Introducing - Things I Love!

Today I’m adding a new segment to the TC line up.  “Things I Love”.  This will not be some cheesy category where I list all my blessings like my kids, my gorgeous man and my lucky lot in life.  Nope.  Things I Love will be purely about my little bargains, discoveries…generally the stuff I think more people should know about. 

Today’s Things I Love segment begins on the holiday from hell.  Bemboka is a tiny little town the other side of Brown Mountain which Charles and I quite like.  We drive through it on the way to Bega to visit my Dad.  Sometimes we stop for pies but mainly we love it because it’s at the base of the mountains, it’s always green and land there is cheap.  One day we might even buy a plot for our retirement.

Anyways, the salient point here is that Bemboka has lots of tiny shops and they all look fascinating but we’ve never really stopped in there.  So on the holiday from hell when our quest for bowsers went awry I decided I was going to explore the town a little.  I started with the roadside stall where they sell organic fresh fruit and veg grown in the backyard of the grumpy old man who runs it.  Here I managed to score a bag full of goodies including enormous button squash, crisp rhubarb and some broccoli for $5.

Then I moved on to the general store where at the back they have the most exotic, amazing Japanese quilting fabrics for about a third what I’d pay in Canberra.  Unfortunately as I was trawling through them I suddenly realised I needed to use the bathroom quite urgently.  Dumping my bits I asked about a toilet and was ordered 200 metres up the road to the pub where they might let me use the toilet but usually it’s just for customers.  Thank you so much Mr Sour.

Unimpressed by the attitude I made a break for it.  It became apparent rather quickly that I was not going to make it to the pub.  Diving into a small store I pled my case and was directed to a toilet quickly.  A big sign on the toilet announced that it was for customers only but I was beyond caring.

When I emerged I discovered I was in the Wolly Bull store.  Full of crafts and art this place is a wonder.  And I quickly found about five things I wanted to buy including some choice little crocheted booties with leather soles that I thought would be excellent for my heat-loving son come Winter.  When I took my purchases to the counter there were about four or five locals clustered around chatting and laughing.  I was immediately drawn into the conversation and banter and we giggled about the guy in the general store and the “Customers Only” sign on their loo which they clearly don’t enforce.  Their warmth alone would have prompted inclusion on my “Things I Love” list but then there’s the small matter of the booties.

Handmade with wool and a little piece of sheepskin decorating the front these awesome booties were all of $12 a pair.  And that’s because they were for a 24-30 month old.  The little newborn ones were even cheaper. 

This morning when James woke with a fierce cold, the booties made their debut.  He giggled as I slid them on his feet, wriggled his toes and sighed.  That’s when I discovered that the soles aren’t just leather – they’re sheepskin – so baby’s soft little feet are cushioned against real wool – just like a mini Ugh Boot.  Later in the morning when one accidentally came off he screamed like his foot had gone with it and tearfully brought it to me to reinstate it on his pudgy little hoof.  He loves his new booties and cheerfully sat in my lap, posing his piggies for this photo of his brand new warm little slippers;

The important bits:  The lady serving the counter that day is the same lady who makes them.  Her name is Kim Downs, she takes orders over the phone (and will walk you through measuring up a foot for a custom size) and she will make a pair in any colour you like and mail them to you.  Alternatively, spend a day driving down to the coast and stop along the way.  Even non-paying loo users are welcome at the Woolly Bull!

Kim Downs can be contacted on (02) 6493 0510

The Kindergarten Cupcake Caper

I wrote recently about Charlotte’s first day of school.  What I didn’t write was how she went on her first day and the aftermath throughout the week of that experience.  First of all, she knew no one.  The preschool she went to is a feeder for Evatt Primary and that’s not where she wound up attending.  Secondly, Charlotte’s methods of making friends are pretty direct and, for any kid that’s remotely shy, shockingly confrontational – she just marches up and says “My name’s Charlotte, we should be friends!”

Dejected from the first day or two of having kids back slowly away while maintaining eye contact (presumably so she wouldn’t suddenly charge and maul them) before darting away, she was bemoaning the fact that she couldn’t seem to do anything right.  And that’s when the great Valentine’s Day Cupcake Plan came into being. 

Charlotte is mad keen on baking cupcakes.  By a curious twist of fate, most kids seem to love cupcakes.  Ergo, if we make them cupcakes, they will come.  More importantly, they might be friends.  Great planning went into the cupcake enterprise.  Daddy and Charlotte went on a mission to locate heart lollies, rainbow sprinkles and the “really cool silver balls that you can eat”.  Mama managed to rouse up enough Tupperware to contain them and from there we commenced our baking.

Being responsible types Charles scoped in advance how many kids there were in the class and I quizzed the teacher on allergies.  She didn’t think there were any but promised to check and I, in turn, promised to make vegan cupcakes which I figured would cover most allergies.  Valentines Day came and I found myself present as the cupcakes were distributed.  The teacher confirmed there was one kid allergic to egg in the class and that was it.  We were good to go. 

So as the kiddies clustered around to get their lovingly decorated bribe treat, the parents began swarming in.  Enter the mother of the allergic to eggs kid.  She immediately freezes at the sight of her son with a half-eaten cupcake rapidly being polished off and begins the panic-fest in an urgent tone that demands the attention of everyone in a five-metre radius.

“Oh no, no, no!”  she exclaims, “Did you remember to ask about egg?  You know you’re allergic to egg!  You should have asked!  You can’t eat that!”

Now all of these exclamations and questions are thrown in the direction of the tiny blonde-headed boy who has now paused halfway through the trough to contemplate what his mother is screeching about.  Obviously he did not consider his allergy to eggs – he’s five and someone presented him with a bright blue cupcake replete with a lolly and silver balls of awesome for decoration.  That’s probably the last thing he remembers.  Doubtless by now he’s forgotten that he’s meant to be breathing (this certainly explains why it appears that he’s trying to physically inhale his tasty treat of anaphylactic doom.)

Obviously Mum’s comments and questions are not at all aimed at her son – they’re a passive aggressive reprimand for me.  I can tell from the way she angles her body towards me and how her reproachful eyes dart in my direction that she’s actually trying to vent her fury on me for daring to compromise her delicate son’s health with noxious, forbidden tasties.  Clearly I should have been more careful and I should have asked about allergies.  She finishes up by popping her hands on her hips and turning fully towards me so she can fully appreciate the grovelling, apologies and offers of compensation when they come.

“They’re vegan,” I inform her.

“What?” she asks, righteousness rapidly evaporating.

“Veeeeegan,” I say slowly, “No egg.  No dairy.”

“Oh,” she says, shoulders slumping a little.

“So unless he’s got a wheat allergy…”

“He did have a wheat allergy when he was little!” she snaps triumphantly.

“But he doesn’t now.  Because if he did, the teacher would know about it and she would have told me about it when I asked her what allergies the kids in the class have.”

The wind has well and truly gone from her sails now.  Worse, most of the parents present and the teacher have stopped to watch the fireworks.  Her son is grinning triumphantly and nursing the rest of his cake protectively.  Worse still, her even tinier son is staring longingly at the rest of the cupcakes and tugging on her shirt and asking if he can have one too. 

I don’t prolong her misery.  I tell her that she’s more than welcome to give one to her other son providing he doesn’t have any allergies I don’t yet know about.  The instant the words leave my lips he’s grabbed one and made a dash for it.  Wordlessly she turns and leaves.

“You’re welcome!” I call to her rapidly retreating back.

Apparently Charlotte is not the only one who is going to have trouble making friends.

Cake, cake, CAKE!

I’ve written before about my little guy and his passions.  He loves completely, violently and to the exclusion of everything else when he's focused.  He loves many things.  Mama.  Dolly.  Torturing his sister.  Body slamming Daddy.  And cake.  If James was in charge, cake would be his dietary staple and he would eat it every day. 

He discovered cake on his first birthday.  We held his party at KidCity and while the other children played James remained planted in my lap.  He reacted to my one attempt to get him into the ball pit as though I was trying to toss him in a snake pit so there he sat, contentedly ensconced with Mama right up until cake time.

I had never given him cake before but it was his birthday and his cake, so I sat him up in the high chair and let him go for it.  That’s when his world changed.  

Chatting and serving people Charles and I continued to top him up until we realised that we’d both been feeding him and he’d managed to make it through three rather large slices.  Plus, he was jonesing for more. 

Cake was something worth fighting for.  Two nights later at his birthday dinner when the cake came out he obviously knew what it was and had to be physically restrained from grabbing the whole thing and shovelling it directly into his maw.  

His excitement was palpable and, again, his contentment was evinced by the way his eyes slowly glazed over as he ate.  James was chasing the dragon baby-style.

From there cake has become the secret addiction that rules his world.  His first word was cake.  On that day I’d forgotten that I’d left some cake remains on a platter on the bench.  James was in the kitchen making urgent little grunting noises that indicated that he wanted something badly.  In my head I knew the cake was stale and gross so it never even occurred to me that that’s what he was after. 

As his urgency increased his whole body became involved in conveying to me just how badly he wanted the object of his desire.  Up on his tiptoes, reaching as high as he could, his whole body quivered with the combined effort of maintaining balance whilst attempting to communicate with his obviously retarded mother.  Finally he screwed up all his will and shouted, “CAKE!”

It was such a monumental effort that I really wished I could give it to him.  He’d probably burned off all the calories it contained just trying to get me to understand him. 

Since then the flow of cake to James has been carefully regulated.  If you ask him what he wants for lunch or dinner you invariably get a hopeful “cake?”  But mostly he’s resigned to a relatively cake-free existence.  All that goes out the window though when actual cake baking takes place…

Charlotte started school on Monday and, as part of her ongoing campaign to win friends, she decided she wanted to make cupcakes for the whole class on Valentine’s Day.  The first batch came out on Saturday while Daddy and Charlotte were out.  The whole time I was in the kitchen making them James stood behind me squaking “cake?  Cake?  CAKE?” magpie-style.

Fresh from the oven he immediately increased his pitch, urgency and the speed of repetition.  I informed him that he would have to eat lunch first.  Now, how about some sandwiches?

“No tanks, just cake,” he replied, holding his hand out and opening and closing it rapidly.

I finally caved and let him have his cake.  He did not walk a step from his place of victory – he just sat right down there just outside the kitchen and quietly ate his undecorated prize.  

Five minutes later as I loaded up the washing machine a small redheaded blur zoomed past me up the hallway giggling maniacally.  I discovered him ensconced in his bedroom with a second cupcake in his hands, buried up to his nose in it, trying to consume as much as possible before he was busted.  Little addict.

Charlotte at Big School!

Today my little girl started Kindy.  Charlotte’s been keen for ages to go to “really big school” and her enthusiasm lasted all the way up until yesterday when her doubts crept in and she said she didn’t want to go to school, but she knew she had to and she didn’t want to talk about it.  Apparently talking about it wouldn’t make her feel better, she just had to do it when the time came. 

At dinner she turned down her favourite, chicken tortillas, because she didn’t feel well.  Ten minutes after that and she announced she was going to “have a little nap”.  It wasn’t even seven and when I went to check on her she was passed out naked under her covers.

Turns out that it wasn’t just school nerves after all.  At 11pm she woke with a raging fever and I spent the next hour consoling her with a cool bath, a cup of lemonade and some Panadol.  For once we didn’t want Daddy, only Mama.  This morning she was hot again but I was determined she wasn’t going to miss out on her first day so I loaded her up with Panadol again, dressed her in her new uniform and shoes, did her hair and took her off to school.  By the time we left the house, the excitement was back.

On Friday when we went uniform shopping Madam was monumentally disappointed with the colour options available.  Not a skerrick of pink or purple.  The dresses were also too scratchy and “just awful”.  I promised they would be better after I washed them but she still insisted that she wanted to wear her own clothes to school.  Eventually I made a deal with her – she will wear the uniform for two weeks and if she still wants to wear her own clothes after that, we’ll give it a go*.

But today when we finally started school we discovered that Charlotte loves her new school dresses now that I’ve washed them and they’re not scratchy.  She loves her “pretty” little black school shoes that she picked out herself.  She loves choosing her lunch for school and she loves her backpack and her brand new hat with the slide fastener.  She loves being a big girl at big school.

I was surprised that I didn’t feel any of that weepy “oh my baby is growing up” stuff.  I didn’t cry either.  I was just excited by proxy and proud that she was taking this next step in her life with so much enthusiasm and determination.  As we were leaving I snapped photos of her in her uniform – just like every mother has since the invention of the hand-held instamatic.  Unlike the ramrod-straight-with-pride photos of yore Madam vogued in the driveway, striking poses at random.  

Then she started ripping the petals off the roses and showering her Daddy and brother with them.

 

Daddy was shocked at her behaviour;

James was delighted;

She was quiet on the way and we talked about what it was like when she was born, how little she was then and how it seems like only yesterday to us.  Even if she thinks she’s growing up slowly, for us, those years are whipping by and she’s shooting up like a weed.  I told her that a lot of magic happens when a little girl is born, but it doesn’t all happen at once.  And I told her she wouldn’t understand what I meant until she had a little girl of her own.

“Yes,” Madam told me, “And then I can tell her how she was born.”

Once we reached the school all the children and parents congregated in the Kindy area.  Some of the kids were obviously having a hard time of it** and in some cases it was the parents who were struggling.  One little girl was trying to make it to the front to sit with the other kids but her mother wouldn’t let go of her shoulders.  When her name was finally called she literally had to twist her way out of her mother’s clutch to make it down to the carpet with the rest of the kids.

The children’s names were called as they were assigned to their classes and then the Mums and Dads were invited to tea and tissues in the conference room.  When Charlotte had confessed her fears to me about going to school I’d promised that I would stay with her for as long as she wanted me to – all day if necessary.  So at this point she turned to me and I eyed her meaningfully.

“I think you can go and have some tea and tissues Mama.  I’m fine,” she smiled

And like that I let go and walked away.  I left her sitting cross-legged on the floor with the other children, dazzled and mesmerised by her teacher.  How quickly they grow.

*  Is it wrong to rely on the need to conform socially in order to win battles with your kids?

**  You can definitely tell the difference between the ones who have been to day-care and the ones who have been at home with Mum or Dad!

Night Photography Crash Course

For as long as I can remember there has always been a frustrated photographer in me that wished for the equipment and the knowledge to take the shots I’ve seen in the people and places around me.  A few Christmases ago, when he finally got sick of the wistful longing, Charles bought me one of the nicest and most useful gifts I’ve ever received – a Canon DSLR camera.  My DSLR finally unlocked much of those suppressed desires converting the dream into reality and I’m on an amazing voyage of discovery with my beloved Snappy.

I’ve had Snappy for a few years now and I’ve followed the amateur rule – use the automatic function for at least six months while you learn to identify and frame a shot and then, when identifying and framing shots becomes second nature, start refining your technique with the features*.  I’m up to that part where I’ve started experimenting with the features but I still have a long, long way to go.  Luckily for me there’s a wealth of how-to guides on the Internet and so I’m picking things up at my own pace and testing them out as I go.

This week’s challenge was night photography.  After an excellent crash course on this particular subject, which you can see here** I decided to head out for some experimentation.  I wasn’t aiming to score some spectacular shots – I just wanted to experiment with the shutter times to get a feel for what would work.  I chose three subjects to play with…a close-up of a building (St John’s Church), a medium distance (Reconciliation Place and Parliament House, Carillon across the lake) and a long distance shot (Canberra from Mount Ainslie).

To give you an idea of why this sort of experimentation is important, here are my photos of St John’s Church in Reid with three different shutter speeds;

At two seconds;

 At four seconds;

 And finally, at ten seconds.

And again from Mount Ainslie***;

At ten seconds...

...then at fifteen...

 ...and finally at thirty seconds.

Notice the dramatic differences in shutter speed?  Notice the wildly different effects you get?  She is a steep learning curve, no?

On my little adventure I learned a number of things about shutter speeds but I also learned a lot about going on night time photography jaunts.  In no particular order, some of the rules and tips for night photography;

1.)  Don’t drink a litre of Diet Coke before you head out to keep yourself awake.  Just go a bit earlier instead. 

2.)  Don’t go and shoot on a Saturday night unless what you want is a study of drunken morons in their natural habitats.  If they weren’t stumbling through the shot giggling they were trying to educate me using their own extensive knowledge****.

3.)  When your stupid amount of caffeinated beverage of choice is ready to leave the building, don’t try and use the public toilets.

4.)  Don’t try and go on the side of a busy road either.

5.)  Apparently terrorists might photograph buildings late at night for nefarious purposes.  For this reason the diligent Police being paid by taxpayers to ensure nothing gets blown up are very interested in discovering whether people taking photos from long distances of buildings at night are photography students or terrorists.  Keep your ID handy and don’t try and be cute.  Or sarcastic.

6.)  Not all the people in a cemetery on a Saturday night are dead.

*  Apparently it is much easier to learn the technique after you’ve learned the “feel” of photography and there are a stack of people out there that did it the other way around and now have technically brilliant photos with crappy composition.

**  I love Gordon.  Not only is he succinct in his explanations (got a short little span of attention) but he uses a Canon to demonstrate.  Love, love, love.

***  If you’re wondering why I didn’t line my shot up with Anzac Parade and the photo looks off centre it’s because there was a couple having intimate relations right where I would have needed to be and for some bizarre reason asking them to move felt intrusive and rude.  Especially given how…involved…they were. 

**** Um…shouldn’t it have a night setting?  *smugly* Mine has a night setting.

What it means to be Australian

We have just celebrated Australia Day.  Interestingly I’ve noticed that with every year that passes I feel more patriotic, more Australian and more committed to what I believe are “Australian” ideals.  We have so much to be grateful for.  It really is the lucky country and we don’t have many trade-offs for being allowed to live in paradise.  Unfortunately we do have to cope with the occasionally extreme weather and the consequences that go with it.

Today we are waiting with bated breath for the arrival of Cyclone Yasi.  We’re tired, beaten and sore after the floods but we’re battening the hatches again and bracing ourselves for round two.  An entire nation is looking to its North and hoping against all reason.  There is no chance at all that this storm will be suddenly downgraded to light shower status but we’re still crossing our fingers and even the atheists are praying.

Yasi is a hurricane Katrina-sized* storm cell.  It’s heading straight for us and its size and strength is only increasing as it approaches the coast.  Remember Cyclone Tracy?  At its heart Yasi is similar in intensity to Tracy.  The difference is that the eye of Tracy was only 50 kilometres wide and Yasi is ten times that with an eye 500 kilometres wide. 

Many of the people in its path are yet to recover from Cyclone Larry.  Only just now getting back on their feet, a blow like this combined with the flooding will strain our economy for the next five-ten years as we struggle to rebuild while filling a void left by lost produce and exports.  It seems grim but rest assured we’ll bloody well get through it.

Australians are a funny lot.  We’re stoic. Laidback. We laugh at ourselves and our (mis)fortunes when most people would cry.  Last night, overwhelmed by the anxiety of what’s coming for our Northern Neighbours, my husband and I put this together;

I have no explanation for why we did it other than it made us feel better for about ten minutes (poking fun at Adelaide and pretending there'd be any chance we'd move to New Zealand will do that). 

We’re at the point now with this cyclone that anyone who has not yet evacuated is going to have to stay put.  It’s that same awful feeling of anticipation and dread we had at the start of the recent flooding, Black Saturday and January 2003 bushfires.  We know it’s coming even if we're not sure how bad it will be.  We know not everyone will make it out alive.  We know it will take a long time to recover.  We also know there is just nothing at all that we can do about it now.

Out of that list I personally have only experienced the January 2003 bushfires (thankfully the least lethal out of the lot).  I remember that day so well even now.  It started out bright and clear and hot.  Towards midday the sky on the horizon turned black and we thought a storm was on the way.  Later in the day my husband came back from a trip out and soberly informed me that the black was smoke, not a storm.  An hour later a hazy darkness descended, the sun and sky above turned blood red and gum leaves began to fall from the sky – perfect in every way except that they were black as coal and turned to dust when we touched them.

Until then we hadn’t heard anything about the fires being close enough to threaten Canberra and we still didn't think they'd get that close.  As a precaution we turned our radio to ABC.  We continued to go about our business but we were both pretty uneasy.  Suddenly in between chirpy little tunes the announcer informed us that homes in Duffy were on fire.  And then it was back to Tchaikovsky.  It was surreal having that serene voice telling us that Canberra was slowly being consumed in a raging inferno in between up-beat jazz and classical music.

After a half hour we got the call that the fires were threatening the home of some of our family.  A very short trip later involving much speeding and avoidance of closed roads (not many people were going in our direction – most were going the other way) we were in the thick of it.  It was horrible but it was better to feel like we were doing something – not watching helplessly as it unfolded on a television screen.

This is my country.  These are my people.  I know what Anna Bligh means when she says our hearts are breaking but our will is strong.  I watch helplessly as the storm rolls in, knowing I can’t help now, but committed to doing everything I can to help in the aftermath. 

Already all our spare change** and money is going to the Premier’s fund.  I’m shipping clothes and supplies to a friend in Queensland who is distributing to people who have lost everything.  One of my builder friends is considering taking some time to go and help with the rebuilding of homes and I may well stock my X-Trail with tools and join him.  There will be lots to do for months to come.

Australians are tough.  Fired in the heat of our sun, we’re resilient and strong.  We’re a nation full of goodwill and we’re not afraid of hard work.  As the storm fades and the water recedes it will be time to mourn our losses and bury our dead.  And then it will be time to stand together and remind ourselves that whatever comes we’ll survive, we’ll recover and then we’ll thrive.  Because that's just what Australians do.

*  Want to know the difference between a hurricane and a cyclone?  Essentially they're the same thing and they’re measured in the same way.  The difference is that a hurricane takes place in the Northern hemisphere and the storm cell rotates anti-clockwise.  A cyclone takes place in the Southern hemisphere and the cell rotates clockwise.  

** Which has been made super easy to do thanks to all the businesses collecting on behalf of the fund (and some are matching donations dollar for dollar).  I reckon donating all my change every time I shop probably amounts to a couple of hundred dollars so far and I know I'm not the only one doing this!