Tuesday 29 December 2015

Summer days of slow

When the afternoon sun starts to slowly come down on days of summer holidays the unmade bed looks a tempting way to fill a quick hour.  A cat nap on a sunny day feels guilty of laziness when the laundry basket overflows and dinner is still unconsidered.  The freezer drawer once wrenched open raises more questions than answers as I ponder what species are frozen in time in their plastic containers. Can I rely upon any of it to thaw into something appetizing or have we got the fishing bait mixed up with the flathead again. It's the best time of year to take up a slower pace and grind down to a near halt.  The vacuum cleaner can sit idle for a few more days and clothes won't be ironed until needed.  Supermarket shopping will be avoided at all costs with make do meals and home versions of essentials.  My fashion attire for this time of year is a stylish combination of the comfortable but tragic look teamed with a what on earth was she thinking with matching clapped out runners carrying enough dirt to grow a geranium out of the toes. The sun is casting a shadow and it's almost time for a cold glass of something to reward myself for doing, well nothing really. 

Saturday 26 December 2015

You can't start a diet in December

Christmas day.  Tick.  Good crockery washed and put away.  Tick.  Visitors out on a tour.  Tick and Smiley Face.  A quiet moment and appropriate weather for a batch of Sally Wise Soda Water Scones.  So light when they come out of the oven they need a tea towel on top to stop them flying off the tray.  After yesterday's scorcher with every window open for a whisper of breeze in any direction, the morning brings steady rain and enough low cloud to hide the local hills.  The Christmas rush dispersed to the fridge with the severed ham and cold plum pudding, we tell ourselves we're right for food for a while, at least until lunchtime.  Festive food, a major contributor at this time of year rolls over any attempts at sugar free, low carb or just plain healthy living. Conversations of who's on what medication and new diet promises are soon softened by the whipped, poured out, salty and crunchy.  The period between Christmas and New Year like a food and drink amnesty of anything goes before the cold harshness of January's resolutions begins. So it's not enough that we're good for Santa but now only 6 more sleeps until we have to be good for ourselves.  Pass the cream please.

Monday 21 December 2015

Santa Spud



We've picked potatoes and Christmas is nearly here.  The ham is on its way and Bing is on the i-phone on repeat..and repeat.  "Dashing through the snow..".  The dreaded supermarket car park is like a game of chess for the boldest and bravest ready to make their move the minute you look into your rear vision mirror.  No more smiles, or waves of it's ok you can cut in, it's guns drawn and trolley's at dawn.  Customers once the slow browsers of the cheese aisle will happily push you face first into the fridge for the last selection of brie.  The faces of well used celebrities appear on boxes and packaging inviting you to share in their effortless wares with promises of shiny results and more time to sit around the telly...to watch them flogging more effortless stuff.  We'll be having spuds.  And lots of them.  Because they grew in our garden.  They didn't cost much and haven't traveled very far at all.  Nobody sponsored them, earned a living from talking about them, and they won't be carried out of a silver tray with the family sitting around looking marvelled.  But that's our Christmas and number one son is pretty proud of his efforts.  So I hope you have effortless one.  Merry Christmas

Saturday 19 December 2015

High society

Max wants to spend Christmas watching Grace Kelly movies, Minnie our farm cat would prefer to just kill crawling things, Number One son just wants to do anything involving really good smells and I'd like a good lie down.  The pressure is on.  Less than a week to go.  Why does it feel like the pressure is on?  Like this deadline defines us.  Last year their cheese platter excelled, how will I match it, or if the presents aren't exactly what hearts desire somehow I'm a lesser person?  What a nonsense that we put ourselves through this.  We rush out the door with wallets gaping open ready to throw at anything that will solve the problem, feed more mouths, or will seat more people at the trestle table (notice I didn't say comfortably.  What happened to the good old piano stool?).  Only to shove it later in far away place or back of the cupboard ready to take out for heavy criticism next year.  The font of all expenditure, the glossy magazines tell us our food and children must be stylish and dreamy.  The Christmas decorations must be all artfully hand made from bare willow branches and our gifts wrapped with antique french linen strategically placed beneath.  It never used to be this hard.  Or expensive.  You can't replace the early morning sounds on Christmas morning of children sneaking into the lounge to open their gifts.  The sound of multi pack cheap Christmas wrapping being torn and and thrown aside.  The cries of thrill and words of awesome.  Or more like..."I'm not wearing that!  She can't make me". Oh well, let's hope there's a good movie on the telly sometime today.

Monday 14 December 2015

He's in aisle 12 potato 27


We know that animals pick up on our moods and behaviours.  But I didn't expect our number one son cocker spaniel to pick up potato farming as quick as he has.  No sooner have we opened the back door and he's off to the paddock, nose down, tail up and disappears amongst the green.  He sniffs up and down each row.  We only know he is there because I see a mexican wave of potato leaves bowing as he brushes by.  He gets to the end of the row, then dashes up the next one without lifting his head.  Twenty five kennebecs, twenty six kennebecs, twenty seven...uh oh, I smell possum.  Then the potato rows rustle a little bit faster.  We're learning about spuds, about watering, growing and harvesting.  We've snuck a few out of the patch for trial, and compared our kennebec with our neighbour's pink eyes.  I've learnt in this part of the world you can discuss religion and expect as much interest as a cross stitch discussion at the bar of the local pub, but don't get onto your preferred spud of choice or they'll be more than pink eyes on offer.  I've seen women roll up a sleeve when it comes to the better baker or boiler.  So for now we'll keep growing and learning and with the help of our special spud patrol boy, I'm sure they are in safe hands for now.

Friday 11 December 2015

Hands up who's a rooster...


It's time to sort the men from the boys. Or rather sort the hens from the roosters.  We've found foster homes for at least half of our newly hatched chicks whom we now refer to as the teenagers. They come from different batches but have all bonded together to form an almost poultry posse of energy and attitude.  They roam in a gang during the day and at night now with a shortage of bedroom perches they sleep on their verandah under the stars long after the oldies have gone up to bed.  The problem arises when human foster parents want to select chickens by gender.  We don't ask a lot of questions at this age of chicken and it's actually really hard to tell by looking at them.  Some have the makings of a decent red crest, others have a distinct higher feathered tail and some just have a bossy attitude.  Could be anyone, or anything, really.  So other than conducting a detailed survey we are just going to have to wing it!!  Sorry folks you get what you are given.  We did and ended up with three beautiful roosters who all have their designated jobs and do the company proud.  Cyril (pictured) is Chief Executive Rooster and holds his directorship with great importance, Lewis, more deputy like a long serving CFO who would love the top job but will never get it, just works and works to the best of his ability.  Amy (yes, got that wrong), well he's a on the fence so to speak and just hangs at the back looking cool.  So without a proper selection process the team will be soon off to their new homes.  Hope the view from the new verandah is just as good.

Saturday 5 December 2015

Shorn the sheep


When we first got our sheep we declared them pets rather than produce and named them accordingly.  Molly being the boldest of the four, Shirley for the little brown curls on her forehead, Rosie because it's a good sheep name and Bette Davis because she has those eyes.  Our shearer with all knowledge and us with none declared one to be a castrated male.  So it appears that Rosie or perhaps Roger snuck in with the selection when the group got mixed up in the process.  Nice work.  He'll remain with us and just hang with the girls.  Our sheep are officially doing community service at the moment as they are having an eat-over at a friends family property doing great work in keeping the grass down.  They'll be home for Christmas and no doubt look forward to a Santa sack of pellets on arrival. When Roger/Rosie decided to stick with this group I bet he didn't know that he'd be so lucky in seeing a few Boxing Day BBQ's rather than being just a major contribution to one. 

Friday 4 December 2015

What do you buy a Frizzle for Christmas?

We put the Christmas tree lights on at night and the ponies over the road think it's marvellous.  Our tree is made of old growth forest plastic and is unpacked and assembled rather than felled.  The decorations are not glass and will bounce when dropped as little paws shows occasional bouts of interest.  I've colour co-ordinated this year and thrown out the silver plastic lilies that spat tinsel as soon as you touched them.  Our rubbish bin now sparkles accordingly.  Having put away the tinsel that didn't make the cut this year I was surprised to find a solitary red glitter Christmas bauble on the back step. A dropped one?  But I didn't use red this year. The next day another appeared in exactly the same spot.  It was green.  However this one had a few tell tale signs.  Like teeth marks.  That afternoon another red.  This mystery must be solved.  In our tool shed lies our number one son's dog bed.  Sitting neatly inside was a green garbage bag filled with unused decorations.  He had been choosing a daily ornament to go on the tree, avoiding the temptation to chew it to pieces and depositing it on the back door mat. He has his own Christmas stocking as does his brother Max.  Santa I've been a good kitty doesn't feel right for our new farm cat addition and I should've gone with the one that said Santa, I can explain!  Christmas for our pets is a joyful time of the year with more food than usual, family attention and a singing Santa that makes you bark and wag your tail.  With the addition of a dozen recently hatched chickens I would suggest however that Santa better get a bigger sleigh.