Let me start again

Related to the last post, other things not to do in a pandemic might be “quitting one’s job”, “trying to make it as a freelancer” and “getting your partner to take promo shots in your kitchen”. Oh well, here we are.

After near on four years on a salary, something needed to change — some people are built for bureaucracy and I… am not. Contracting though, picking up projects, working with a wee crew of associates, making my own fun, following my nose, chasing hard to push ideas as far as they’ll go — yes, please. The money? A bit of a disaster and I’m hugely privileged to have enough security to ride the rough waves.

Little Red Pen was born when Rabbit was a  baby and I needed to build a work life from scratch back in my home town. That was almost ten years ago and like my wardrobe, eating habits, filing system and global politics, a refresh is in order.

Sam and Emily from Clarkson Design did an amazing job on a new website. The brief I gave them was short on specifics (“something simple and elegant”, I think I said) and when I had my first look it was nothing like I expected and yet exactly what I wanted. I gave them a file of photos and they picked my secret favourite one of grasses as a hero image. The font they chose is Cormorant, which just happens to be one of my most-loved birds. They were patient and creative. They listened, then they made it real.

The refresh came with other lessons too. When I looked closely at my original site, I was able to take out about 70% of the words — a reminder I shouldn’t need as an editor but always do. The photo session reminded me of everything I hate about photos and my face, and of the virtues of perseverance. The shot we ended up with has me in stern editor mode and I kind of like that. I’ve had to relearn how to manage my time when the fire needs to be lit and there’s a pile of washing on the sofa. Netflix is a new challenge. I’m thinking a lot about my values and how I reflect them in my work. I’m thinking a lot about who I work with and for, the compromises I’m happy to make and the non-negotiables. I’m learning how to own my sense of purpose and the consequences it brings. I’ve had to learn to trust my gut again, and my voice.

And of course it’s a team thing. So, thank you to the ones who kept me in one piece in the workplace and those I’m lucky enough to call colleagues now. Working with like-minded people is one of life’s great joys, and I’ve struck the jackpot.

The new website is here.

The blog is moving over too.

Signals in the dark

It’s 8.15pm. We turn off the lights in the sitting room, switch off the lamps, close the doors to kitchen and hallway. Rabbit stands on a chair so he can see over the hedge to our friends’ house and holds a torch firm against the window. We stand with him, caught in the primal tap of light and dark. Click. Click. Click and hold. Click and hold. Click and hold. From across the valley comes an answering signal. Flash. Flash. Long flash. Long flash. Long flash. It’s night two of lockdown.

I can only find the Morse code for numbers one to ten when I search the internet. The rest will be there, but I wonder how many I will need. At least 28, we have been told, but I hear whispers of more. Maybe 100, maybe 400 – the truth is, we will need as many as it takes.

In the night, I lie awake, my thought tumbling like sheets in a dryer. They tangle and spool, going nowhere. When morning comes, I shake them out, fold them neatly, but the creases are still there. In the bathroom mirror, I see that the creases under my eyes are deeper too. My hair is longer than usual and my face looks both younger and older. In a pandemic, I am all ages, young girl, old woman and everything between. The ancestors are close and one day the descendants will rise.

We are all gentler with each other and hug often. We laugh too and our language is looser. We take turns to flare, the stress and boredom catching fire. The older boy, often a worrier, is the calmest. He carries his brother to bed and has long, rambling conversations with him. The little one, our social butterfly and weathervane, is trying to make sense of it all and starting to fear contamination. “I think we should keep doing some things when this is over, like washing our hands,” he says, and my heart sinks. Stay grubby, I want to whisper.

In the days, we try to make a pattern out of the jumble. We created a schedule and lesson plan, which felt reassuring, exciting even. By the second day, they were a joke. We ordered groceries last weekend and they will be delivered on Monday, a full week later. We have all the privileges of money and resources. Our pantry and freezer are well-stocked and we have enough in the garden to fill in the gaps. I play at being a country goddess, coaxing meals out of what we have, stretching the odd ends of things. I know it’s a game not everyone can play. I know it’s a game that will grow old and get harder. The cooking and dishes never stop. I wonder how many forks and bowls four people really need to use.

On social media, we are all in the dark trying to find the light. We post a poem, share the news, show each other our houses, gardens, families, bring our classes and communities online, push a joke to see how far it will hold. They’re faulty signals, they flicker and pulse. We read under them for the hidden messages. I’m scared. I’m tired. I have hope. I don’t know what to do anymore. We’ve got this. I don’t know if we can survive four weeks together. I’m glad to stop, to slow down. We’re winnowing, finding the things we want to keep. There’s so much to do. I’m going under, overwhelmed. I like my kids, my partner – it’s good to be together. What will we find, here at home, with nothing but ourselves to fall back on? I see you, I hear you. You’re not alone. The absent ones send signals too. I haven’t posted in days. I’ve gone quiet, gone to ground. I’m not coping. It’s all too much. I’m keeping myself safe, drawing a protective cloak tight. Not everyone has these lifelines and I fear for their isolation.

* * * * * * * *

Signals are everywhere in nature. In the flowers, deep in the soil. Through tree roots and forest crowns, in fungi and birds and fish. We’ve disrupted too many of these signals, or put them out, snuffed candles in the chapel. With all of us made still, out of our cars, grounded, there is hope that Papatūānuku can rest and heal, recharge. But we will need to remake ourselves if that is to happen, take this time to learn how to do everything differently, perhaps the way we once did, perhaps in ways we’ve never done before. Faith and doubt lose meaning against those odds – we are down to dumb luck.

I call my Dad most days. His memory slips but he knows there’s a virus on the loose. He’s been grumpy about being in a rest home but now he feels safe, happy to have the world at bay and regular meals and care. The staff take the residents outside as often as possible and he likes the sun on his face. He would rather climb a mountain with a pack on his back and his brother by his side, but for now the courtyard will do. He thinks his father planted the garden, and the pride lifts his shoulders.

My greatest fear is that the virus will sneak its way in and he will die alone, in hospital with a tube down his throat. Wrapped in plastic, with plastic-wrapped doctors and nurses. No-one to hold his hand, sing him out. I fear this for myself and for everyone I love. Tangihanga and funerals are cancelled, weddings too. When this is over, the trauma will linger for generations. I don’t know if we have the strength or the tools to turn it around.

Going out is a challenge. I scope the hazards, set down the rules for how we will stay safe. “You’re very good at this,” Ian says. “Like a soldier.” The affirmation worries me. My anxiety is not an asset in peacetime. When we get home, we take our shoes off at the door and leave them outside. We walk carefully through the house and strip in the laundry. The clothes go straight in the machine. We take a shower, wash it all off. The water pressure is pathetic and we stand in a tub too narrow for the two of us, but we hold each other and turn slowly so we both get turns under the water. My body, then his. My body, then his.

This day, too, will end. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dash.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dash.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dash.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dash.

 

Animals in the wild

A French artist Sophie Photographe has plastered images of animals around the city, so of course we went out to find them. The first is a giraffe called Jeffrey and we also have a giraffe called Jeffrey so it was a no-brainer to start there. Clues for the rest are in a video.

With two slightly cranky parents, a grandfather, a nine-year-old boy, a much-smaller-than-the-wall-Jeffrey-but-still-quite-bulky-to-carry-around giraffe, and a break for afternoon tea, we managed to find them all in about three hours.

They make the city better, the animals. They’re strange, other-worldly creatures that look surprisingly at home in dark lanes and on scraggy walls. And looking for them, you realise how many great alleyways and backs of buildings and gates and doors Dunedin has.

It’s a wild world out there. Get into it.

Harvest and lists

You probably won’t be startled to learn that I’m a list maker. Some lists bring me joy (condiments, books, Christmas shopping), some give me a sense of order (chores, morning and evening tasks, cheap family meals), others either stem or generate a rising sense of panic depending on how long they are, their timeframe and my general state of mind (things to do, people to get in touch with, jobs to be done in the house or garden, groceries).

I usually list vertically, then scatter extra items around the page as I run out of room, but sometimes I mind map. I did that for parenting tricks, and it’s the list I like best on a fridge covered in the damn things. I used Wunderlist when I was running a business and I keep a task list at work, although it’s out of date within minutes and so long I have no hope of ever completing it. I usually cross things out as I complete them, but the other day I tried a line of Twink (the ribbon sort that runs out in a smooth white line), and that was more satisfying than I expected.

I’ve got a week of leave (well, with a day of work in the middle and an edit that has to be done in the first couple of days) starting tomorrow, and I thought a list might save me from the scurry of things in my head. I thought I could have a short, elegant list of things to do each day — exercise, eat something from the garden, read, write — but then it grew (see people, garden, do chores, prep for dinner) and then I added on random household chores I haven’t done for a year and for some reason thought I would enjoy packing into four short days of leave (wash the windows, organise the pantry) and then it didn’t really feel like a holiday any more.

So, I stuck that list on the fridge and wrote a short one for tomorrow, cleaned out the chook house, did the washing, wrote a grocery list, mended some clothes, lost my nut a few times, watered the glasshouse and drank too much coffee.

But another thread ran through the day, and I’m trying desperately to hang on to it because it felt calmer, more life-giving, better for body and soul. The Cat and I spent a happy hour this morning harvesting. We picked tomatoes, mint and broad beans, kale, zucchini and lettuce, and an armful of sweetpeas and roses — a gorgeous heap of colour and potential. The Cat was enthusiastic and excited, I was quietly smug, the kitchen smelled delicious.

I stuck the flowers in a jar and cooked the vegetables through the day. Lunch was tomato salad with mint and the last crumbs of a taut sheep’s feta, a lettuce salad* softened with pear and apple cider vinegar dressing, broad beans blanched and double-podded, then fried with bacon, some scraps of bread, a little leftover chicken. For dinner, I made a gratin with slices of zucchini in stock and a layer of oiled breadcrumbs on top. In a bowl with rice, it was a garden-storecupboard marriage of surprising grace and charm.

So, the lists did their thing, but the harvest helped more. Spontaneity within bounds, and all that.

• One of the lettuces was a Venetian heirloom number, curiously strong-leaved, verging on tough, and with a slightly bitter edge. The other was some leafy thing I let go in the glasshouse.

Heat, and other things, Part II

So, today had coffee, sand, water, shags, albatross, terns, dolphins, sun, chickens, walking, hugs, Thai street food, a date, wine and whisky. Not bad for a small city.

Heat, and other things

Ian’s birthday, and a warm, still morning after too many weeks of damp and grey. Breakfast in bed, puppy-dog boys, a potter through the vege patch and our first zucchinis, already on the way to marrowhood.

We’ll go out in search of birds and water soon — no better way to celebrate another year.

A dinner of the many and a dinner of the few

Of the many

Tonight’s dinner was a good one, a stir fry in which the experience of 20 years, a well-seasoned wok, the good sense of Nigel Slater and a pleasing selection of raw ingredients came to delicious fruition.

We met as student vegetarians, one of us with a wok and the other with an aptitude for slicing vegetables, and so the stir fry was an early feature of our culinary relationship. We learnt some tricks early — get the chopping done before turning on the heat, slice thinly and with an eye for the elegant line, wash the rice well before steaming it, do not peak at the rice while it’s cooking, keep the seasonings simple, come to the table hungry. Others took long to learn — use pretty bowls, use good knives, go for a variety of textures, crank the heat as high as possible.

But it is the latest lesson that has been most revolutionary. Cook each ingredient separately. For this, we have Nigel to thank. I hope he wouldn’t mind the first name, for it is how we refer to all our favourite food writers. “What would Nigel do?” we say, confronted with a spartan cupboard, a new vegetable, a cut of meat. We get our answers from other writers too, but Nigel’s pretty damn reliable. Anyway, he points out that the wok works best when it is not overcrowded, when things can move and flash and the sauce coats but does not pool.

So, that’s our new trick. I put the rice on and get everything sliced, then Ian takes over the frying. One ingredient at a time, a shake of soy for some, oyster for others, teriyaki for the meat. Bowls on the table, happy children, some leftovers for lunch tomorrow, a warm feeling in the tummy.

 

Of the few

Strangely, the meal reminds me of another good one we had recently. We didn’t get our potatoes planted this year, or we haven’t yet, I suppose there is still time, but some came up anyway, the scattered progeny of the ones we missed last year.

I watched the plants grow without thinking much about it, making the mistake of thinking something accidental would be of limited value, and then we dug them up to make room for the spreading zucchinis. Well, what a joyous surprise that was! Red, white, purple, some whoppers, some tiddlers, all with the fine, earthy skin of the newly dug and a gloss when scrubbed like polished stones, curved amber, oiled wood. I weeded, Ian dug, the Cat took photos, the Rabbit harvested, the chickens ate the weeds, Stella kept us company.

That night, I made a simple potato salad, nothing more than boiled potatoes, slivered green beans, a torn anchovy or two, a handful of capers and a mustardy lemon oil dressing. It was magnificent.

 

Putting things together

I’ve done boot camp, Christmas, Trump, summer holidays, the return to work, gardening, adventures with children, movies, books, terrific whiskey, and a sleepover for 11-year-olds. Yesterday it rained and I had a cold, so I lit the fire, made hot drinks and retreated to the sofa. I wouldn’t describe it as restful, exactly — the children were tired and scrappy and stuck indoors — but it was a necessary grinding to a halt, of sorts.

It’s often hard to know what will save a day, but in this case, it was minestrone. I don’t always like minestrone, but this was a light, summery number with enough savour and steamy heat to restore just enough wellbeing for me to get to bed.

Ian made it, so I don’t know the fine details of the recipe, but here’s what I think he got right. The vegetables were sliced at angles, thin enough to fit well on the spoon, but large enough to offer definite taste and something distinct in each mouthful. There weren’t too many carrots, giving a layer of sweetness but not overwhelming the fundamental earthiness of the dish. The cooking started with bacon and ended with strong, fresh chard from the garden. I had extra tomatoes in my bowl, and a scattering of feta. The pasta was rigatoni, thick and knubbly. There were broad beans from our garden. The zucchinis were young and flavourful, with firm, peppery skin. The stock was light and hot.

The Rabbit was home sick today, so I had another quiet day. He made a Lego lawnmower — my role was to find the pieces and offer moral support. We succeeded, but only just. I left my work phone on, which was a mistake.

I reheated some of the minestrone for lunch, something I would avoid with a less robust pasta. Still, it needed a bit of tarting up for a new day, so I sliced in a couple of dusky Nigella tomatoes, a few shredded leaves of chard, some leaves of purple basil from the glasshouse. Feta again, of course.

The sun came out after that. We went to the gardens, kicked a ball, flew a kite. The Rabbit rescued his toy bandicoot from the animal rescue boat. We put ourselves together, not perfectly, but from what we had.

Each of us, together

Well, that was a week. Ian went to Kaikōura to cover post-earthquake things, and all manner of bollocks descended on me at work.

Home was good, though — our new after-school childcare person is a footballer, so the boys are well thrilled. He is also a jolly good cleaner, so I am well thrilled too. The boys are used to being journo kids — they missed their dad, but flicked straight into helping-out, getting-on-with-it mode.

I kind of enjoyed the quiet and calm of the week, but realised within half an hour of Ian being home that the volume in the house had quadrupled and I had slowed to snail’s pace. I guess we had all been managing and looking after each other and that was good, but we need Ian to relax us and let things go. It was a good reminder of the ways we balance each other, of the dance we do as opposites.

The boys were pretty scratchy, but by the time we had eaten bento, driven round the harbour, played soccer, made a sandcastle, conducted watery experiments on the sandcastle, snuggled on the sand, driven round the best inlet in the city, seen baby stilts and a kingfisher and got home, we seemed to have made it back into ourselves again.

And then we each found our own peace. Ian tidied up and did chores. I planted 40 zucchini seedlings out, picked a salad of baby leaves and flowers, and cut back some lupins and sorrel that had gone to seed. The Cat watched soccer videos. And the Rabbit made things.

He started by cutting back sorrel, but was interrupted by his bowels, which we only knew about because he left the bathroom in a less than ideal state. Then Ian found him in the workshop with a large piece of wood in the vice with the words “side 1” written on it. “What are you doing?” Ian asked. “Making a run for the guinea pigs,” said Rabbit.

Later, we were having dinner. Ian was drinking wine, eating pasta and talking to me. I was drinking wine, eating pasta and reading a book. The Cat was calculating the value of our car relative to the weekly income of a professional footballer (low). The Rabbit was drawing circles and cutting cardboard. Five minutes later, he had finished a set of traffic lights.

“What’s your plan for the lights?” we asked. “I’ll shine a torch on them,” he said. Damned if it doesn’t work, too.

Ooops, I didn’t mean to be away that long

Awkward. I was going to write a post about my new job and then I was going to write a post about Fiji and then I was going to write a post about Rabbit’s bike and then I was going to write a post about family life and then I was going to write a post about books and then I was going to write another post about my new job and then I was going to write a post about something else, chickens or politics or coffee or washing or Lionboy or asparagus most likely, and probably definitely about the garden at some point, which has been The Project most weekends lately and now we have 46 kinds of edible things growing in it and here’s some spring evening photos because I’m sorry I’ve been away and I might be back.