the state of my kitchen

Sunmaid has done a really, really clever thing and packaged up their prunes into individual servings.  Usually I am completely against individual packets because it's so wasteful, but I can house prunes and any open bag is fair game.  I know the consequences but I do it anyway because OMG delicious, delicious prunes.  Come to think of it, I don't object to individual packaging of raisins either, on much the same basis.  OH GOD and apricots?  The really leathery dried ones (as opposed to the plump Turkish jobs which are good but not on the same plane)? YES PLEASE ALL AT ONCE.

So, dried fruit.  I have an extremely healthy digestive tract, thanks for asking. 

This comes to mind because I was scouring the pantry last night before dinner was ready (in fact, before I'd started to prepare it).  I found the prunes stashed away at the back, hiding from me.  Normally, I have a mental inventory of tasty shit living at my house so nothing can hide, but last week, we had a cleaner. 

This is the first time we've had a cleaner that wasn't end-of-tenancy obligated, I think.  She came in on the weekend and I just did not know it was possible to get our kitchen that clean (and with eco-friendly products, no less.  I use the bleach because I'm bad but I actually did not think eco-friendly products could remove half the crud they did).  She even cleaned the pantry which was amazing.  She was lovely too - professional and friendly.

I felt guilty though, never you fear.  My cheap heart berated me for paying someone to do what I ought to be capable of achieving for myself.  My half-baked social conscience felt every single drop of privilege oozing from my pores.  My shame at the state of my scummy old cottage knew no bounds!

However, finding the prunes was like Christmas.  Between the stashed snacks and the oven-I-could-lick,-it's-so-clean,-what-a-shame-two-of-the-electric-rings-don't-work, I think we might spring for the cleaner to come back again every so often. 

day in the life, winter 2014

Hi! For those who are new, I am A.  I'm 32, f, married, no kids, 2 cats, from Auckland, New Zealand.  My interests include books, wine, eating things, travelling, making questionable choices, being nosy and writing things about myself on the internet.  I find that DiTL posts fit nicely with the latter of those two interests!

It's Friday 1 August 2014.  It's winter in NZ and a working day for me. 

*************************************

5.30am: wake up, but am NOT HAPPY.  Lie in the dark, mentally turning over the questionable choices I made last night.  We were sending off a colleague who is moving to London; predictably, one beer lead to many beers (the pub was going off! I was having a good time! meeting people! gossiping!), lead to Mickey Dees en route home (I am not proud), lead to furry mouth at 5.30am. 

6.15am: finally bring myself to get out of bed.  Shake some bikkies into the cats’ bowls and discover the mess I made filling up the biscuit container when a bit boozled last night.  Turn on the shower.  It’s warmer outside this morning thank god (about 10 degrees celcius) so the bathroom isn’t completely frigid and I can disrobe without squeaking.

6.25am: flick on the kettle, desperate for tea.

THIS IS FIRST-RATE COMPELLING PHOTOJOURNALISM, RIGHT HERE

6.26am: Tabitha hauls in her newest victim through the cat flap.  She has recently graduated to trapping earthworms, crickets being in short supply this time of year.  Not wanting to waste a good worm (or watch Tab torture a worm on my kitchen floor), I don a pair of jandals to deliver the worm to our compost bin outside.  Jandals, dressing gown and no knickers – good thing the neighbouring house is empty at the moment because I am a sight to behold.  I choose not to take a picture of that – count yourself lucky.

 

TABBY AND VICTIM AND THE TERRIBLE STATE OF THE FLOORING IN MY KITCHEN.  AT LEAST WORMS ON AN ALREADY DECREPIT FLOOR AREN'T REALLY A BIG DEAL 

6.30am: flick on the TV to catch some Commonwealth Games coverage while scoffing breakfast and drying my hair etc.  NZ has just won a bronze medal in the Men’s Floor (Gymnastics) and a Gold in the Women’s Time Trial (Cycling) – go Kiwis! The coverage is largely of lawn bowls this morning and it’s not quite as thrilling to follow as, say, 100m sprints or the swimming. 

6.40am: P emerges from the bedroom, grumbling.  As many bad life decisions as I made last night, he made a few more out on the town a bunch of graduates from his office, following a training session he ran for them.  He likes to think he can keep up with a bunch of 23 year olds, but looking at him this morning I have my doubts. 

7.15am: I have managed to dress and make myself mostly presentable.  I am wearing opaque tights, a red silk mullet dress fresh from the drycleaners, a black blazer with a sheer back (sounds very odd when written like that) . P however is struggling to get his stuff together and is yelling for help to find a grey cardigan.  I don’t know where he thinks I might have secretly stashed it, but if it’s not in the drawers or on the wardrobe rack, he’s well out of luck.

OF NOTE: (1) MY HAIR STAYED LIKE THIS UNTIL I WAS APPROX. 5 STEPS OUT MY FRONT DOOR INTO THE FOG.  REST OF DAY HAVE BEEN SHAGGY BEAST.
(2) THE STATE OF THE LIVING ROOM BEHIND ME. THIS IS REAL LIFE, PEOPLE. PEPPER GRINDERS AND ALL.

7.30am: the Great Man Cardi Hunt of 2014 has proved unfruitful and most unsympathetically I throw another sweater at P, telling him to put a sock in it.  We manage to depart the house for work.

7.30-8am: walk to work with P.  He’s on rare form today and, upon hearing about my DiTL post day, he announces ‘Well I’m looking hot today so you should definitely take a picture of me for the internet’.  He raced over to a wall nearby and struck a pose and I nearly died laughing – he thought he was taking the mickey out of magazine styling, but it is so completely fashion blogger I nearly wet my pants. 

I HOPE NONE OF YOU THINK THIS IS FOR SERIOUS. P'S TONGUE IS FIRMLY IN HIS CHEEK - THIS WAS DONE IN A HEARTBEAT AND WE RAN ON, LAUGHING TIL MY FACE HURT.  I'VE ONLY JUST NOW NOTICED ALLTHE CIGGIE BUTTS AT HIS FEET, WHICH MAKES IT EVEN BETTER

8am: arrive at work.  Debrief with my secretary, who was also a party to yesterday evening’s shenanigans.  She lasted longer than I did but is regretting it!

8-10.30: workity work work.  Nothing thrilling, believe you me: drafting, emailing, considering, reviewing. At about 9.45 I get up to go to the printer and realise I have a terrible static situation going on with my dress.  Slip or no slip, it’s a clinger which is just annoying because the colour is so nice (a change from my usual drab wardrobe choices). 

THIS PICTURE IS A FAIL AT ILLUSTRATING CLINGAGE, MOSTLY DEMONSTRATING INCREDIBLY WEIRD BODY SHAPE INSTEAD? IT'S THE ANGLE, I PROMISE! THAT'S NOT A GIANT BOOBSHELF!

10.30: weekly morning tea for the firm with speeches for colleague S, departing to the UK.  Stuff face with a scone, a cheerio (not the cereal, the sausage-y type!), carrot sticks and scarper and take a wee sammie & pie for the road (I don’t eat lunch on Fridays as I usually make a piggy of myself at morning tea).  Tell the firm’s chef I love his work. 

10.45-12.30: more work, until M calls me.  She wants to go for a wander and a smoothie.  We look briefly at cases for our cellphones.  Mine is new and if I don’t get a case, I’ll probably destroy it.  No dice making a purchase though, I want a pretty one!  I order a green smoothie, which I feel good about (if I don’t consider the quantities of frozen yoghurt in it).

WINTER. 

1-5ish: workity working.  Incredibly unproductive this afternoon, however.  Drink at least two cups of tea.

5.10pm: nip upstairs where Friday Night Drinks are happening.  Look at beersies and feel ill.  Say goodbye for the final time to S and depart to meet P to scarper up to Ponsonby Road.  Call my sister K on route, because we have to debrief about the amazing video someone from her hockey team posted on FB in which she is doing the Fat Amy Mermaid for her team's amusement.  So funny, but she's worried her students might see it (she's a high school teacher). 

6pm: Grand Central Bar, Ponsonby.  We're meeting R and PW for drinks pre-dinner.  R has recently been to Austria for work but also managed to spend time in the UK with friends en route so I squeeze her for gossip.  It's warm enough that we're able to sit outside under the heaters and enjoy some fresh air for a change.

A WEE SIGN ON THE EXTERIOR WALL OF THE BAR THAT MADE ME SMILE.

7ish: we get our call from Orphan’s Kitchen, which doesn’t take reservations.  We rush in and order wine and tasty treats.  Highlights included smoked porae with a celeriac and green apple slaw, YUM.  Hipster central - so many good beards and artfully mismatched water jugs.  I love it.  They also have a very tasty wine list, highly recommend. 

9ish: finished with dinner, we wander down the road to Chapel Bar and have another bottle of wine between four, because FRIDAY NIGHT.  PJ and his new girlfriend are supposed to be meeting us but they're still at dinner elsewhere, and are trying to scam us into going to the city for dancing.  We're not quite in that zone!

10.30ish: wave goodbye to R & PW and walk home arm-in-arm with P.  It's about a 15 minute walk, and while I don't remember the conversation, I do remember laughing most of the way home.

10.45: open the door to find Tabby and Cokes on the end of the bed, watching us mournfully.  They forgive me when I fill up their bowls. 

11pm: bed.

here is how I waste my money in spades

Verdict on the keratin blow out a mere four days and one wash later? While my hair feels full of gunk, it only took 5 minutes to blow dry and was not a ginormous mess.  It was perfectly presentable.  If this thing lasts four weeks it will be worth every cent of the $120 I spent on it (plus another $40 for shampoo because of course they upsold me on maintenance).  It does not look as shiny or feel as soft as I know it can, but it is not a giant, unmanageable tangle of frizz, so there's that.  I don't know that I'll be getting a keratin treatment on the regular because mortgage and good grief that's a lot of money for vanity, but for special occasions it seems like a good treat.

Will no doubt continue to report because what else is this blog for other than reporting on all things mane?

In other vanity news, I spent a metric shit-ton of money on new foundation and powder recently.  The MAC counter is a black hole into which I occasionally hurl my funds hoping that it will magically improve my appearance, when what would actually improve my appearance would be a willingness to actually remove all traces of makeup before going to bed at night and keeping my hands away from my face (didn't have the hands in pants problem endemic to so many small children, my fingers were probably up my nose instead.  These days they can be found gently resting on my cheeks and nose while deeply pondering, of course.  Not squeezing things, no).  I started wearing some of that Benefit pore concealer as a primer, followed by a bit of Benefit concealer on the spots, then the foundation and finally mineral powder and have noticed that the combo actually has a reasonable amount of staying power.  However, doesn't that all seem a lot of hard work, just to get myself to the office in the morning?  No doubt I will ditch this formulation again shortly, but now I've noted it for future reference when I next decide that my complexion looks like pond scum by midmorning under the flattering fluoroescent lighting in the office bathroom. 

****BREAKING*****

Last night, I baked for the first time since the Grilled Chocolate Cake Disaster of 2002.  Miracle of miracles, I think it was edible.  At least, no one who consumed it has yet complained of any malady caused by it and they were all very polite, not least P who was effusive in his praise, knowing as he does my culinary limitations.  I made Lemon and Walnut Loaf from the Edmonds cookbook which was super easy, probably because that cookbook is likely aimed at beginners.  Beginner I certainly am.

Given the lemons had been donated to the workplace by a colleague, I brought a chunk into the office today to share.  This was ambitious seeing as it could have been disgusting and possibly poisonous.  Also, it was devious, because I know that had I left something with so much sugar and butter in my home I would have eaten the whole thing.


 

i love me some potatoes

Last night, I had a flashback to the claggy boiled potatoes of my childhood.  No offense intended to my Mum or Dad, those spuds were great, I loved them.  We'd cut them open and add salt and pepper, mashing them slightly with a fork.  As I ate my lightly mashed potatoes yesterday, I thought 'self, you don't actually have to add half a pound of butter to mashed potatoes to make them taste fine. Yes, a lump of butter the size of a fist and whipping them with a fork post mashing would make them taste amazing.  But it's not necessary every damn time you eat them.  Your arteries and ass will thank you later.'

The issue is, you see, my husband is a doodie.

(I'll give you a minute - read that link.)

(With me now?)

Every time I suggest to P he might like to scale it back a bit and that every meal doesn't have to be a production, he responds with some variation on "why are you against deliciousness?"

He's got a valid point, I suppose - why not strive to make everything taste as good as possible?  However, he wants to eat steak and thrice cooked chips more often than I want to consume the level of canola oil used in the cooking. 

(Also - how privileged are we, for goodness' sake?  It was a full-fledged crisis in our house last week when the caterpillars had eaten all the parsley, the creepy little fuckers.)

He's not averse to healthy eating. The only qualification is that it must be tasty and it seems to me that there is a direct correllation between the quantity of organic extra virgin olive oil (pressed by uncle and aunt from their grove, no less, at a community press) and tastiness. 

Even better, he loves a recipe that involves copious amounts of chopping, as slicing things is his favourite activity (*ahem*, marital relations excluded) (I hope) since he bought the Japanese handbeaten knife as a promotion present for himself in 2011.  The chopping, sorry, precision dicing/slicing/brunoising or whatever, is OK with me.  Or at least, it is now after we threw away the mandolin following the great thumb slicing of 2013).

He hasn't bought a sous vide, though.  Yet.

three weeks off is just so....punishing, you know?!

Ahhh, the rest and relaxation of the summer break. 

Touch of sarcasm (TM).*

I love my family.  Really! However, I find the start of my summer holidays in New Zealand completely batshit crazy and family time is not always particularly relaxing.  First world problems BLAH BLAH let me tell you them.

• I finish work in December under a complete cloud of crazy.  I'm frantic, as the office is closing down for three weeks and of course the clients want everything done yesterday before Christmas.  At least 50% of them will be working through the summer, so they don't give a rats about the holiday.  Besides which, I've been out and about on company entertaining and personal social catch up missions throughout the month, not to mention a weekend out of the country (boo hoo, what a punishment! you say.  Yeah, that's fair I guess.)
• Then, once I'm finally done in the office for the year (by done, I mean I've walked out at the end with a giant 'deal with it later' pile in the corner), we immediately have P's family pseudo-Christmas dinner.  At our house.  We're catering.  There will be fewer than 10 people this year (thank Oscar the Grouch) but there's still a lot to do.  Oh, and my best friend is in town from London so I am having her around for lunch first (can't not! It's been over 18 months since I've seen her face! And having her to our place allows me to prep meals and gasbag at the same time!)
• 8am the next morning, on a plane with my sister K.  We meet Mum and Dad, then enjoy a three hour drive even further south, followed by a meal with some of P's paternal family.
• Next morning, ferry over to the island.  We're there for a week, plus a night in the Catlins on the way back.  Poor old P is stuck on a frigid wee island in the Roaring 40s in a bach with his in-laws for a week.  I pity the fool.
• P and I arrive home at approx 9.30pm on the 30th.
• We get up the next morning, and drive three hours to the beach to meet friends.  Goodness only knows how many of us will be jammed into a wee place looking for a good time, but it will be mental.  MENTAL. 

Now, don't get me wrong, there will be plenty of rest and relaxation time on the island.  It's just that we'll be in close proximity with family for over a week on the back of one of the maddest Decembers I can remember, in a year when I didn't take more than two days off at a time. 

Oh, and P has decided he wants us to go swimming with great white sharks while we're on the island.  GREAT STRESS RELIEVER, P. 

Call me Moaning Milly.  Really, it's not so bad.  In fact, all of the above sounds pretty good, sans a bit of actually having to work.  Well, now you know the basic facts of my summer schedule anyway.  I've got an end of year thingo to come and will no doubt feel the urge to worddump all over my blog again before Xmas, but I wouldn't be checking back again much before mid-January.  For those of you I'm not seeing this Xmas, I miss and love you all.


*Touch of Grey, anyone?  Best ad I saw during my tenure in the US.  Young dudes giving themselves grey wings (literal, not figurative you dirty bastards) in order to seem more distinguished, trustworthy etc.  Brilliant!

i want to help, goddammit

Can you believe I berated my husband for "doing too much" yesterday?  As we prepared to host dinner for 10 adults, one teenager and two children most of whom are related to him by blood?  Neither can I.

As nuts as it seems, he is so capable that I found myself stamping my foot at him.  "I SAID I would do the potatoes".  Poor man; he handed me stalks of mint to mollify me - 'can you please rinse and strip these, that'd be very, um, helpful'.  Hymph. 

I love his capability - it's a very nice counterpoint to my laziness and general lack of common sense - but when it comes to the crunch, I'm embarrassed that all my family and friends know he's the wonderful driving force of this unit.  They're all extremely admiring of his skills.  By contrast, my immediate family appear to be convinced that I never 'cook' more than opening a bag of chips and lord only knows his family must think I'm a special case (the one time I made meringues I received such praise I waited to be handed a dog treat, to reinforce the trick.  Kindly and genuinely meant praise, of course - issues entirely my own.) 

P always wins.  He let me pour drinks and top-ups, with only gentle directive nods at empty glasses when I was slacking.  I found myself on dishes duty.  (Ha - his cousin came in to help, looked around with dawning horror on her face and said 'you don't have a dishwasher?!', which, fair enough.  Dark ages in these parts, I tell you.)  Bizarrely, I felt so grateful to him for handing over these chores - I mean, honestly?  That's ridiculous.  He's such a good host - I want to be more like him, I guess. 

In other news, do make sure you wear close-toed shoes when operating machinery.  I very nearly made the decision to mow and strim in jandals yesterday; very grateful I didn't, as I strimmed the toes of P's old hi-top kicks.  Hopeless 4 Eva.  Apparently. 
 

courgettes are the same as zucchini, right?

Sunshine! Sunshine! Hallo SPRING! You and your copious snails are here!  I'm sneezing all over the show!

If it weren't for the sunshine, I think I'd have hamster-on-a-wheel-itis right now - you know, same day, rinse, repeat thing?  Groundhog Day (never really saw that movie all the way through but Bill Murray references are always, always apt even if you're not entirely sure about whether basically everything isn't a joke that Bill Murray is subtly winking at).

Aaaaaaanyway, what I'm saying is: I feel a bit stuck in the rut right now.  It's pretty much unjustified, it won't last.  I think it's a Gen Y type symptom, maybe.  (I *think* I'm Gen Y.   Spend a lot of time thinking and talking about ME ME ME? Yep, sounds about right.)  I'm always on the lookout for the next big thing, for all the talk of being in the moment.  Some fishing recruiter sent bait to P a few weeks ago offering him the opportunity of the big time in Luxembourg.  Despite all my professed contentedness back here on the Mothership Kiwi, the rut meant I found myself writing emails to P saying things like:

- 3 hours from Paris by train
- London.  Right.  There.
- We could get tenants.
- We'd be rich!
- Oh wait, scratch that, what the hell would I do all day?
- I'D EAT BON BONS.  SOLD.
- Baguette!
- Wine!
- WON'T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHEESE

etc, etc. 

P rationally pointed out that if we moved to Luxembourg we wouldn't be able to enjoy the fruits of our courgette plant.  A valid point; well made sir.  I've grown quite fond of the old zucchini plant, purchased hastily in a spur of the moment garden centre trip (who on earth does that? Just me, I suspect.  Young people don't go to the garden centre; old people don't do shit like that spontaneously because planning and seasonal planting in your garden is key, I hear).  I would hate to think I've battled the snails but otherwise neglected the plant for not a single ratatouille.

Plus, P continued, we've bought a fuckload of furniture recently that we'd like to enjoy (fuckload = must be an imperial measure).  We're talking a table, chairs, couch, outdoor table, benches, bbq - that's right people, when you come to our shack you're not going to have to eat squatting on the floor anymore!  ALL CLASS. 

So, let the sunshine through.  Onwards, upwards, zucchini-wards. 

theatrical

Last night P took me to the theatre - Speaking in Tongues, produced by the Silo Theatre Company.  Verdict: the first half really made me think and I wanted more of the same - Andrew Bovell's second half felt a little disjointed as a result; it had the same strong themes but I wanted to know more through the eyes of Jane, Pete and Sonja who vanished for the benefit of Sarah, Neil/John and Valerie.  Oliver Driver was excellent - as John, in particular.

However.  The takeaway from last night's performance is that I can never eat at a yakitori bar again if I don't want to end up the size of a house.  Edamame, completely justifiable.  However, chicken skins, pork belly, octopus balls and chicken livers all on their own wee sticks are entirely too much fatty deliciousness and I cannot resist.  Starving myself of yakitori is the only way - but Tanuki's Cave is on my walk home...I am doomed. 

Also, I drank far too much sake with dinner (just before the final skewer arrived I annouced to P: "I am officially impaired") and that's a recipe for feeling alternatively extremely hot and then shivery the day following.  I am having real trouble regulating my body temp today. 

meringues the hopeless way

Words are not pouring out of me these days, try as I might to force the issue.  I've broken instagram* and so there's not even really crappily filtered pictures to post on ye olde blogge, in these trying times.  I am living and I am working and I am eating my dinner with gusto and I am supervising heat pump installers who insist on pointing out squeaky floorboards and interrupting my flow from my working from home pozzie (my bed.  Of course. They were lucky I wasn't in it)

Oh yes, I had a weekend one time.  It was really lame.  I had a serious case of the sneezles that antihistamines would not move so I made it worse with cheese and wine and wouldn't get off the couch. 

OH THAT'S RIGHT! I made meringues on Sunday and they turned out!? Want my recipe? (No you don't but humour me.)  This is how I made them:

1. Turn the oven on to 140 degrees celcius, bake (NOT grill.  I've made that mistake before and it does not end in a delicious roast or unbelievable chocolate cake, I can tell you)
2. Grease a baking tray.
3. Separate two eggs.  Only get a tiny bit of yolk in the white and congratulate self vigorously.  Hand yolks to husband who effortlessly uses them to whip a batch of hollandaise, the smug asshole. 
4. Put whites in a largeish bowl and try and get your electric beater/whisky thing to work because doing it by hand SUCKS.  Add a tiny pinch of salt.  Beat it until stiff.
5. Add 4-5 oz of sugar in 4 lots, beating well between each lot. (Fucked if I know what 4-5 oz converts to - this is Mum's old school meringue recipe.  I completely forgot about google and got out the Edmonds cook book to see if I could convert it, found out that 4ish oz is about 125ish grams.  Realised I don't have scales.  Thought, 'eh, fuck it', got out a measuring jug and decided that 125ish mL of sugar must be roughly equivalent.  Thought better of it later and added a little more.  Really must buy scales.  Actually, I won't bother, I probably won't do this again for another decade.)
6. Add a 1/4 tsp of vanilla essence with the third batch of sugar.
7. Present husband with whisk for licking.
8. Dip (cleanish) finger in liberally. 
9. When thick and shiny, stick dollops on tray.  Get the meringue mix all over your shirt, the oven, the bench, two spoons and a spatula.
10. Stick em in the oven for an hour and a half.  Resist the temptation to open the door every five minutes. 
11. Let them cool in the oven for as long as you can stand it.  Preferably until cold, but patience is  a virtue and I understand.
12. I served them with a berry reduction thingamee (berries, honey, splash of water on the stove top - would have used booze but ultimate consumers' allergies had to be accounted for) and some fresh mint and cream (sorbet for the dairy intolerant).
13. Make your audience give you the praise you undoubtedly deserve and them make them clean the unholy mess up. 

I think that is possibly the first recipe I have ever both cooked and given to another human being (or the internet, whatever).  What a milestone moment. 

* Broken instagram = locked myself out of my husband's apple account, therefore can't access and can't update the damn thing.  Probably a mercy.

eating is my favourite

Xi'an Noodle Bar on Dominion Road is the best.  Spicy Joint: yeah, she's ok.  The dumplings at Barilla?  V. tasty but no 5 Spice Stew Pork with Handmade Noodle or Lamb Soup with Pancake.  DELICIOUS.   My new remedy for a 30th bday party hangover, let me tell you (thanks for the party C!  Good times.)

Dominion Road eateries I think I love you. 

Oh also Wellington, I love you too.  It was a flying visit with an extremely rock'n'roll start on the descent to the airport, but you were lovely.  Gusty, yes.  But you were full of old friends and new babies and laughs and can't believe its.  Just lovely.

We got home yesterday (home! it is home! I can call it that and mean it!) and after a short stint at work (ugh) we noodled around locally, literally, in the case of Xian, buying screwdrivers and potting plants and drying washing and hanging pictures and weeding the path.  I wonder how long this burst of domesticity will last?  Not long, I suspect.

keeping myself honest, one shameful internet-airing at a time

Things what I have ingested today:

• Two slices of marmite vogel's toast, one with some cheese (Germany: so right about the inclusion of cheese with breakfast)
• a faceful of sushi, including salmon (good), tempura prawn (v bad)
• a banana (slightly on the brown side but surprisingly satisfying)
• a picnic bar (I spoke to it.  It spoke to me. It probably spoke directly to my ass)
• a diet coke
• four cups of tea (I no longer drink coffee and am compensating)
• guzzle of water (srsly.  I need to go have a drink of water)
• three Eclipse chewy mints.  Wait...four. 

Things what I am likely to ingest later today:

• wine (work functions.  they are no good for you)
• arancini (deep fried and everywhere at the moment)
• wine

THIS is why I have terrible skin and an attitude problem right now, it's patently obvious. I need to eat more leafy greens and less crappy sweetener / fried things / booze.  Alright , here's a deal, if I cut the sweetner and the fried things will you at least give me the booze?  It's been a rough week. 

(PS mah house, she is awesome.  She also has tilty floors, a serious lack of insulation and cupboard space and a damp towel problem, but I love her.  My art looks good on her walls and my rug looks fab on her floor). 

tea + reflection

You'll be pleased to know that my boots are very clean this Monday morning, thanks to a trade-off with P over the weekend (if you clean my boots, I'll iron you a shirt.  This is how marital negotiations run in our house.  See also: if you cook me something tasty, I'll vacuum the mess off the kitchen floor.  We're lazy, basically.)

But other than that, Monday's pretty average this week, boys and girls:

EXHIBIT A

NO EARL GREY TEA IN THE KITCHEN AT WORK.  Crisis situation.  English Breakfast decidedly subpar. 

EXHIBIT B

Nope, that was it.  No Earl Grey + Monday is basically enough to throw me for a loop, clean boots and all. 

OK, so the thing that is still consuming my spare time is the house hunting.  I know.  Terribly boring, no action, etc etc.  P and I narrowly missed out on Thursday night and got rotten drunk and fought to compensate.  That's how we know that (a) Frieda's is a great bar on Richmond Road, Grey Lynn (seriously, love it.  Ex-butchery with charm, as unlikely as that sounds) and (b) we can never go back there (the drunken hiss-whispered fighting.  The shame.)  However, we're nothing if not stupidly resilient and we're still in it to win it.  There's another auction on Wednesday evening.  Sadly, even with no confidence I'm still arranging the furniture / removing the hideous black chandeliers (black chandeliers! If that's your thing, more power you; you have a very strong sense of self/design aesthetic that my neutral-toned and boring self cannot handle.)

Yeah, I've basically avoided writing more about this online because it's tedious, repetitive and makes me get all self-examine-y in a way that makes me uncomfortable.  Just keep your fingers crossed, please? 

In other news, I ate approximately my body weight in thinly sliced rump steak, green cos salad with lemon dressing and wee roasty potatoes last night.  New favourite meal.  Easy, tasty and comparatively healthy (I choose to ignore the amount of canola oil used in the roasting of those potatoes.)

We saw friends ex-London on Saturday night and made bad choices re pizza, beer and wine, but had a very nice time.  I need to do that sort of thing more often - I love sitting at a pub, gossiping and reminiscing (this time last year we were in Croatia!) 

I guess that's a weekend round-up, after all.

b f pinkerton is a shifty beggar

In the spirit of my previous “I did a thing” posts, I shall review my visit to the NZ Opera on Friday night now that the season has come to an end.  Consider this entirely useless and feel free not to bother. 

So.  Yes.  Friday night, Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, thanks to NZ Opera.  Good. 

P and I started the evening with an abortive attempt to get a quick meal at Depot.  This place is excellent but you need the patience of a saint or the willingness to eat at ridiculously early hour to get in.  We had neither; so we ducked into Elliot Stables for some treats at Besos Latinos first.  The food was a bit meh, but the caipirinhas and pisco sours?  Tasty (not that I can really provide a judgment on authenticity not having made it to South America yet, P: SORT THAT OUT PLZ K THX). 

We floated outside on a wave of cachaca (sp?) into the loveliest, warmest autumn evening.  You would not have known it was the end of April, and it’s been like that ever since – highs of 21 or more every day, overnight lows of 17, crisp mornings, lingering (if dark) evenings.  The balcony at the Aotea centre was fabulous, full of people wearing sequins waving bare arms and glasses of wine around like it was February.

It got even better – beautiful singing, gorgeous set design.  I personally loved the NZSO’s accompaniment, but a lady I chatted with in the loo queue was a bit more ambivalent.  Madame Butterfly herself was a consummate actress and her voice was lovely.  Antoinette Halloran, in case you’re interested.  A colleague of mine thought Suzuki a little pantomime-y, but I loved her voice so could forgive the acting.  Gosh, I’ve never been much of an opera fan before (tried it previously and was ambivalent), but this really was lovely. 

A shame that as the first strains of the melody wafted into the refurbed Aotea centre, the phone of the woman behind us rang, and rang, and rang, and then she leant over to ask us to ensure our phones were off…and then realised it was her own fault as the usher came over with a stern face.  It wasn’t a generic ring tone – it was pretty bloody individual, so how she didn’t recognise it is beyond me.  Cell phone etiquette: muttering about other people’s rudeness never gets old, does it?  I still feel outraged nearly a week later.  That’s also possibly because I’m the crotchedy sort.

The evening was also slightly marred by arriving home to discover people had been let in to fix the ceiling holes (long-ish story, demonstrably NOT MY FAULT this time, a nice change) without our permission.  They left a layer of gib dust over our entire home and belongings and added further scuff marks/paint chips on the walls.  Really took the shine off, I can tell you, as we squabbled over the merits of sending an email to the property manager while slightly squiffy (result: drafted it, decided to sleep on it, GOOD DECISION). 

 

I still dreamt of cherry blossom that night, though. 

ramble

Easter morning tea at work today means that my tummy is making me happy and angry: so full, so content and so ROUND. 

I like Easter very much, which is weird for an atheist (agnostic previously…but atheist seems to fit better now?)  It’s not the chocolate that makes me Easter-ish because 2002-2005 I ate my way around a choc factory up to 6 times a day as a tour guide and now I am largely ambivalent about milk chocolate (still keen on marshmallow eggs and the occasional crème egg, but if you hand me a white choc crème egg I think I’ll be sick.  Absolutely cannot look a peppy chew in the eye either. DO NOT SPEAK to me about crunchie bars.) 

It annoys the bejesus out of me that the shops are closed for Good Friday and Easter Sunday when I need something, but that’s just because I’m a modern Millie who has come to expect a life of convenience.  Actually spending the day knowing that you can’t just pop down to the off-y or supermarket is kind of nice.  Enforced time en famille, shall we say?  Means the queues tonight and Saturday for petrol etc will be a complete clusterfuck though, so there’s that.  And trying to drive ANYWHERE over the next 24 hours? Please, my affinity for the Auckland motorway (so handy! So convenient!) does not extend to spending three hours in gridlock on it. 

My affection for Easter probably has a lot to do with a four day holiday.  What’s not to love about that?  This year, however, we’re not doing too much with it, spot of rellie-visiting, bit o’ open-homing (of course).  Easter last year?  I believe that was spent in London?  Don’t quote me on that?  OH THAT’S RIGHT – just delved the archives – being involved in train confrontations and getting sick in Edinburgh!  The year before, we were with my parents in France, just before P proposed.  Beeee-youtiful; printemps en Bordeaux et Toulouse.  I believe we spent the Sunday in St Emilion, where P was pissed that people had closed tastings at the vineyards.  That and I believe he was stressed about speaking to my father prior to proposing (I’m not sure he’s dumb enough to have asked for permission literally because I would have had his balls tied around a tree in a hot minute if he’d done that; I’ve been led to believe it was more a ‘I’d like to marry your daughter and I hope you’re down with that’ – to which I understand the response was ‘Weeeeeell, if you can get her to say yes…’).

Side note: I LOVE it when women have a tab on their blog entitled “Love Story” or similar and you can follow their relationship history.  Seriously, it’s adorably funny and addictive.  I’ve talked about the v v beginning of my relationship with P before and gushed about him on occasion, but I can’t get up a head of steam to write something like that.  Mostly because it would probably read “Met P.  Pashed P.  Drank with P.  Moved in with P.  And then squillionty eleven years later, got married because it’s important to P and also awesomely fun”.  Not really an interesting storyline.  Also, I guess it’s his story too? 

Anyway, that is all an extremely long-winded way of saying: Easter.  I’m not doing much but I will like it.  Hope you do too – whether it’s church, chocs or travels that float your boat.  Drive safe. 

PS Marriage equality debate last night in committee – let’s get the third reading passed quick smart! Equality is the business!

scraps

Other than attending a squillion open homes, I’ve been toodling around Auckland, enjoying summery weather. Auckland’s summer has mellowed – the humidity’s dropped off slightly, the nights and early mornings are now cool but the sunshine has remained, up until today.

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 We farewelled my mother-in-law at a tasty meal on Friday night at Depot.  Lots of people have written about this wee joint; suffice to say, very very tasty.  Oh actually that doesn’t suffice at ALL – I’d forgotten about the oysters!  Anyone with an oyster aversion who otherwise likes shellfish would be well advised to try Tio Point oysters – pinkish, just slightly salt-watery and not at all globules of snot.  Delish.  On the way home, my brother-in-law was playing silly buggers and backed himself into a bus stop which nearly killed us all with laughter.  Unintentional slapstick shouldn’t be as funny as we found it, but post-wine it made me snort. 

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OH NEW ZEALAND CRICKET.  I don’t hate you because you lost, Black Caps, I'm just.SO.disappointed.YET.AGAIN.  I didn’t enjoy the Twenty20 game as much as I ought, even considering the dismal result.  I won’t sit in the old Terraces at Eden Park again (how old does that make me!)  The guys seated behind us were funny at times, but also cringingly racist (to each other, as well as the donut sales guy and the security guard, and whoever else struck their fancy).  As it became more and more obvious that NZ was unlikely to win, the crowd became less engrossed in the game and, frankly, more irritating.  Eh.  I like the cricket better on the telly.  Great barbie with friends beforehand though and a sunset to remember!

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My marriage turned 1 on Monday!  We were frantically organising auction bits and pieces so I disappointed my husband bitterly by wanting to just go home after work.  The lovely thing had bought me books and tickets to a play (One Man, Two Guvnors) because it was the paper anniversary.  I’d chunked it and forgotten to sort him anything.  Fucking hopeless.  I trust he’ll forgive me (um, tickets to Melbourne I’m still paying off on the sly anyone!?), but I felt really awful.  P is a gem. 

my summer holiday: a report

Oh hey blog.  Long time, no ... blog.  Ah well, thems the breaks as my venerable mother would say.  Don't ask me what that means; I don't have a clue. 

This is where I should recap Xmas/New Year.  I was going to try and do an express version of this recap but it's ended up long winded and vaguely ranty (yet ANOTHER assessment of the state of the nation, because a minute examination of my own mental state is my favourite writing subject.  NARCISSIST ahoy).

- Three families, too many places to be at once.  Love being wanted though!

- Caught a bug off Whanau Number 1.  This lead to me throwing up Christmas dinner at Whanau Number Three.  Was not a good look.  P is still incredibly dark about missing out on dessert as (selfishly), I fancied going home to my bed after spending 20 minutes retching over someone else's toilet. 

- The HAM, people.  THE HAM.  Hot, cold, sandwich, omlette, frittata, toasted sarnies, pasta, you name it, we've eaten that little piggy treat. 

- New Zealand summer!  Sure, we've had some rainy days, but New Years' Day on the Coromandel peninsula (or, more accurately, on a tiny wee island off the side of the Coromandel) was glorious: clear skies, water so azure we watched a gurnard swim on the shores of the beach from 100 metres away, sun so blistering we sat on top of one another to hide under the shade of the umbrella.

- Friends!  Saw some wonderful friends who live far from Tamaki Makaurau this summer.  So, so good to see their smiling faces.  We sat in quiet contemplation on the rocks, as the last rays of 2012 lingered redly, violently on the edge of the Firth of Thames.  Someone started strumming a guitar (Tom Petty and Pearl Jam appropriate replacements for Auld Lang Syne, n'est-ce pas? Or not); we hummed through the hard parts.  I saw tears in the corners of H's eyes as she beamed at me.  My heart hurt happy. 

- Three more days of holiday!  Yussssssss.

Oh, it's not all daytime naps and eating ham straight out of the fridge over here.  This is the summer at it's glossiest, bloggiest best, of course.  It's a weak woe, but illustrative: today I spent about 50 hours using bleach on different surfaces of my house.  As I type this, sitting with a shandy and three different coasters (because I NEVER want to WIPE another surface AS LONG AS I LIVE which will not be long if I have to continue bleaching; my lungs will be seared out of existence) (also, who the fuck takes white shorts to an island possessing only an ocean and a long drop by way of ablution block? A moron, that's who), I'm a touch melancholy about some rain on my parade, the roots in my hair (fuck me MORE BLEACHING required), a break up, an illness and the amount of work ahead. 

BUT. I'm excited about 2013.  We don't have Big Exciting Things Planned (unlike 2012), but I'm gonna enjoy the shit out of the kitchen equipment I received for Xmas, spend more time with my husband and friends and make the most of career opportunities.  It's a pretty good outlook. 

Let's see how long that lasts!

{PS Totally had some photos to support this snoozefest post, but blogger is being an asshole.  Bad Luck.  No doubt we'll relive this all with some shitty pics in the NEAR NEAR future, interwebs YOU SPOILT THING!}

whinge, moan, rinse, repeat

In that last state of the nation post, I figured I was happy.  And happy I (generally) am.  IHOWEVER, it just so turns out that  there seems to be a direct correlation between happy + pudgy, which = fly in the pudding, blight on the apple, etc etc.

I never appreciated that this behaviour was so compulsive until recently.  You know, open the bag for a “quick snack” to “tide me over” and then holy shit I’ve just consumed an entire bag of kettle fries.  With a side of hummus or other, viler, dippy-substance.  The tummy I blamed on post-India bloat on arrival back in NZ is now a beast of entirely of my own making.  I’m paying for a gym membership I’m not using.  I’m paying for a weightloss aid I’m not using.  You’re reading this and being all “never visiting this piece of shit website again because mother of god she's obsessed with herself”.  I’ve got to sort it out.

Cutting out rice at lunchtime is probably part of the answer – excessive donburi and sushi have got to go as marvellous as the reintroduction was (oh how I missed you while I was in the northern hemisphere which has heard of you but not perfected the art.)  Using the memberships I’ve got too would probably be smart.  In sum: eat less, exercise more you goddamned genius, A.  Get your shit together.

Also: having this epiphany the week before Christmas?  Fucking brilliant.  God I’m stupid.  I think I know what prompted it though; the idea of getting into a bikini in front of family at the lake next week.  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.  While they’ve never given me an overt eating disorder, That Time I Came Home From University 8 Weeks After Leaving Home and Got My Upper Arm Squeezed Immediately By My Mother has really stuck with me.  We operate by taking the mick out of each other which, hilarious but also which, sobsobsob leave me aloooooooooone. 

Ha.  And you thought I moved back to NZ to be closer to family.

(Love you guys, if you’re reading this.  No, really, I do!)

 

flaking skin is a good sign?

My lips are burnt because……dun dun duuuuuuuuun….. I saw some sun this weekend!  Miracles never cease, we may have a summer yet here in NZ! 

LOVELY LAKE WAKATIPU.  WAS MUCH WARMER THAN IT LOOKS; MAH PHOTOG SKILLZ SADLY LACKING IN ACTUALLY CAPTURING THE SCENE

P and I packed our (10kg or less and within the applicable dimensions) bag on Saturday morning and Jetstarred off to Queenstown for the weekend.  All the NZ-resident Kiwis we’ve talked to have bitched and moaned about Jetstar, but apart from the dire lack of leg room, we didn’t have any incidents.  Unless you count the squalling ginger toddler on the way back, that is.  Hardly Jetstar’s fault, nor the baby’s for that matter; either the squalling on descent or the gingerness. 

IF YOU ARE NOT FAMILIAR WITH QUEENSTOWN, HERE ARE SOME FACTS: IT IS IN THE DEEP SOUTH, IT HAS MOUNTAINS AND IT HAS LAKE.  LOVELY.

This was a flying visit for an old friend’s 30^th.  He had arranged a time-share situation with a fab deck overlooking Lake Wakatipu so we had a few bevvies on the deck and enjoyed the sunshine massively.  My face is a bit pink, despite the liberal application of sunscreen.  I had forgotten exactly how violent the sun is in NZ – once or even twice a day applications of sun protection is not enough on a bright day.  We rode the gondola and saw some fantastic views, celebrated excessively when we discovered the DSLR has recovered from India (the display is now working again…we took two weeks’ worth of photos in India with no VDU following some splashy times at the Agra Fort, but now it’s magically sorted itself out – YUSSSS – because the warranty is British and they weren’t going to honour it here, the assholes), ate merino lamb and smacked our (burnt) lips, all v nice.  I had a bit of a mozzer on Saturday night when the tiredness of the week caught up with me and I basically bailed just after 11 when the others were just warming up for a good time, so I looked like a prize party pooper. 

GLORIOUS VIEW OF FAREWELL SPIT AND GOLDEN BAY AT THE TOP OF THE SOUTH ISLAND ON THE WAY HOME.  I'M TOTALLY BIASED BUT NZ REALLY IS THE FAIREST OF THEM ALL. 

Also *sigh* - we’re in the middle of sorting out what’s happening at Christmas.  Does anyone else find this quite stressful?  P and I have spent the last three Xmases with his mum and various others (both family and friends), given that the three of us were living in the same hemisphere, far away from the rest of the whanau.  This year, we’re torn between three sets of family and it seems to me that we’re building up for what will likely be a long day.  Basically, I figure I’ll survive by just having another drink.  I started laying in supplies of bubbly stuff at the supermarket yesterday, having predicted the need.  Spoke to my mother yesterday and confirmed we would likely see her Boxing Day; she took it very gracefully so now I owe her a pretty decent prez.  Ideas for mothers who like farms and tennis and gardens, anyone?  Maybe some more paeony plants? 

Well, that’s my newsy little update for you all.  Bit like a Christmas letter really; the writer enjoys putting it together and the recipients could probably care less.  Very tempted to post a family picture featuring seasonal sweaters and an update that reads something like:

“Dear Family and Friends,

“Well it was a wonderful year in the A & P household!  A few highlights of the year:

-       January: We started the year with a disappointing return to work and never saw the light of day in London because of the rubbish winter sunlight hours.  Seasonal Affective Disorder FTW!

-       February: We got MARRIED!  Here are 50 bazillion photos of the Big Day for you to peruse. 

-       March: Went back to work and sulked; decided to quit and return to NZ on flimsy basis of “it means we can have a nice holiday on the way back”

-       April – May: planned said holiday on work time, in between fits of sulking about rubbish Spring weather in London.  Got really boozed in Bordeaux, ate stuff in Amsterdam etc, etc.

-       June: Started our Big Trip!  Here are 50 bazillion photos from the first part.

-       July-August: More Big Trip!  Look at some more photos you suckers!  Mostly unedited and seriously repetitive because one photo of the Blue Mosque is simply not enough!

-       September: We arrived back in NZ and promptly remembered about this Nation’s serious lack of proper insulation!  Got chilblains immediately, bitched about losing our tans and attempted to recover from bowels of death!  Started work in our new jobs.

-       October/November: Whinged at one another regarding how HARD full time employment is.  Continued oversharing about our bowel problems.

-       December: Began resenting our beloved families who we moved back to NZ to be closer to because they care about us and would like to spend Xmas with us.  Aren’t we just peachy?

“Isn’t that lovely?  In summary: we travelled, we drank, we wed and, most of all, we poohed.

“All our love, A & P”

A bit early for that sort of palaver; I must be getting my Xmas spirit(s) on.