Sometimes the life of a full-time mother is a frustrating one. Now I don't mean to complain - this was a choice that I made and about which (most of the time) I have no regrets. Being able to share every aspect of my children's early years is a privilege that I feel very fortunate to be able to enjoy.
However, there comes a time for every mother - and I'm sure that this applies equally to working mothers - when she just really needs to let off steam. Taking out one's frustrations on the nearest small person (or, indeed, long-suffering husband) is clearly not a viable option, so when I am having one of those awful days where every little occurrence seems to have been specifically designed with the aim of raising my blood pressure to the maximum possible level short of a full-blown stroke, I do one of two things. If I am feeling virtuous and the weather-Gods are feeling kind (see the previous post about the deficiencies of the Wellington climate), I go for a run. This is a relatively recent development, and my knees, feet and lower back haven't quite decided what they think about it yet, so it may be a short-lived one. Shapely calves and toned thighs are quite an incentive with summer (possibly) on the way, but sometimes a Nigella Lawson style 'burkini' and a bar of chocolate on the sofa seems like a more attractive option. So if I am feeling lazy, and/or the weather is doing it's worst, I make bread.
For many years, making bread from scratch was a complete anathema to me. Why go to all the trouble of measuring out ingredients and exhausting myself kneading (which never quite seemed to produce the silky-smooth dough the recipe books promised), proving, knocking down, waiting for a second rise before finally baking, all the while knowing that the top would be burnt before the middle was properly cooked? Much easier and quicker to pop down to the local supermarket.
Well to some extent all that is still true - it is definitely easier and quicker to buy a loaf of bread from the New World down the road, and I often still do. A couple of times a week, though, I rummage through the cupboard for the high grade flour (which never seems to be in quite the same place I expect it to be), salt, sugar and yeast and set to work making a batch of rolls. I always make rolls, because I find them easier to bake properly, and I am so ham-fisted with a bread knife that I only ever manage about 5 slices (doorstops) from an uncut loaf, which isn't exactly economical.
I have tried a variety of bread recipes, but my current favourite, for sheer ease and foolproofness, is Jamie Oliver's 'basic bread'. Even I can't mess that one up easily. There are very few ingredients, and once they are all mixed together I can start the bit which inspired this whole post - the kneading. Kneading is a bit like knitting - you start off concentrating very hard to make sure you are doing it exactly right, but then after you've done it a few times you find that it becomes automatic, and you can do all sorts of other things while you are doing it. My current distraction of choice is watching Agatha Christies on YouTube, and I can quite happily get through a couple of segments while all the time the dough is getting smoother and more pliable and my frustrations are melting away with every pummel.
Of course, kneading does have another very beneficial side-effect - it is fantastic for banishing bingo wings and toning the upper arms. So perhaps even if mini skirts are out of the question, I can get away with a few sleeveless tops over the next few months...
Wednesday 23 November 2011
Windy Wellington
I love Wellington. I really, really do. I love the expansive views that greet you at every bend in the road. I love the pedestrianised waterfront, liberally sprinkled with decent cafes for the adults and great little parks for the kids. I love Te Papa - a gem of a museum with displays and information to entertain all ages for hours at a time. I love the Botanical Gardens and Zealandia - oases of greenery and tranquility minutes from the city centre. Most of all I love the people - home-grown Kiwis and ex-pats alike, who have welcomed us with open arms and helped us through a difficult first year here.
There is, however, one area on Wellington's report card that is very definitely marked 'Could Do Better', and that is the weather. As a Brit, brought up in the supposedly cold and wet North-East of England (although for some reason in my childhood memories it was always sunny and warm, apart from when there was fresh, undisturbed snow on the ground), one might think that I should be well equipped to deal with all Wellington could throw at me. Indeed, I can cope quite happily with what are actually pretty mild winters, and even the rain doesn't particularly bother me, even if it does mean that my most-used item of clothing is the anorak with the oddly peaked hood which makes me look a little bit like an extra from the Lord of the Rings - quite appropriate really, given that it was filmed just down the road. No, the aspect of Wellington weather that really bothers me is the wind. The city sits at 41 degrees 17' South - slap bang in the Roaring Forties, which funnel up the Cook Strait and crash against the hills with an almost malicious fury. They are strong enough, on particularly wild days, to lift a small child (or, according to the papers two days ago, a fully-grown adult) off his or her feet - a fact that both my children have learnt the hard way, with bruises bearing witness to their trials for weeks afterwards. They are particularly vindictive when accompanied by rain, as I was reminded this afternoon when collecting my son from kindy. Crossing the road to the car with one hand holding Joshua's wrist and the other balancing Isabella on my hip, a sudden gust ripped the hood from my head, whipping my hair around my face so that I couldn't see where we were going before following it up with a blast of stinging rain that plastered the hair in place and immediately soaked through the exposed front of my jeans. The thirty seconds it took to pile the children into the car and strap them in ensured that the back of the jeans received a similar treatment, and, for good measure, the wind then slammed the door shut behind me when I finally jumped into the driver's seat, narrowly avoiding trapping my fingers in it's wake. The most vivid instance of wind-as-avenging-demon occurred a few months ago when the car door blew shut on my son when he was climbing into his seat, trapping his head as it did so. Needless to say, he has thought of the wind as a personal foe ever since.
To add to all the other wind-related inconveniences, this year I am unimpressed by the effect that it is having on the garden. After many years of finding a variety of excuses to avoid spending time on my hands and knees pulling up weeds, this year I have cultivated a vegetable patch of which I am very proud (almost certainly more so than the plants themselves warrant, but they are such a vast improvement on anything I have managed before that I feel vaguely justified). So far, the pride of the patch are the peas, which until a few days ago spiralled prettily around two bamboo-cane wigwams, heavily laden with swelling pods. After the gales at the beginning of the week I made my daily pilgrimage to the end of the garden and was horrified to discover the vines trailing on the ground, buffeted off the canes by the wind. I retrained them with a silent prayer for their survival, but looking out of the window today I fear it may have been in vain.
On the plus side, the wind turbines on the hills above Makara will be doing overtime today- if they aren't blown over first.
There is, however, one area on Wellington's report card that is very definitely marked 'Could Do Better', and that is the weather. As a Brit, brought up in the supposedly cold and wet North-East of England (although for some reason in my childhood memories it was always sunny and warm, apart from when there was fresh, undisturbed snow on the ground), one might think that I should be well equipped to deal with all Wellington could throw at me. Indeed, I can cope quite happily with what are actually pretty mild winters, and even the rain doesn't particularly bother me, even if it does mean that my most-used item of clothing is the anorak with the oddly peaked hood which makes me look a little bit like an extra from the Lord of the Rings - quite appropriate really, given that it was filmed just down the road. No, the aspect of Wellington weather that really bothers me is the wind. The city sits at 41 degrees 17' South - slap bang in the Roaring Forties, which funnel up the Cook Strait and crash against the hills with an almost malicious fury. They are strong enough, on particularly wild days, to lift a small child (or, according to the papers two days ago, a fully-grown adult) off his or her feet - a fact that both my children have learnt the hard way, with bruises bearing witness to their trials for weeks afterwards. They are particularly vindictive when accompanied by rain, as I was reminded this afternoon when collecting my son from kindy. Crossing the road to the car with one hand holding Joshua's wrist and the other balancing Isabella on my hip, a sudden gust ripped the hood from my head, whipping my hair around my face so that I couldn't see where we were going before following it up with a blast of stinging rain that plastered the hair in place and immediately soaked through the exposed front of my jeans. The thirty seconds it took to pile the children into the car and strap them in ensured that the back of the jeans received a similar treatment, and, for good measure, the wind then slammed the door shut behind me when I finally jumped into the driver's seat, narrowly avoiding trapping my fingers in it's wake. The most vivid instance of wind-as-avenging-demon occurred a few months ago when the car door blew shut on my son when he was climbing into his seat, trapping his head as it did so. Needless to say, he has thought of the wind as a personal foe ever since.
To add to all the other wind-related inconveniences, this year I am unimpressed by the effect that it is having on the garden. After many years of finding a variety of excuses to avoid spending time on my hands and knees pulling up weeds, this year I have cultivated a vegetable patch of which I am very proud (almost certainly more so than the plants themselves warrant, but they are such a vast improvement on anything I have managed before that I feel vaguely justified). So far, the pride of the patch are the peas, which until a few days ago spiralled prettily around two bamboo-cane wigwams, heavily laden with swelling pods. After the gales at the beginning of the week I made my daily pilgrimage to the end of the garden and was horrified to discover the vines trailing on the ground, buffeted off the canes by the wind. I retrained them with a silent prayer for their survival, but looking out of the window today I fear it may have been in vain.
On the plus side, the wind turbines on the hills above Makara will be doing overtime today- if they aren't blown over first.
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