house at night when I got home. My dedication was amazing, if I do say so myself.

A week after Labour Weekend I planted them out in a plot we cleared in the flower garden, a nice sheltered spot with all day sun at the front of the house. The plot had been nurtured with seaweed and compost. I ground up pumice to aid soil drainage. I sowed calendula, borage and phacelia around to attract bees. So far, so good. So good I gave away five sturdy young plants.

Harper helps plant out the tomatoes amongst the lavender in our flower garden

On planting out day, I lost one when it fell off the back of the car where they had been sunbathing. I was down to eight plants. I staked those tomatoes from the get-go, so that any pesky northerlies in November wouldn't snap them. Not long after planting out, they began to turn purple. I learned, from scouring the internet, that they weren't able to draw phosphorus from the soil because it was too chilly for them. I lost two plants completely, the others I coddled and nursed and talked to and fed with blood and bone, comfrey tea and more homemade liquid seaweed. They survived the cold spring. And guerilla attacks by the chooks who loved to scratch around in the soil near them.

Before going on holiday at Christmas, I mulched the plants, I crushed up egg shells and sprinkled them round the roots, and fed with seaweed. The plants looked lush and strong and were fruiting.

First fruit, just before Christmas

Pre-holiday tomato patch, with basil, phacelia, borage and calendula

By the time we got back from holiday in early January fat fruit were forming, the phacelia was getting so big I had to pull it out, but then I discovered black sections on the tomato stems, brown splotches on the leaves and some of the fruit on the one grosse lisse I had left was brown and ugly. Turns out it has early blight. I lost one more plant before I even identified what the problem was.

Early blight - dark stems, brown patches on leaves, dark smudges on fruit

Today, I resorted to spraying with copper oxychloride, but I think it's pretty dire. I'm tempted to pull the whole lot out and admit defeat. And maybe if I hadn't been so optimistic about how I cheated the weather and guerilla chooks, then this wouldn't feel so bad.

Please ripen before the blight gets you!

Perhaps I'm just not destined to grow tomatoes.

We are now vampire proof

My trusty assistant was on hand to harvest our 14 bulbs of garlic. They've been in the ground since the shortest day, June 21, and according to garden lore, should be harvested on the longest day, December 21. I decided to leave them in the ground a touch longer, until the first leaves started to die off. I dug them up with my new garden fork which melts the soil like butter. Oh, the bliss of a new garden fork.

I also have shallots in there, and I've left them in a bit longer to get bigger and fatter. H got a bit excited though, and pulled one out.

The next step is leaving them to dry. If we could be assured of a couple of days of sunshine, I would have left them out on the soil, but we're enduring some four-seasons-in-oneday weather, so they are tied up in the shed to dry off. I can't wait to plat them and hang them in my kitchen. This is definitely a crop I will grow again next year.

Summer road trip: part three

Summer road trip: part two

Summer road trip: part one