Pasanens in New Zealand

Photos from Dad's 75th - Stateside

2010-05-07T01:00:00.007+12:00

No words - just pictures (for my Facebook-reluctant father). Happy birthday Dad!

guilt and goodbyes

2009-08-24T01:35:00.007+12:00

alright, alright. I feel terrible that I've been blank for so long but the departure and then re-entry have been crazy, needless to say and I owe the blog lots of photos from our last set of travels in both North and South Island and since that is a heinously tedious process I have put that off. Here is one photo to whet your appetite -- and make you dizzy. It's us with the Turner-Reales, friends from Vermont who braved the NZ winter to come visit, about to go caving at Waitomo. I thought maybe MJ would never talk to me again when she said, "We're doing what for 30 meters down a dark, narrow hole into a cave?!?!" But all was good and it made a very special birthday experience for Alex.

Then there is the emotionally fraught process of doing an appropriately sensitive farewell and hello-again-to-Vermont posting. Trust me, I've been writing this in my head for weeks and it will be forthcoming soon!Here is a photo of Alex's classmates who came to say goodbye to us at the airport - taken through the airplane window.

(Further weak excuses: Our summer visitor for the last three years, Nick from the Bronx, also arrived shortly after we came home for his 10-day visit during which I try to focus on that...and which hasn't kept me off Facebook of course, but has prevented long stints writing etc. on the computer.) Here are Nick and Alex tubing on the beautiful Lake Champlain thanks to our friends Steve and Pauline who have a boat and, more importantly, are following us to New Zealand in January with their three kids!

It's hot and humid here in Vermont, as is customary in August, and feels very far away from the chilly New Zealand we left less than a month ago. Sometimes it seems almost as if we were never there, that it was all a dream. But then I turn the signal on instead of the windshield wiper (I've only driven on the wrong side of the road once), as I did this morning, or catch a slightly musty whiff from the clothes I've finally rehung in my closet that reminds me of the charming but damp and cool (ok, cold!) house we left behind.

Mostly, of course, we remember the wonderful adventures we shared as a family and with dear friends we made in Wanganui who we hope we can introduce to our other home here in Vermont. Come visit any time.

Learning the Language

2009-07-09T13:53:00.000+12:00

The boys couldn’t quite believe that I would freely choose to take a three-hour weekly class with homework and tests, but I absolutely loved my Te Reo Māori class and was very sad to go to the final session last week – although slightly comforted when they gave me an alarm clock that cheerily chirps the time and date in Maori as a goodbye gift.
~~~
I am fascinated by language in the first place and I sought out the class specifically because I knew that the Māori culture, while everywhere, was not something a seven-month visitor might easily immerse herself into. Language, as they say, is a window into culture and that proved so true in my class, which was a window not only into Māori culture but into the sometimes (often?) tightly wound relationship between Māori and Pakeha (their term for non-Māori, or white people).
~~~
My classmates were a wonderful mix of folks. Among the older-white-guy representatives were Kevin with a ponytail, a smoker’s cough, a motorbike, and a good handle on the language and Fred, a gentle, former hotel manager who was “trying to keep my mind working” but struggled quite a bit with the new forms and words. There were numerous Kiwis with Māori heritage like Mary, a petite 60-ish woman whose father was Chinese and whose mother was Māori, but deaf and dumb so Mary never heard any Māori growing up and had always meant to learn it, she said, but life got in the way with kids and then raising a grandkid. There was also Cherie, a perky 30-something single mom who had been a teacher’s aide; Marie, a lovely nun and counselor; Esther, a former school principal who already knew quite a bit; and Judy, a teacher recently arrived from Britain.
Some of my classmates (left)

My teachers - Marama (right) and Erana (behind them are some rather interesting Disney-style drawings that decorated the walls of the classroom, including Daisy puffing away)

~~~

I met my teacher when I first went into Te Wānanga o Aotearoa, the school that had been recommended by everyone I asked, to register for the class. Marama couldn’t have been more welcoming until we got to the bit where she noted, “And I’ll need a copy of your New Zealand citizenship or residency papers.” "Oh," I said, "but I’m only here on a temporary visa. I know it’s a free class, but I’m happy to pay if that would help." She went away. She came back. “Unfortunately,” she said, “you can’t take the class.” My face fell. “But,” she added quietly, looking towards the door, “just come anyway. It’s my class.” She, along with every other Māori person I met, was so appreciative that I was interested in learning even a little of their language and culture. I, in turn, was honored that they were willing to share it with me.

~~~

Erana leading us in a waiata.

A friend here recounted how she and her husband were out to dinner with another couple. The other couple, who were English, had spent time living in a number of countries and had moved fairly recently to New Zealand. When my friend mentioned that she was planning to study the Māori language, the wife said, “Oh, in other countries we’ve lived in, I’ve always tried to learn the language but here I haven’t bothered. I mean nobody really speaks it.”

~~~

It is true that of a population of four million or so, the latest census reported that just shy of 160,000 people claimed they could converse in Māori. That’s not too many people and since it is likely that most of those have some Māori heritage (about 640,000 total nationwide), it is entirely possible that this woman does not know anyone who speaks Māori, even in Wanganui which has a fairly high Māori population of 19% versus the national rate of 15% – especially if she has not gone out of her way to meet any. That said, the language can be seen and heard everywhere – on signs, on the radio, in the newspaper, and woven throughout the folklore and history of the country. The haka chanted (and danced) at rugby games is surely the most internationally known example, but of course there’s much more to it than that.

~~~

Like Native American culture, though, Māori language and culture were not always emphasized and celebrated. As recently as the 1960s, children might be beaten for speaking Māori in school and a sea change slowly began when the Māori Language Act passed in 1987 making it the third official national language (New Zealand sign language is the other). A variety of language schools -- from immersion preschools to adult learning courses – developed and have taken root.
~~~

When I would mention to people here I was taking Māori, they would gently correct me. “Oh you mean, Te Reo,” which means, simply, the language. But I learned so much more than Te Reo from Marama, her assistant, Erana, and my fellow students. I learned how to introduce myself: you start with your mountain, your river, your waka – canoe – that brought you here, your grandparents, your parents, and only at the very end do you say your own name “because that is the least important.” I learned the days of the week and the months, which reflect the movement of the stars. I learned to sing and dance to waiata honoring the people, the river, and yes, even the Christian God that the Māori (surprisingly, to me) accepted readily from the missionaries. I learned about traditions like that of Puanga or Matariki, the Maori New Year, when a group of local artists and Māori worked together to build driftwood sculptures on the beach and lit them at sundown (see below) as well as folk tales explaining about how the world came to be.

Alex's friend Toby helping to light the first Matariki flames.

And then, in the break room for the mandatory “smokos” or morning tea breaks, we talked a bit about politics and life and why it was important to local Māori that Wanganui, the city, be spelled with the h like Whanganui, the river and the region, have both been for a number of years. Because, as Marama explained, “There is no word, ‘wanga’ in Te Reo. The name is Whanga (harbor) with nui (big).” When Pakeha wrote the town’s name for the first time, they were well-meaning in their attempt to reflect local dialect, which pronounced the wh as w rather than as an f like in most other regions of the country. It is the opinion of most local Māori that the h needs to go back, but a second referendum on the subject during our stay failed decisively 77% to 22%. The rather opinionated mayor of the city made no bones about his belief that the h should stay out and was quite inflammatory about it all, but the referendum is not enforceable. The city now awaits the word of the national geographic board which can mandate a change if it decides to.

H or no h, the thing that made me sad was the racial tension that was clearly agitated by “the H debate.” My Te Reo class showed me that there can be exchange and connection between Māori and Pakeha who respect what each have to bring to the combined heritage of New Zealand. The divisiveness of some of the discussion around the H showed that there are still many issues bubbling just beneath the surface and that it doesn’t take too much to bring them up to the surface.

I wrote a letter to the editor of the local paper on the topic:

To the editor: As a newcomer and temporary resident of Wanganui, I have watched the H discussion with interest while understanding that I cannot possibly fully grasp the deep-seated layers of race, culture, and history it involves. What I can understand and appreciate is that every Tuesday for the last five weeks I have been privileged to attend a Te Reo Māori class of about 20 adult students. We are a diverse group ranging widely in age and background, with roots in New Zealand’s Maori and Pakeha communities as well as a few more recently arrived from abroad like myself. Some are looking to reconnect with ancestral culture that was not celebrated when they were young, while others seek a window into what they see as an integral part of New Zealand’s identity. And yet, as we stumble together over unfamiliar sounds, learn to count again like kindergarteners, and cheer each other on, we share one critical belief: that learning Maori language and culture is worth our time and energy. I hope that the mutual respect and sincere effort I observe weekly in my Te Wānanga o Aotearoa classroom is an indication that those from different parts of the community can come together in a spirit of respect and cooperation. We all have more to learn.

Nikko in his high school basketball practice shirt. If you look closely, you can see that it says Whanganui High School - the choice of his basketball coach, not what the school is actually named right now.

A Pair of New Zealand Food Traditions

2009-06-25T11:23:00.014+12:00

So I'll start with the sure crowd-pleaser and leave the blood and (eel) guts for later.

Kiwis love their sweets and have a long tradition of home baking. In fact, many of the older New Zealand cookbooks were heavily weighted in favor of recipes for baked goods. Just the fact that the main national cookbook is produced by Edmonds, a flour company, tells you something. Things have changed, of course, as they have changed globally, and more baked goods are purchased now than baked at home. In addition to manufactured supermarket versions of Kiwi favorites like thickly frosted ginger slices (slices are bar cookies here) and crispy, World War 1-evoking Anzac biscuits (cookies), all the local cafes have a standard selection of the classics, some better than others.

One of the types of biscuit you see everywhere is called an Afghan, pictured above. Although chocolate is not my usual choice, I had a really good version from the same place in Raetihi where we enjoyed the best pies we've had here and that got my attention. It's a not-too-sweet, buttery, melt-in-your mouth, cocoa-flavored shortbread cookie with a satisfying crunch from the surprise ingredient, cornflakes, and a smooth frosting. It's super-simple and it's likely you have all the ingredients on hand.

Here is the recipe, adapted from a book the Wanganui High School food technology department head gave me in thanks for my presentations to her classes on my work (which only a few students slept through and prompted insightful questions like, "Do you drive a cadillac?" "How much money did you make on the cookbook?" and "How much is a pair of Nikes in America?" To be fair, there were a few other more topical questions, too.)

The book is "The ABC of Kiwi Food: Afghans, Barbecues and Chocolate Fish" by Jane Hingston. It is quite amusing and enlightening, but falls short at explaining why the Afghan is called the Afghan. Theories include that the cookie looks like the terrain of Afghanistan, that it looks like a type of woolen hat known as an Afghan (check them out at simplyislam.com), or that it is named after the Afghans who controlled camel trains in Australia in the 19th and early 20th centuries. None seem very plausible to me but I have nothing better to offer.

Whatever they're called, they're really very good.

Afghan Biscuits (Cookies) - adapted from "The ABC of Kiwi Food," which is almost exactly the version in the "Edmonds Cookery Book."

For biscuits:

200 g (7 ounces or 1 stick plus 6 T) butter, at room temperature

1/2 cup sugar

1 1/4 cups flour

1/4 cup cocoa

2 cups cornflakes

For icing:

1 cup confectioners' sugar

1 tablespoon cocoa

1 teaspoon butter

about 2 tablespoons boiling water

Walnuts, if desired

For biscuits: Preheat oven to 180 C (350 F). Lightly grease cookie sheet or line with nonstick paper or liner. Beat together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Sift together flour and cocoa and beat into butter mixture. Beat in cornflakes. (It is OK if they get crushed, just not completely pulverized.) Roll small walnut-sized balls of mixture in your hands and flatten slightly on cookies sheet. (They don't spread, so you can put them fairly close together.) Bake for 12 -15 minutes until just set. Cool before icing.

For icing: Sift together confectioners' sugar and cocoa in a small bowl. Add butter and then whisk in enough water to create a soft, smooth icing. Quickly spread icing over cooled cookies, decorating each with a walnut half if desired. Makes about 30 2-inch cookies.

Now for the eel. (As I mentioned on Facebook, the photos below should be avoided by vegetarians and the squeamish.)

A couple weeks ago, Alex and a few buddies (mates as they call them here) went eeling. Eels, known a bit confusingly as "tuna" in Te Reo Maori, are a big part of the food culture in New Zealand, particularly in our region on the Whanganui River and particularly for the Maori. Any museum with Maori artefacts will feature woven flax eel traps and there's a beautiful stained glass window in the Wanganui District Council building of an eel trap in the river.

But enough about history and tradition, we got our very own modern-day eel fishermen pictured below: Mark to the left; Lachie, eel and fishing expert in the middle;and Alex. Not pictured is Toby. They caught four eel that afternoon, of which they kept two. I had promised Alex I would cook what he caught and selected the smaller one to keep. (It was also quite still and dead while the larger one Lachie is holding was still twitching a bit, much to the delight of his mom - not.) Cooking was the easy part. First, it had to be skinned and gutted and all that stuff. I vaguely remembered something about nailing the eel to a post and cutting the skin around the neck and pulling hard. We did something like that. Unfortunately, I was mostly on my own since Mark had been violently ill the night before and was recovering in the bedroom. I figured that seeing an eel-skinning was not the best remedy for his tender tummy. (To be honest, despite his professional ability to deal with all sorts of human body stuff, he's not the best when it comes to dealing with dead animal bodies, so probably wouldn't have been much use anyway.)

We nailed.

We sliced. Mark (the younger one, not the father one) and Alex were actually quite good helpers.

We speared and skinned. (We gutted too - but I'll spare you that photographic image.)

Then we marinated - in olive oil, red wine vinegar, lots of garlic, salt and pepper, and bay leaves. (This is not a traditional Maori recipe, needless to say - they most often smoke the eel whole, no skinning required. I should have thought of that -- but then I don't have a smoker.) And then we grilled - or barbecued as the Kiwis would say. It was really quite delicious and I recommend the basic but very good marinade above for any substantial white-fleshed fish you plan to grill. I don't, however, recommend skinning and gutting your own eel.

Weekend in Auckland

2009-06-17T14:11:00.025+12:00

A couple weekends ago, we spent a great two and half days in Auckland -- which, like many big cities, is much-maligned by the natives who don't live there. Our neighbor, Jeanette, upon hearing that we were headed there for the long Queen's Birthday weekend, said, "Oh, are you picking up someone else at the airport?" Sally, the lone Auckland-lover among our Kiwi friends, recommended we check out the multicultural Saturday morning market in South Auckland and then, hedging a little, said, "Maybe I should find someone to go with you." A patient of Mark's warned us specifically against going to that area, recounting the story of someone who was axed to death at the market fairly recently. We decided to skip the market, but we found a lot to enjoy in the city. Auckland definitely doesn't have the spectacular setting of Wellington, but there are some very pretty spots and lots to do.

Highlights that were not photographed included our Saturday visit to Kelly Tarlton's cool aquarium and Antartic expedition exploratorium where we saw a fascinating ray show (who knew the huge shark-related animals would come up to their minder like a dog?), took a mini-tank ride in among the penguins, and walked through a recreation of Scott's Antarctic headquarters. Following that, we had good Japanese food on the hip Parnell shopping drag where we did a bit of window and real shopping too. We treated ourselves to an anniversay present of this very cool lampshade for our bedroom at home. We figure, after 12 years, an overhead lamp in that room would be nice. A nice plus is that it's made from sustainable materials by a cool artist who lives not too far from us in the Taranaki region.

For the foodies (including me), I wish I'd had my camera at the very good dinner we enjoyed Sunday night at a restaurant called Euro, one of the kitchens under chef Simon Gault (who I coincidentally heard on national radio today), which had just a bit of the molecular gastronomy thing going on. The food was well-conceived, interesting, and well-made -- not something we've experienced too much here I'm afraid. We particularly enjoyed the calamari salad with dates, lemon, and arugula (great sweet-tart balance), the herb gnocchi with pork and anchovy rillettes and wild mushrooms, and Alex made his way through his entire portion of duck with citrus sauce with raisin couscous and chive and pink peppercorn butter -- despite having had a really long day and a big bowl of seafood chowder to start.

On the fanciful side, components like red pepper tapioca pearls of "couscous" with Mark's fish of the day and Japanese mustard ice cream with a starter of crab and avocado ravioli added interest without overwhelming a dish with strangeness. Strangeness did completely envelop my dessert, entitled "Spoons of 2011," but I can handle that in the last course. It was four spoons filled with architectural elegance and unexpected juxtaposed flavors and textures including feijoa and lime sorbet with pineapple jelly, a smooth oval yogurt skin ("egg") encapsulating gorgonzola and honey, and guava fizz candy crystals with another capsule (this time a "sphere") made from honey, and then lychee tea frothed with lemon "air," more like a foam. [A culinary non-highlight of the weekend, unfortunately, was that I finally ate a NZ crayfish (koura) at a different restaurant. It was underwhelming - particularly as I misguidedly ordered it smothered in gloppy sauce.]

We had started Sunday with the generous breakfast buffet at our hotel, CityLife, which we do recommend for anyone traveling en famille. We had a spacious two-bedroom suite and kitchen and there was a nice indoor and chlorine-free pool, The hotel is walking distance to the water and the Sky Tower among other attractions. Mark had found a good deal via wotif.com (the "last-minute bargain" website here) with breakfast, valet parking, and a family ticket to Kelly Tarlton included. It wasn't their fault that, even 10 stories up, I couldn't sleep Saturday night because of boisterous rugby fans who were up after 3 am watching some big game in another time zone.

We were happy to see that it would be a cool but sunny day so we headed to the ferry dock to take a trip to Rangitoto Island, the largest and most recently erupted of the volancoes in Auckland's harbour. (The next day, at the museum, we sat through a simulation of Rangitoto erupting again in modern-day Auckland. A bit freaky.) Due to some confusion re: changing seasonal schedules, we did not catch the earliest ferry and so we had to speed-hike up and down the lumpy, black volcanic trails, stopping only briefly to shoot a few views back onto the city and take a very quick side trip into the lava caves. We made it back to the ferry, luckily, or we would have had to wait another four hours.

We saw these guys as we ferried out to Rangitoto.

View from Rangitoto back onto Auckland.Many sailboats in this city.

The black volcanic rock formations of the island.

We got back to the city in time to grab a bite at a design-your-own-burrito type of Mexican place, which made Nikko's weekend - he misses Moe's so. Then we expanded our horizons by squeezing in with the boisterous crowd revved up to see some big motocross finals race in a closed off city parking lot.

Some young fans.

After that, we headed over to the Sky Tower, tallest structure in the Southern Hemisphere at 328 metres and known by all sorts of lovely names, including one that gives the Cialis-emblazoned sail in the photo above, a whole 'nother spin, shall we say. You can -- it being New Zealand after all -- jump off the tower, as this woman was doing; walk around the tower on a Sky Walk, as the orange-suited people are doing; or just walk over conveniently placed windows in the floor with a straightshot view of the far-below sidewalk- which was enough thrills for us.

This young man was probably between the ages of Nikko and Alex and the jump guy must have spent at least 10 minutes talking him into the jump. We didn't blame him.

After the previously mentioned fine dinner at Euro, we crashed into deep and heavy slumber with no loud rugby fans lamenting their team's loss to disturb us this night. The next day we headed to the Auckland Museum, known for its fine collection of Maori artifacts.

The floor of war memorabilia included some real cool airplanes that reminded me of Dad's models. So this photo is for you, HRM.

Alex with a moa, the main source of land-based meat food for the first Pacific Island settlers. It was eaten to extinction.

And, since you can't really take photos of real kiwis, I figured this would have to do.

The ancient version of penguins did get this big, apparently.

The botanic gardens arond the museum were beautiful with stately palm trees.

We wrapped up our Auckland visit with a drive out to one of the beaches, Mission Bay, where we sat at a sidewalk cafe and had good pizza and a few drinks and people-watched before enjoying a final ice cream and a stroll on the beach.

View of Rangitoto, the dormant volcano we had climbed, from Mission Beach.

Yes, we decided, Auckland is more than just a place to drop off and pick up visiting relatives.

Reflections on Cooking at Hospice

2009-06-08T09:55:00.006+12:00

I had coffee a couple of weeks ago with Valda, the kitchen manager and volunteer coordinator at the hospice in Wanganui where I have been helping out doing some volunteer cooking shifts.

She told me that she had recently watched a movie (American, of course) called “Two Weeks,” about a dying woman and her family. In one scene the woman desperately wants to eat her favorite meal of ribs and her family tries to dissuade her because there’s no way she can digest it. She insists that they make it and then sits down at the table. She takes a bite and chews it, savoring the flavor and texture, before spitting it out and then repeating the procedure. Around the table, the rest of her family slowly catches on and does the same.

We were discussing Valda’s input for a booklet I’m working on with one of the hospice physicians, Dr. Marion Taylor, who has long wanted to put together a guide for patients and their families about food and eating near the end of life. It is a topic -- like so many others at this time in a person’s life -- fraught with issues both physical and emotional. “Food is one of the staffs of life,” Valda said, “and when people feel like they can eat it, it begins to normalize their experience. When people can eat, it is comforting to them and their family. It’s not just about the food.”

It is for this very reason that, although I was drawn to the idea of cooking at hospice as soon as I saw their ad calling for new kitchen volunteers, I was also nervous. How would I handle working with dying people and their understandably stressed-out families? What if I made things they didn’t like, couldn’t eat, or, heaven forbid, caused them physical distress after they ate?

Valda was nothing but reassuring at our first meeting and she impressed me immediately as someone I would like to be in charge of my last meal. She has a stylish, blunt-cut blonde bob with bangs and the wide chiseled cheekbones characteristic of her Eastern European heritage. But, unlike the similar faces I remember from my one visit to the just thawing USSR back in 1984, hers sends out open, friendly vibes. She comes across as thoroughly capable and calm, and it was no surprise to find out later that she worked as a massage therapist before attending culinary school. One has the sense her strong hands could massage and simmer away all the bad stuff.

When we chatted about the expectations of a hospice kitchen volunteer, Valda explained that the cooking was pretty straightforward: a main hot meal of lunch for up to five patients and one support person each, and then something light and re-warmable for tea (what they call supper here in New Zealand), which the nurses or care attendants can easily prepare for patients. Nothing fancy, she said, just solid home cooking. And if patients weren’t up for a full meal, as they often aren’t, some soup, jelly (jell-o), ice cream, or mashed potato, presented nicely. “You can put food on a plate or you can place food on a plate,” she said. “The small things really make a difference,” she continued: a nice napkin or a flower on the tray, a sprig of parsley on the plate. “Those are really groovy,” Valda said with a smile, using what I soon recognized as a favorite word.

On my first day, Valda was there to guide me through the routine. The morning starts with “sussing” out what’s in the fridge or quickly defrostable from the freezer and dreaming up a meal around those ingredients. Hospice staples include loads of potatoes, beef, pork, chicken, white fish, a variety of fresh vegetables and some canned, rice, a little pasta, and lots of cheddar cheese. That day she had defrosted some beef and suggested I make a beef curry, which I did, adding some canned tomatoes, onions, green pepper and kumara, the New Zealand sweet potato and another staple here since early Maori days . After checking in at the nurse’s station, we then visited each patient to see if that option suited them. For those who were eating, it sounded fine, although the news that it would be served over rice prompted one feisty patient to respond, “What do I look like? A Chinaman?” Valda took it in stride and appeased him by offering to serve his curry over mash.

That first curry is about as adventurous as I’ve gotten. The prevalence of Indian restaurants in New Zealand seems to make people more comfortable with curries, mildly spiced, than I anticipate a similar demographic would be in the States. Since then, I’ve stuck mostly to simple things like creamed chicken over mashed potatoes, pork braised with leeks and mushrooms, macaroni and cheese with ham and zucchini, and crumbed white fish on a bed of tomatoes, silver beet (our chard), and onions. Last Thursday I ventured a little outside the comfort zone and stuffed red, green, and yellow peppers with a steak sausage and vegetable filling. Most of the patients and their family members were game but, as the daughter of one said to me, “Never had it. Don’t know what it is, but I’ll try it.” I dolloped the top with a cheddar cheese sauce and served it with mash and plates were wiped clean.

I’ve learned a couple of things cooking at hospice. One is that a little bit of mash and cheddar will go a long way to making less familiar foods seem familiar here. Most of the patients are of Western European heritage, Pakeha in the Maori language, although I have also cooked for a number of Maori patients. The comfort food touchstones of each culture are, of course, different, but the appeal of potatoes and cheese sauce seems to cross cultures. Nurses have told me, though, that they have had Maori patients who crave a boil up: fatty pork bones slow-cooked with watercress or puha, another wild green. Another mentioned how a family brought in a patient’s favorite meal, roasted fish heads, another Maori classic. Comfort is what you know and what brings you back to happy times of your life.

Another realization is that, unlike at home, I shouldn’t get upset if the plates aren’t returned clean. Even when they want to eat, often patients can’t eat much and Valda taught me to serve very small portions so as not to overwhelm them. (They have these perfectly sized little oval ceramic dishes that make a small serving look generous.) Many of the patients apologize for not being able to eat very much and I’m always careful to assure them that I don’t take it personally and they should absolutely eat only what they want when they want it. I mean, you’re dying for heaven’s sake, I want to add. You don’t need to apologize to me.

Although all of the patients at hospice are suffering from terminal illnesses, the nearness to the end varies widely. I cooked one Monday and came in a couple of days later to see three names wiped from the whiteboard and the kitchen door that opens into the main hallway closed because the undertakers were coming through. But that has happened less frequently than one might expect. Even though I don’t have a regular schedule, I have cooked over the last few months for a few repeat patients who have come in and out of hospice from home or hospital. One woman for whom I’ve cooked several times, was back in this week after having fallen badly at home. I know she loves broccoli and cheese sauce so I made sure to include those in my meal plan. The first time I cooked for her, I brought her meal and she said to me, “You know, I meant to ask this before, but would it be too much trouble to get a little cheese sauce to go all over this?” Sure, I said. Cancer I cannot cure, but cheese sauce I can whisk up in a jiffy.

Another patient just out of hospital after four weeks was craving an egg sandwich, his daughter told me. No problem, I said. Egg salad or fried egg? Fried with mayonnaise and sliced tomatoes. On white or wheat toast? White bread, not toasted, never toasted, she said, with a look of amusement. (Soft white bread, buttered, is a favorite of many Maori and, I found out later, whole loaves can be consumed this way in the middle of the night.) He loved it, ate it all up and gave me a big grin when I came to check if he wanted another.

It is these moments of pleasure that are a privilege to deliver and that’s what I focus on as I cook in the kitchen with its view of the peaceful green gardens with roses and herbs and a pond in which, last Thursday, some small dark birds were taking baths as two little girls ran across the lawn to the big primary-colored play structure. Mostly the door from the kitchen into the main hallway stays open and, as I cook, I can hear the quiet hum of nurses, doctors, and caregivers to’ing and fro’ing from the nurses’ station to the five patient rooms. They, in turn, can hear me clatter the pans, smell the onions sautéing, and the dish sterilizer whooshing. I hope the sounds and smells are comforting to patients but I wonder if, for some, the scents are unappealing or even nausea-provoking.

I have also learned that they might even be frustrating. A few weeks ago I chatted with one of the hospice’s repeat patients who lives alone and comes in from time to time for the doctors to see how he’s doing on his complicated cocktail of drugs and to give him a break from looking after himself. He is someone who loved his food, but, as his disease progresses, he has had to start being very careful about what he eats. “Suddenly you got to watch everything you bloody eat,” he said with a mixture of frustration and disgust. “It’s always all those things you love,” he added wistfully.

Food and eating at the end of life can be a source of both comfort and stress not only for the patients, but also their families. At the end, there is often little a partner or child can do but plump a pillow or escape into the kitchen to make a favorite dish. But all too often, the patient may not be able to eat the carefully prepared meal and the family member may feel sad and possibly even rejected. One patient went on so glowingly about a lunch I had made that his wife called in to speak to the cook. He really enjoyed your lunch, she explained, and she wasn’t sure if he’d prefer to also eat the meal I’d prepared for later in the day, although, she added, she had made a favorite of his to bring in. Oh what I made is nothing, just a little light snack, I assured her, I think he would love your beef ribs. I could almost hear an audible sign of relief.

Most of the patients are older and seem to have lived full lives, so I have not felt wrenched with the tragedy of untimely death as much as I expected. There was, last week, a much younger patient whose beautiful and composed wife graciously accepted a meal, but he was not eating. When I had popped quickly into the room to check on their lunch needs, all I could see of him was a long black ponytail hanging down his thin white back as he lay curled on the bed. I heard, over the weekend from a friend, that he had passed on and that he was a member of a very respected Maori family and had a leading role in the community. His tangi (Maori funeral or memorial service) was held on Friday and would be attended by hundreds, my friend said.

It is the husbands and wives and children of patients for whom I feel the most sorrow. They hover, patiently, waiting. Many of them don’t take advantage of the offer of food, but others accept gratefully and bring their trays back to the kitchen door with effusive thanks. The older women, especially I think, are not used to being cooked for. “What a treat,” one said to me recently when I brought her meal. “You’re spoiling me.”

It’s the least I can do, I usually reply, thinking that there isn’t enough mashed potatoes in the world to fill the hole a dear one leaves behind.

The Flying Fox, Whanganui River

2009-05-25T20:52:00.017+12:00

On my second visit to The Flying Fox, a charmingly eccentric eco-lodge about an hour north of Wanganui, we almost went hungry.

Classic view of the Whanganui River valley from the river road.

River has an h, city does not. It's complicated.

We had arrived via the bright yellow Spirit of the River jetboat guided by Brent Firmin, whose iwi (tribe in the Maori language) has lived on this stretch of the Whanganui River since the 1300s. On our ride up the river he had pointed out his family’s ancestral burial grounds and the culverts his grandfather had helped build during the Depression to help divert rainfall under the then new road along the eastern river bank.

Polly, mom-in-law visting from US, Margo, Kiwi friend, and me in the jetboat and Brent, our guide, below.

The river valley and its stories are in his blood. As he and other local Maori say, “Ko au te awa, ko te awa ko au.” (I am the river, the river is me.”)

Brent’s roundtrip tour of the river took us from his family marae (meeting house) to The Flying Fox and was scheduled around the mandatory New Zealand morning tea break for coffee (or tea) and freshly baked muffins made by Annette Main, owner of the lodge with her husband John. (I am lucky enough to have also gotten to know Annette through the book club I serendipitously fell into upon arriving here back in January, but her reputation had preceded her even before that. When I mentioned to one of the first people we met here that I was into food, she immediately said, “Oh, you must meet Annette Main.”)

View of The Flying Fox from the river below.

Annette greeted us warmly, but joked that we had almost missed out on muffins that morning. “I realized I didn’t have any eggs,” she confided. “So I was out there waiting for the chooks to lay some,” she said, referring to her flock of laying hens who happily scratch their way around the property. “I only found one so I could only make half a batch of muffins.”

The bottomline is that Annette doesn’t have much choice, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s not a quick hop in the car to the dairy (corner store here) to pick up a dozen eggs. Perched on the western bank of the river in the middle of the Whanganui National Park, The Flying Fox can only be reached by boat or by zipline (a flying fox in New Zealand lingo) after you brave the drive, a snap for the locals but a little scary at times for those not used to narrow, windy, cliff-edged roads where, on one occasion, our car found itself smack-dab in the middle of a herd of cows who did not seem at all inclined to move out of the way.

Our boys, on a later vist, at the gong by the gondola landing spot on the river road side.

After you park your car via the river road, the only way across the river is by climbing into a small open gondola hanging from a zipline. (When Annette first bought the property 19 years ago, the airborne vehicle was an old iron bedstead. And, incidentally, people thought she was crazy. A steadily increasing flow of visitors from around the globe and media coverage, including a full-length feature in the glossy New Zealand Life and Leisure magazine, has proven them wrong.) You summon the gondola with a gong and then merrily sail it high across the river towards the red cupola and surrounding cluster of buildings partially obscured behind tall emerald-green tree ferns (pungas).

Like the eggs and the feijoas (a tart-sweet tropical fruit, shown above) that were baked into the huge, fluffy muffins we ate warm from the oven that morning, many of the ingredients Annette cooks for her guests are grown on the certified organic property, including avocadoes, apples, grapefruits, tamarillos (tree tomatoes, see below), pumpkins, and kumara (sweet potatoes). Everything else is sourced as locally and organically as possible and much of it sold from Annette’s stall at the Saturday River Traders Market in Wanganui, which she helped found three years ago.

Annette and John emphasize two things at The Flying Fox: respect for both the original Maori inhabitants of the river valley and for the natural environment. They are honored, they say, to be the kaitiaki (guardians) of the history and spirit that imbues the place. The two guest cottages were handbuilt using as much salvaged building material as possible and furnished with what Annette describes as “rescued furniture and family treasures.” A solar panel provides much of the hot water for the property and toilets are all compost-based. Local art, traditional weavings, quirky antique kitchenwares, and piles of books and records fill every nook and cranny of the buildings. (Yes, records; on an overnight family visit our 11-year-old product of the I-Pod generation learned how to use a record player.)

The two cottages, above.

Upstairs in the Brewer's Cottage Downstairs at the Brewer's Cottage

In the James K. Baxter cottage

One of the cottages celebrates James K. Baxter, arguably New Zealand’s most famous poet, who lived just a bit up the river during the late 1960s. His portrait is in the bathroom, his words written on the walls, and books by and about him can be found on bookshelves in all the buildings. Annette signs off all emails with a stanza from his Sestina of the River Road (see end of entry).

The Glory Cart, a cozy caravan for two

At The Flying Fox, connections , juxtapositions, and revelations pop up in unexpected places. The piles of records include Bob Dylan; Bing Crosby; the New Zealand country group, the Waratahs; and traditional Maori waiata. The guy pruning the bushes during my second visit turned out to be the artist of a striking print I had noticed in one bedroom on my first visit. I was fascinated to learn that avocado trees carry the harvests of two different years at the same time, one the green-black of almost ripeness ready to be harvested, a branch away from fruit of the new crop, shining a deep bright green. Beyond a badminton net and a sprawling grapevine lies a small guest caravan for two (endearingly named The Glory Cart) with an outdoor wood fire-heated bathtub and tiled shower where a wild goat might just peer in on you as you shampoo.

Billy

Or the visitor might be Billy, the companionable Jack Russell mix who will sit next to you while you enjoy the river and mountain view from under majestic centurion chestnut trees, accompany you on a walk along the river or up the hill, or perhaps pounce on your badminton shuttlecock and turn it into a chew toy – as Nikko and Alex, our two boys, quickly found out.

The chestnut trees

Each of the cottages has a small kitchen and Annette encourages self-catering, although she does cook for larger groups or sometimes by prior arrangement. The morning after we had our book club meeting/slumber party at The Flying Fox, she was preparing local lamb shanks for a crowd of guests expected over the next couple of nights. When our family of four went for an overnight a few weeks ago and stayed in the Brewer's Cottage, we brought our own soup and salad and Annette provided a loaf of her soft, lightly sweet kumara bread (a recipe from renowned Kiwi chef Peter Gordon, a Wanganui native), and a crumble (crisp in the US) made with her own feijoas and apples.

Annette and book club friends making supper in the main house kitchen --

and then singing for our supper with John, Annette's husband.

Annette in her kitchen The famous kumara bread

It came with a pitcher of frothy crème anglaise. “This is so good. Why have I never had this before?” demanded Alex, our 11-year-old. At my request, she had also included a jar of her really good muesli, laden with pumpkin and sunflower seeds, for breakfast the next morning. Normally she would also have had homemade yogurt to offer, but she is very involved in a range of regional business and tourism projects and had been too busy that week to squeeze in yogurt-making.

A big batch of muesli

We had been lucky with a mostly clear fall Saturday afternoon for my boys’ first and my second trip up the Whanganui with Brent on his jetboat.

We saw the embedded oysters shells that prove the river was once part of a huge ocean and the surprisingly round boulders stuck into the river bank that are believed to be fall-out from a long ago and far away volcano explosion. A few raindrops sprinkled down from a deceptively blue sky as Brent skillfully maneuvered the boat through a narrow spur off the river to show us where there was a government-sanctioned organic farming commune in the 1980s.

The moon shone brightly as we fell asleep, tucked warm in our beds with electric blankets and space heaters, but we awoke to rhythmically pounding rain on the roof. The chooks out the window didn’t seem much bothered by the wet weather and Billy was waiting patiently to play when we poked our noses out the bedroom door to go light the wood stove in the kitchen and lounge area.

The sun peeked through a few times, glimmering on rain-soaked leaves. It beat the rain back long enough for us to take the gondola back over to the river road whereupon a torrential downpour unleashed on the surrounding native forest and as we drove away from this very special corner of the world, we witnessed the reality of James K. Baxter’s words:

Hilltop behind hilltop,
A mile of green pungas,
In the grey afternoon,
Bow their heads to the slanting spears of rain.

~~~
Sestina of the River Road

I want to go up the river road
Even by starlight or moonlight
Or not light at all, past the Parakino Bridge,
Past Atene, where the tarseal ends,
Past Koriniti, where cattle run in a paddock
Past Operiki, the pa that was never taken.

Past Matahiwi, Ranana, till the last step is taken
And I can lie down at the end of the road
Like an old horse in his own paddock
Among the tribes of Te Hau.

Then my heart will be light
To be in the place where the hard road ends
And my soul can walk the rainbow bridge

That binds earth to sky.
~ James K. Baxter, 1972

The boys off in the gondola after our visit

Billy watches everyone leave from this same spot

From Muttonbirds to Gluten-Free Orange Cake: A few of the things we've been eating

2009-05-18T22:42:00.025+12:00

Enough of the fantastic travel and natural gorgeousness of this country. What you really want to know is what we've been eating. So here are a few successes and explorations of the last month or so.
~~~
As promised, first the Mediterranean Orange Cake from the gluten-free, dairy-free, vegetarian book club I hosted here. Although people grimaced and made funny jokes about it on Facebook, I really enjoy planning a meal that, while it may have restrictions, is something everyone coming to an event can eat happily and free of worry no matter their diet. I always have so many things I want to cook, it helps focus me and reminds me of all the folks I've written about who struggle to eat out because they need to avoid certain foods. (Interestingly, New Zealand is very gluten-free-friendly as the ethnic roots of much of its European-descended population are from Scotland and England where I understand celiac has a very high prevalence. Almost all cafes and restaurants highlight gluten-free options on their menus and offer special baked goods and other dishes.)
~~~
We started with a version of the curried cauliflower soup from Vegetarian Times (easily found online) - with green apple, which intrigued me and added a nice hint of sweetness. I added a bit more garlic than called for and one small potato to smooth the whole thing out. I also sauteed one unpeeled, sliced tart apple in a bit of olive oil and honey to serve on top. (Credit to Shelburne Farms for that idea.) And for those who did indulge in dairy, I recommended they crumble a bit of the lovely hunk of Gorgonzola Sally had brought as her contribution. It's not a pretty soup (rather drab in color), but it was really good.
~~~
For the main, I served the cider-glazed butternut squash (used Crown Pumpkin, which a friend had given me from their garden) salad with arugula, hazelnuts, and cider vinaigrette from the cookbook (goat cheese optional) with brown rice and mushroom-stuffed yellow, orange, and red peppers. The base was veggie with veggie stock (gluten-free -- some aren't I discovered) and fresh thyme and red wine (reduced with the mushrooms and other aromatics; sherry would have worked too, really adds a depth of flavor). I did cheat and stirred a bit of browned pork sausage from the farmers' market into the filling of all except the red (veggie) pepper; that one got a little feta, since it was for a dairy-eating vegetarian.
~~~

The cake recipe was from my neighbor Chris - from The New Zealand Baker, in her stash of good cookbooks. The recipes come from all over New Zealand and this one is attributed to Pandoro Bakery. I served it with dollops of good thick Greek yogurt, my new favorite cake topping inspired by the cafes here, and a feijoa and passion fruit compote I had made and frozen a while ago when both were plentiful and people would practially pay you to take feijoas off their hands. (I literally walked by a house one day, which had bags of feijoas in front of the stone wall with a sign, "Please take some of these. The monsters are overwhelming me." They are a new favorite for Alex and me with a wonderful sweet-tart flavor and a little bit of a pear texture.)
~~~
Mediterranean Orange Cake (which just happens to be dairy- and gluten-free - although not vegan - but is deeelish for eaters of all things)
adapted from Pandoro Bakery as printed in The New Zealand Baker

Ingredients
For orange slush: 3 large or 4 medium oranges

For cake:
15g (1 T) baking powder
310g (about 2 cups) ground blanched almonds
8 eggs
310g (about 1 1/2 cups) white sugar
375g (about 2 cups) orange slush (see below)

For topping:
1/2 cup apricot jam plus 1/3 cup water
natural flaked (slivered in US) almonds, lightly toasted

Make orange slush the day before you're going to make the cake, which you will then make a day before you plan to serve it: OK - so the recipe calls for washing the oranges well and then slicing the tops and bottoms off them so they can sit flat in a pot, filled with water up to their middles, while you simmer them to softness for two hours. Guess what? the water completely boils away so you have to keep adding, which is fine but a pain. Next time I make this, I will simply put the oranges in a covered baking dish with water halfway up at maybe 275 F and bake for up to two hours until they are very soft but not caramelized. Much easier I think. Drain off excess water. Puree whole oranges (yes, including peel) to a smooth slush in a food processor. Place in a bowl and cover. Refrigerate overnight.

To make cake:

Preheat oven to 170 C (335 F) and prepare a 23-cm (10-inch) springform or other round tin by greasing and lining the bottom with parchment paper.
In a medium bowl, whisk together baking powder and ground almonds.
In a large bowl, whisk together eggs and sugar just until combined.
To egg mixture, add ground almond mixture and orange slush (only 375 g of what you made, not all of it - I had quite a bit left over from 4 large oranges which is why I suggest trying only 3), and mix gently just to combine.
Pour cake batter into tin and bake about 60 to 80 minutes until cake is golden brown and cake tester comes out clean. (Recipe says 80. Mine took 60 and I don't know how true this oven runs.)
Cool cake in tin overnight.
Next day remove from tin to serving plate. Melt together apricot jam and water on stove or in microwave and bring just to a boil. Strain to remove any fruit lumps. While glaze is still warm, brush entire cake top and sides until glossy.
Sprinkle cake with a ring of toasted almonds around top edge to make a wreath. Serve and refrigerate any leftovers.

Now for something British with a touch of India: Kedgeree, a cheap (here) and easy supper that my boys just adore. I've made this British Empire classic a couple times now because we are blessed with really wonderful smoked fish (the hot-smoked kind not the smoked salmon/lox kind) here in New Zealand and Mark, harking to his Finnish roots perhaps, loves it. It can be bought at the fish stall at the market and at any of the fish stores and is really inexpensive. I think my mom (Mom, can you verify?) used to make this when we lived in England and that's why I know and have such fond memories of it. It's so simple, it really doesn't need a recipe although Sally made it the other night from a fancy-schmancy recipe and it didn't turn out she said, so I guess it does need some instruction. I think the bottomline is, keep it simple.

Kedgeree
Basically, to feed 4, you need 2 to 3 cups of cooked long or medium grain rice (I've thought of trying brown but I just can't). You will also need 4 peeled, hard-cooked eggs. Finely dice 1 medium onion and saute in a large saute pan until soft in a good knob of butter, or oil if you prefer. Add mild curry powder to taste here if that's your fancy - a couple teaspoons would be good - but you can do it without too. Stir in cooked rice and coat with butter and spice. Then stir in a couple cups of flaked smoked white fish like trout (in NZ, it's other types of fish like kahawai, kingfish, tarakihi, trevally, hoki as in photo...). We've used up to 3/4 pound since it's so reasonable here but you don't need quite that much. Cover the pan and leave it on medium low just to get the whole thing warmed through. Meanwhile finely chop the eggs. Toss them in and serve. Adults will want lots of freshly ground black pepper. You can get fancy with chopped parsley or finely sliced green onions for color if you like. And this belongs with peas.
~~~
A few other gastronomic experiences worth sharing. Before she left for her summer in Europe (smart idea to leave here in the damp, cool, uninsulated winter but I miss her!), Margo and her husband John made us a local foods feast - with muttonbird (titi in Maori), wild pork, and wild venison. Muttonbird is a highly prized Maori food. It is actually the chicks of the Sooty Shearwater, a species of puffin, and is sold in local fish stores (it is in the center of the fishmonger display photo above) as, one of my New Zealand food histories says, "an honorary fish." It is known for its strong flavor and oily texture. You boil it for a long time and then crisp it up to remove some of the fat. It is often cooked out of doors, as Margo does here, because of its overpowering scent. We actually found it quite interesting - flavor of anchovies (makes sense because of the diet of the bird) with texture of fatty duck. See cooked photo below right.

~~~
Margo also procured for us a haunch of wild pig (on left of photo below with tail at top) and one of wild venison. Both are hunted avidly around here and the wild pig actually came from Brent, who has now guided me up the Whanganui River twice and shared stories of his iwi (tribe) that has lived on the river since the 1300s. Wild pig hunting is done here by solo hunters armed only with dogs and a large knife. There is a whole magazine devoted to the sport.

And for a final, perhaps more mass-appeal treat, we did finally make it to the famous Raetihi Pie Shop, which is only about 45 minutes from here (although on the windy Parapara highway) and can definitely say that they are **by far** the best pies we've had in New Zealand so far with a lovely, light and flaky crust and very nice chicken filling without globs of gooeey gravy or other mysteries involved. (We have only tried the chicken so far as that was all that were left at 1 pm in the afternoon - he always sells out.) Considering pies are one of the Kiwi food icons, we've eaten more mediocre and truly bad ones than we can count at this point, many of which have been recommended or won awards. The Raetihi pies are not allowed into the national competition because they are too big. (They are single serving, and they are generous.) I think it's because they are too good and make everyone else look bad.

But You Can Dress Us Up, or Travels with Wayne and Susan

2009-05-13T20:16:00.020+12:00

We arrived home from the South Island trip with Polly, slept, and took off the next morning to bring her back up to Auckland to fly home. It had been wonderful to have her here -- to share our daily life as well as some of our travel adventures -- and we were a bit teary upon saying goodbye. But no time for that. We were on to the next thing.

We spent the night in Auckland, enjoyed a very nice Italian dinner on the hip Ponsonby Avenue (far too hip for us), did our laundry (washer and dryer had been a top criteria for the hotel), and managed to buy Mark a pair of golf shoes (unbeknownst to us the hotel was a block from Golf Warehouse!) before taking off for parts north where Wayne, Mark's dad, and Susan, his wife, were meeting us at Kauri Cliffs, a lovely, high-end resort with a world-renowned golf course. It was just a little different than campervanning.

The view driving into Kauri Cliffs on the northeastern coast of the North Island near Kerikeri, above the Bay of Islands.

This was one view of Mark's and my room. The place is seriously but tastefully luxurious and highly recommended to all those into golf by the golf aficionadoes in my family. For those simply into luxury, it would also be a sound choice of vacation destination. It was built by a Wall Street tycoon who fell in love with New Zealand and bought both this 6,500 acres and then the second property we visited a few days later. Both are on the prestigious Relais & Chateaux list and both still include farming on the property, quite close to the links in some cases.

In warmer weather we would have jumped into this pool, but we made do with the lovely indoor pool - see below. Our camera did not make it onto this golf course but Mark, Wayne, Nikko, and Alex, as cart driver, were on it within ten minutes of our arrival. The course is ranked 58th in the world and Nikko was quite excited, to say the least, to play it.

Every evening starts with a drinks and appetizers service in the main lodge, a practice to which the boys could easily become accustomed.

Nikko and Alex also were big fans of the pork belly appetizer.

Our own private dining room, below.

The next day, Wayne, Mark, and Nikko went out to try to get another round in before the poor weather descended and Alex, Susan, and I went on a tour of the property.

One of the highlights was a beach with infinite small pieces of pink shell instead of sand. There were also all sorts of pristine whole shells and striking Pohutukawa trees that almost look like sculpture. In summer they do guest bbq's and picnics down there.

We continued the tour, which combined the pastoral farming landscape we have seen elsewhere with spectacular ocean vistas and a golf hole every so often. Oh and there was a very cool hidden waterfall.

Simon, our lovely guide.

A Down Under icon, the Norfolk pine.

The property's most huge and ancient Kauri tree, one of those after which the cliffs are named. This one is estimated to be between 700 and 900 years old and is on the part of the property that the owner put under conservation. Simon shared with us the story of the kauri in New Zealand, a tree prized by builders for its rot-resistant wood, but now protected. Sadly the government policy was to disallow all harvesting after a certain date, so many farmers and other property owners just chopped all their kauri trees down before that date and now have it stockpiled. Simon, who had many thoughtful ideas, suggested it might have made more sense for the government to set a limit on number of trees harvested per year and require landowners to replant any they cut.

After the tour, Susan and Alex headed to the exercise room. I read a book.

Susan was quite impressed with Alex's workout mojo. He deserved his Zen hot tub afterwards.

A group photo before the Pasanens of Vermont/New Zealand took off by car to drive down to the next rendez-vous point, about a 10-hour-drive, highlit by a stop to see really cool mosaic bathrooms, have Indian curry for supper, and almost sleep in the car because our destination midway through the drive was unexpectedly and fully booked with V-8 car racing fans. It was midnight and we didn't have too many options, but luckily we found literally the last two rooms free in the city.The next day we drove through driving rain to Napier, renowned for its art deco architecture, where we stopped in at the national aquarium (fine but not worth a special trip, although we did get to see kiwis again), and did a little wine-tasting at a couple of the Hawke's Bay vineyards along the ocean. It was still pouring when we arrived at the second newer property owned by the same American, Cape Kidnappers (named in honor of a young deckhand on Captain Cook's ship who was kidnapped by locals). Staff were waiting graciously for us outside with huge umbrellas and welcomed us warmly with tea, hot chocolate, and cookies. We snuggled up in a round cozy room they call the Snug and read and played scrabble while we waited for Wayne and Susan to arrive.

The digs were equally posh although, we found, a little more "designery." Alex was especially impressed with the TV remote and we all appreciated the central heating, underfloor heating, and heated towel racks. (Central heating is not common in New Zealand.)

The interior of the main lodge where we had our customary pre-dinner drinks and appetizers. Mmmm...one could get used to this.

It was just all so, well, civilized.

Dinner was lovely -- and dessert quite fanciful, as you can see below. (Real cheerios, not real Hershey kisses.) The only other group in the dining room were four representatives from a U.S. golf magazine.

The boys in jackets, required.

Next morning the boys woke up early to tee off, but breakfast first.

Alex gets credit for all these golf day photos -- including the one of his perfect Eggs Benedict. Yes, he knew mom would want to see the food.

The course came perilously close to large cows...and their waste. All that and it's ranked 27th in the world.

Nikko and Mark marveling at the fine 7-iron Nikko hit on the third hole.

Alex being artistic.

Out of the bunker -- luckily it hadn't gone over the cliff. That would have been a long way down to retrieve your ball.

The views from the course were something and the course quite challenging in a fun way, but Mark and Nikko have agreed they preferred the course at Kauri Cliffs.

The boys all proudly celebrating that they shot par 5 on the 16th hole.

After a beautiful walk through sheep being herded by dogs, lavender fields, and pine forests, Susan and I were driven out to meet the boys. Alex had played cart driver again this day and ably showed off his skills.

We left the property for lunch at a local winery, Elephant Hill, where we tasted the wines before choosing some to go with lunch.

In the summer, this deck bordered by an infinity edge pool with the grapevines and ocean beyond must be fabulous.

Lunch was good, although the kitchen was running very slooooooowly for some reason, given that the place was not that crowded. This corn soup was lovely and delicate.

Back to the lodge to pack up but first a quick dip in the hot tub and pool...

before we bid farewell to Wayne and Susan, who were staying another couple of days and then heading to Sydney for the weekend. Quite a wonderful way to wrap up the boys' Easter break -- thanks so much to Wayne and Susan for a very memorable and special time.

We were home that night. Back to reality. Joked Alex, upon exiting the shower the next morning to have his tender toes hit chilly vinyl rather than warmed marble, "Mom, the floor's broken."

South Island with Polly

2009-05-11T17:18:00.029+12:00

(First, an apology. Mark points out that I have failed in timeliness, the essence of blog-worthiness. He's right and I'm sorry. I will only say this in my own defense: I've been too busy experiencing life to devote the painful amount of time it takes to upload all these photos. Mmmm...let me see. I went to New Zealand and had a really great time sitting at my desk uploading photos of our touristic exploits to blogger. OR. I was a little delayed in posting travel photos because I was actually living in New Zealand: spending time in my kids' schools volunteering, learning the Maori language, cooking in the local hospice kitchen, planning and preparing a vegetarian, gluten-free, dairy-free meal for the lovely ladies in my Kiwi book club, and learning how to build a fire in the woodstove so my family doesn't freeze in our charming, but uninsulated and drafty Kiwi house. I need to get better at that particular task so it doesn't take so much time.)

So, during the boys' Easter break - that's what they call it here, not so PC as in the US - we spent six days campervanning around the South Island. Flew down to Christchurch and picked up this lovely beast, which Mark then most capably drove many many many kilometres over the next week or so. (They are a bear to manoeuver but he did well - except for that one time he pulled out without unplugging the power but we won't go into that...) A first for all of us and, overall, a success.

The view from the front two seats was awesome - unfortunately, although those of us in the back could stretch out and play scrabble, the view was not quite as good from there as a regular car, nor the ride as smooth. Still, it was nice to have our own food/fridge and emergency toilet facilities whenever we needed them. And not to have to unpack and repack every night. The three double beds were spacious and comfy and the campsites were all neat and well-tended with hot clean showers, good kitchen facilities, and gorgeous views in almost every case. Below is the sunrise over the Southern Alps and the ubiquitous sheep as we pulled out of our first campsite.

First stop - the gloriously blue Lake Tekapo, which has a darling little stone church built by the original settlers with an amazing view of the lake.
The weather being clear, we decided to head directly to the famous Mount Cook, New Zealand's tallest mountain and homebase of Sir Edmund Hillary, statue below. Mount Cook is the snowy one in the background of photo below. There's a lovely new visitor center with lots of history of climbing the area over the years and a poignant book listing all those who have lost their lives, which happens still every year due to unexpected weather and freak rock avalanches.

On to Queenstown, a hopping tourist city with a spectacular setting and lots of adventure activities. The South Island is so campervan-friendly that there were not one but two holiday parks (campsites) almost smack-dab in the middle of the city.

Just outside of Queenstown is the famous Shotover Jet, operating since 1970. We all enjoyed the 360-degree spins and "near" brushes with the sides of the canyon.

The above is really us.

These two are photos we took of other groups.

Then up the Skyline gondola for gee whiz, yet another spectacular view - this time of the Remarkables and Lake Wakatipu with Queenstown right below. Boys luged again too while I spent 30 minutes on the phone planning the excursions of the next couple days.

We arrived in the tiny town of Manapouri in the dead of night, over the dead bodies of many a possum (they're a huge pest here, so one is actually encouraged to help with the eradication program while driving...although we didn't take that to heart). The next morning, we left our aptly named campsite, Possum Lodge, for a boat/bus/boat trip to Doubtful Sound, the first of two sounds we visited in New Zealand's Fiordland, one of the world's wettest regions with an amazing rain forest meets Arctic fjords landscape.

The weather was not particularly cooperative this day, but supposedly not unusual and did enable us to see yet another rainbow on our first boat ride over Lake Manapouri to the bus, which drove us through rainy, emerald green forest to the Manapouri hydro power station. We wound our way underground to see this power station, build in the late 1960s to power an aluminium smelter 171km south in Bluff at the bottom of the South Island. It took 1,800 men eight years to build and is really quite impressive and, as our tour guide pointed out, we are obligated to go see it really because it is the reason the road we were driving to Doubtful Sound is there at all. He also noted that it's unusual in that it is a hydro plant that does not have a dam, using instead the natural 178-metre difference between the level of the lake and the Tasman Sea at Doubtful Sound to generate the power.

It cleared briefly as it often does, before the rain pelted down again.

The boat ride itself on Doubtful Sound was blustery and wet but beautiful in its own way. During wet weather, hundreds of temporary waterfalls spring up along the cliffs above the sound since there is very little topsoil to absorb the water. I think I took photos of at least half of them.

Crawfish (koura) is big year-round business in these waters and this is where the fishermen hang out. Unfortunately the market for them is so big overseas, Asia mostly, that I have yet to see any here.

The captain pulled over at one point and invited all those who were interested in sipping the cleanest water in the world to come to the front deck. He did not mention that they would likely also be soaked by the cleanest water in the world.

Back in the campervan that night, we cooked at home.

Well, some of us cooked - Nikko took advantage of the serious TV set up in the common dining room to catch the end of the Masters. Yes, campervanning is really roughing it.

Many of the campsites we stayed at were very eco-friendly, including this one.

We were at Te Anau, a beautiful lake over which we traveled the night we arrived in yet another boat to visit some glowworm caves. We had a fantastic view of the night sky on our boat ride and then fascinating echoes of that view in the caves themselves where glowworms twinkle like so many stars on the cave ceilings above you. (No photos allowed and no talking as the glow worms don't like that, apparently.) The caves themselves were also very cool, carved out in sculptural arches, bowls, and waterfalls by the acidic water that flows through them. Te Anau means "cave with a current of swirling water" and these fabled caves were "lost" but then rediscovered in 1948. For those unfamiliar with glowworm life cycle details, the glow is their way of attracting food to a long sticky thread they suspend beneath them during the nine months of larval stage. They glow brighter when they are hungry. Their adult life is only 1 to 2 days during which they don't eat because they have no mouth.

Lake Te Anau.

This was the Real Journeys boat we took to the glowworm caves.

Polly with her favorite rare New Zealand bird, the Takahe, which she got to see in the feather during our trip to Kapiti Island bird sanctuary. There is also a sanctuary for them near Lake Te Anau.

The next boat trip was to Milford Sound - bus stopped on the way at Mirror Lakes. Indeed they were.

We had better weather on Milford - actually, the two sounds were nice to see in such divergent weather.

Mitre Peak is the tall peak in the rear left of the photo.

And yet, still there were rainbows.

The boat in the picture below gives you some sense of scale. The vastness of the landscape is truly breathtaking.

Fur seals sunning themselves.

The u-shaped valley behind Nikko and Polly is a classic example of a hanging valley, carved originally by ice. The definition of a fiord/fjord, we learned, is an ice-carved valley flooded by the sea after the glacier's retreat .

The ship/boat we were on is behind us.

We stopped at a cool beach on the way to our next destination with cairns everywhere - there are a lot of them in general all over the South Island. But there are more campervans.

Nikko built this awesome one and then took this awesome photo of it.

Breakfast outside the campervan at Lake Wanaka where the kids were excited to go to Puzzling World where all manner of optical and other illusions entertained them while I took a short solo hike.

View from the top of my hike up Mount Iron.

View back down onto Puzzling World where my dear family were amusing themselves.

I prefer to hang out with wrinkly merino sheep.We made it to Fox Glacier as the clouds gathered and dusk was falling. Groups that had climbed or taken guided tours to it were just returning to their buses. You can get a sense of scale by identifying those tiny figures of people in bottom foreground of photo.
We thought we might get a peek at the other big glacier, Franz Jozef, but rain swept in during the night and pounded on.

Still, we were cozy in our little campervan.

Except for poor Mark having to do the final waste water dump as the rain continued to dump from the sky.

We drove back to Christchurch, across a blustery Arthur's Pass where we tried to picnic but the bugs were indeed as bad as we had been forewarned. A final walk by some caves - and a final rainbow. For this trip at least.

Mount Maunganui and Rotorua with Polly

2009-04-30T17:14:00.014+12:00

After a rather treacherous drive late at night along exceptionally curvy and possum-splattered roads, Mark did manage to find our way to the vacation home a hospital colleague had generously lent us for the weekend near the beach destination of Mount Maunganui. More importantly, it was also close to the kiwi capital of the world in the town of Te Puke (the boys loved this of course - but really it means The Hill in te reo Maori) where we headed the next day after enjoying some time on the beautiful white sand beach where the boys played beach cricket and Polly and I collected shells. At Kiwi 360, the boys climbed into the gigantic kiwi - above - and we dined on things with and without kiwi - including the nice Greek salad, seen below.Simon, our very informative tour guide in the land of kiwi vines shared the following fascinating facts:

About 80% of New Zealand's kiwifruit are grown in this area, known as the Bay of Plenty, thanks to its deep layer of volcanic soil and copious sun, but also good rainfall and enough chill to frost the vines.
Sadly, like so much other internationally shipped fruit, they are picked half-ripe and can be held for 8-9 months until shipping. This is why sometimes they arrive hard -- and never ripen, which just happened to me here so Kiwi kiwis are not immune from this problem.
The industry brings in 60,000 bee hives for pollination every year and employs 20,000 part-time workers for the harvest, 20% of whom are from overseas.
A single vine can produce 1,000 fruit at its height of maturity of seven years.
They are now growing a golden kiwi that is sweeter. We don't like it as much - but apparently the very large Asian market does.

Kiwi Tour mobile above - and us posed with the bird kind of kiwi below.

Alex under the vines - and almost ready-to-be-picked fruit below.

Moving on from the magical world of kiwifruit, we headed to the town of Mount Maunganui where we fortified ourselves with very good gelato for the climb. We did not choose the flavor below - and were not the first Americans to take a photo of it, apparently. We're so darned predictable, us Yanks.

Here, Mark, double-fisted with gelato, contemplates whether he should indeed have ordered the Red Bull.

Not every vista in New Zealand is pristine and pastoral. This is a very popular tourist destination with quite a lot of building.

A beautiful walk down around the bottom of the mount too - with a few sailors in the distance.

Kiwis -- of some kind or another -- are everywhere.

On Monday, we started wending our way home via Rotorua, an inland city known for its adventure activities, natural hot pools, and Maori cultural heritage. We managed to hold the boys off the adventure stuff long enough to get in a really good visit at Te Puia, a Maori cultural destination with staged performances (including a powhiri - welcoming ceremony - shown below), a carving and weaving school, and really stellar geothermal stuff as well as a kiwi house, which we didn't expect. Pricey but worth it.

The replica of a marae, meeting house, where they stage their performances. (For a real one, see entry on Patea hangi. No photos of the real ceremonies are allowed.)

The "welcome" by a tribal leader - essentially a challenge of "do you come in peace or war?"

Traditional dances including the poi - little balls she is swinging in below photo.

And the haka, of course. Do you think this guy is used to posing for this exact photo?

Many statues of gods stood on the surrounding grounds, including this one of the god of wild foods, near and dear to my heart of course.

Very cool geyser that shoots up obligingly on the hour. (Apparently they can "encourage" these natural tendencies - it's good business isn't it?).

Bubbling fields of mud never seem to lose their fascination.

An example of a really long word in te reo Maori. Below, a carver in the school and a flax weaver too.

OK, enough culture - time for adrenaline-rushes. Boys went on the Zorb, which Alex had been on in New Hampshire (right, Gretchen?) but it was invented here. Basically, you get in a big ball with a smaller ball suspended in it filled with some water. The ball turns, the water keeps you upright by suspending you. You go down a hill and you come out mostly smiling and a little nauseous. The boys went together down the straight hill and Mark by himself, down the wiggly path, whose bounds he managed to leap.

Above - Mark jumping the bounds and below, in the cocoon.

On to the Rotorua gondola and luge - much more up Polly and my alley.

And that was Polly's first weekend here in New Zealand.

First Weekend with Polly - Day 1, Coromandel Peninsula

2009-04-28T21:06:00.011+12:00

It's hard to believe it was exactly one month ago today that we picked up Mark's mom, Polly, from the airport in Auckland and got on the road east (after a more thorough tour of the Auckland airport and surrounding suburbs than planned) to the Coromandel Peninsula on the way to a beach house lent to us by one of Mark's hospital colleagues.

We stopped at the beach on the way and were amazed at the beautiful and intact offerings of shells. Then we took a brief turn onto a gravel road to visit the highly recommended Rapaura Watergardens, which were well worth the short drive off the main road for the flowers, fountains, water falls, and really good lunch.

The whole fried flounder Mark and I shared for lunch - dusted with chickpea flour and ras-el hanout and served with ginger-spiked carrot salad.

Continuing our way down the peninsula, the views were magnificent.The kids were amused by another water-related destination, Waterworks in Coromandel Town, with lots of creative water-powered sculptures, ziplines to fly down, and odd bulletin boards papered with Internet jokes -- some of which were actually quite funny.

The lady told us they had six alpacas. We thought she said they had a six-hour package. We do speak the same language but understanding isn't always easy.

As dusk fell, we hit Cathedral Cove.

And caught the sunset as we made it back to our car - and headed to the house down in Mount Maunganui. Days like this call for the sign, below, seen at Rapaura Gardens.

Trio of Random Yum Recipes

2009-04-25T21:09:00.014+12:00

Three things I've made over the last month that were especially yummy and a little different.

1) The orzo with spice-roasted carrots, currants and pine nuts I almost didn't make because none of us likes cooked carrots, but I needed something for Passover Seder and it worked well with quinoa to go with our Mediterranean lamb shanks. (See me rolling out matzoh to right and results below - not one sign of Passover in our town of 41,000 people so necessity was the Jewish mother of invention. Results - below - were fine, but if you can buy it, you sure don't need that recipe.)

2) The Armenian spice cake I goofed up when making it at my friend Sally's house for supper (called tea here) distracted by wine and giggles -- but it was still really good.

3) And spicy potatoes, which caught my eye, but I didn't realize until I made them that they were really potatoes pretending to be Buffalo wings. Needless to say, they were gobbled up by the boyz in about a second.

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Orzo (or whatever grain or small pasta you choose) with Spice-Roasted Carrots, Currants, and Pine Nuts - adapted from Simple Cafe Food by Julie LeClerc (another New Zealand find, check her out at www.julieleclerc.co.nz/recipes.htm - more cool recipes there)

1 cup orzo (I used quinoa but couscous, millet, brown rice...lots of things would be lovely here)

4 carrots, peeled

oil to roast

1 t ground cumin

1 t ground coriander

1 t paprika

1/2 cup currants (or golden raisins or regular raisins, chopped coarsely perhaps, would be fine)

1/2 cup pine nuts, toasted

3 T chopped fresh cilantro or parsley

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil (I used less)

2 T cider vinegar

salt and pepper to taste

Cook pasta or grain of choice per package directions. Drain and set aside to cool, rinsing and tossing with a little oil if your starch has a tendency to glop together when cooling. Preheat oven to 180/350. Cut carrots in half lengthwise and then slice on the diagonal into 1-cm-thick (1/2-ish-inch) pieces. Place in a roasting pan, drizzle with a little oil, sprinkle with spices, and toss to coat. Roast for 30 minutes, remove and cool. Mix cooled starch with carrots, currants, pine nuts, herb, oil and vinegar together well. Season to taste and serve at room temperature. Serves 6.

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Armenian Spice Cake - loosely adapted from Sally's friend and something we scribbled down from the web. The cake ends up with two different layers: a crust topped with cake, delicious and different. It's nice with vanilla ice cream, softly whipped cream, or good, thick plain yogurt - something they often serve with cakes here that I really enjoy because it balances the sweetness of the cake.

2 cups light brown sugar, loosely packed

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 t baking powder

1 t salt

125 grams butter (about a stick or 8 T)

1 t baking soda

1 cup milk

1 egg

1 t ground nutmeg

1 t cinnamon

1 t ground star anise (plus more of all spices to taste - we probably used almost 2 t of each but it depends how fresh yours are, how much wine you've drunk, etc.)

1/2 cup chopped walnuts

Preheat oven to 180/350. In a medium bowl, whisk together sugar, flour, baking powder and salt. Rub butter into flour mixture until it is the texture of coarse breadcrumbs. Press half the mixture into a well-greased 20-cm square pan (we used 23-cm round or standard medium round cake pan I'd say). In a small bowl, whisk baking soda into milk until dissolved. Whisk in egg and spices. Pour milk mixture into remaining flour mixture and mix well. Spoon into pan on top of pressed in mixture. Sprinkle walnuts over top. Bake for 50 minutes or so. Let stand 15 minutes before slicing.

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Spicy Potatoes aka Buffalo Wing Potatoes - I hate to admit this but I didn't scribble on the photocopied page where the recipe is from although I *think* it's from a Bill Granger cookbook (Aussie chef) from the very good cookbook collection of my lovely neighbor Chris. The copyright police will come get me now. I mucked with it a bit too.

1 kg (2 pounds) potatoes (I used a waxy variety)

2 T plus 2 t olive oil

1 t coarse salt

1 T tomato paste (I cheated and used ketchup)

1 T red wine vinegar

2 t paprika

1/2 t Tabasco sauce, or to taste

Preheat oven to 220/425. Peel and roughly dice potatoes about 1.5 cm (5/8 inch) in size. Put in a large roasting pan or jelly roll pan and toss with the 2 T olive oil and 1 t salt. Roast for 30 minutes. In a small bowl, whisk together remaining olive oil, tomato paste, vinegar, paprika, and Tabasco sauce. Pour over hot potatoes and toss to coat. Roast another 20-25 minutes or until crisp. Serves 4 - maybe. But I'd say make more. Didn't think to take a photo until they had already been inhaled with steak and green salad.

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Plus two random cooking tips:

1) Use whisk to stir couscous into boiling water and then to fluff, instead of fork - and it will be fluffier (I know this is from Bill Granger - thanks Bill.)

2) To use up the last bits of mustard in the corners of those expensive Dijon jars I go through so fast I can't quite believe it, shake up a simple vinaigrette in the jar and all the remaining mustard will become part of your vinaigrette. I just squeeze in half a lemon, fill the jar 1/4 to 1/3 full (depending on how acidic you like your dressing) with cider or other mild vinegar, 1 good t coarse salt, grind of pepper, one or two finely minced garlic cloves (depending on size of jar and appetite for garlic). Close jar and shake to mix. Then fill most of remaining jar with mild oil - leaving room to shake. Close jar tightly and shake. Taste and add salt or a touch of sugar if you like to balance.

A Traditional Hangi in Patea

2009-04-25T10:30:00.003+12:00

Back in early February, our neighbors Jeanette and Laurie kindly took us to their hometown of Patea, about 45 minutes north of Wanganui, for Waitangi Day, a national holiday commemorating the 1840 treaty between the Maori and the British crown. The town is heavily Maori in population and Jeannette mentioned that a hangi would be cooked and served. Since this is the iconic Maori feast meal – meat and vegetables cooked in an earthen pit by the heat of hot stones – I jumped at the opportunity.

In Patea, Jeanette introduced me to the man in charge of the hangi, Ngapari Nui (below on Waitangi Day), a well-known man about town who explained that the meal they had cooked that day for 400 was not prepared in the truest traditional manner and invited me to call him about a more authentic hangi in the planning stages. I’m not sure if he expected me to take him up on his offer, but when I called he seemed to remember making it and was gracious.

Over the phone, Ngapari told me that the upcoming hangi was for a visiting group of Americans. Too bad, I thought. “From Hawaii,” he added. More interesting. He invited me for the powhiri – ritual welcoming ceremony mentioned previously in blog – that would start the day and welcome the group onto the Patea marae (Maori meeting house and its grounds). Even though it required a little son-juggling to leave early enough, one just doesn’t decline an invitation to a real marae powhiri (staged ones for tourists are available for a charge at locales across the country). My friend Margo joined me and we drove up to Patea early one Tuesday morning a couple weeks later to meet Ngapari in front of the dairy (corner store). In contrast to the first time we met, he was all dressed up in a nicely pressed shirt and, as we waited to head to the marae, he explained a little about his role and his town.

Ngapari is chairman of the local group of Ngati Ruanui, his iwi (tribe). “I’m the yes man,” he clarified with a wry smile. His surname, Nui, means great or large. He would disclose his age only in Te Reo (the language of Maori), which I struggled to transcribe at the time, but I now know he’s 45 since I just learned numbers in my Te Reo class. (Incidentally, the fact that this class exists and can be taken, free of charge, by any Kiwi is in and of itself a sign of changing times. See sidebar below.) The town of Patea was the original landing point of one of the huge wakas (canoes), the Aotea, that brought the first Pacific Islanders down to New Zealand and it served as a very busy port through the early part of the 20th century. (See waka on main street and coastline below.) It is now down to about 1,000 in population with, unfortunately, not much in the way of local jobs since the main employer, the freezing works (meat processing plant), closed in 1982 after nearly 100 years of operation when meat processing became more centralized at larger plants. (See photo from the freezing works museum in town.) Patea is still surrounded by farms and rolling pasture land, but the nearest source of work is up in Eltham at a huge Fonterra dairy factory.

A small schoolbus drove by as we spoke and Ngapari waved to the kids. “We’re quite lucky to have our school still,” he said. “We fought to keep it open.” Many of the young people move away to find work, or just don’t work. “Now we got our people spread out over the world,” Ngapari said. “My three sons,” he added, “I had to send them away.” One is in London, he explained, and two in Australia. This is quite common among families of all backgrounds in New Zealand. Salaries and opportunity are very often better elsewhere; ironically, the depressed world economy gives Kiwis hope that more of their own will stay closer to home.

SIDEBAR: When Jeanette and Laurie first met Ngapari a number of years ago, they knew him as Barry. As with the Native American culture in the US, Maori language and traditions had been ignored at best and repressed at worst, both officially and unofficially since the mid 1900s. It has not been until fairly recently, over the last 15 years or so, that there has been more general recognition that the indigenous traditions should be appreciated and celebrated. Preschoolers of all backgrounds now learn to count in Te Reo Maori and ceremonies like the powhiri have been adopted by many community organizations – like our welcome at the hospital and Nikko’s at the high school. There remain, of course, plenty of cross-cultural issues and bridges to be built. The discussion going on in our town right now about whether to add the h into Wanganui to make it Whanganui has both sides bristling over charges of cultural imperialism and political correctness.

(This is the photos of the day of the hangi on the marae. I'm trying this a different way - as a slide show rather than individual photos.)

We followed Ngapari and arrived at the Wai O Turi Marae, which is used by three local iwi as their meeting house. It is positioned on a cliff right above the ocean and had been a historical village site and marae until the Maori lost it in the 1870 land wars. Although post-war agreements pledged it back to the iwi, Ngapari said, that didn’t happen until 1936. “They also stopped a lot of our traditions like going to get eel in the rivers,” he added. As is customary, strangers do not enter the gates until they have been officially welcomed so we waited in steadily heavier drizzle for the Hawaiian group to arrive, at which point we were called in song through the front gate.

Along with a substantial number of local iwi members, the powhiri ceremony was also attended by about a dozen preschoolers and their teachers at the marea-based school. Old photographs hung on the walls and everyone, except for the elders, sat on mattresses lined around the edge of the room. We were all welcomed in Te Reo Maori by a representative of the local iwi and then, to my surprise, the visitors responded in a language that sounded like Te Reo to me as the local hosts nodded in comprehension. I found out later that they were speaking Hawaiian and that the shared Pacific Island roots of the two groups allow them to understand each other despite the roughly 800 years since the ancestors of the first Maori climbed into their wakas for the long canoe south.

The Hawaiians, it turned out, were part of a First Nations’ Futures Program fellowship through the Kamehameha School in Maui who were using their diverse expertise in law, education, agriculture and environmental issues to reinforce the leadership and stewardship roles of their own indigenous people. (See www.fnfp.org for more info.) As one of them said, “The land is our chief; we are the servants.” The children behaved very well until the end of the hour-plus ceremony when the fidgets hit. One toddler amused the crowd by dancing by himself in the middle of the room as everyone spoke. His father (I think), one of the organizers, was not as amused.

After a tea and sausage roll break, the Hawaiians went off to hear about river restoration projects from the local Department of Conservation while I made a beeline to the group building the large fire that would heat the rocks, the first step in the hangi that would be served for supper that evening. Anthony (Antz), who was leading the "laying down,” was a striking young man with plentiful tattoos and equivalent patience with my many questions. (He did admit to my friend Margo that he had added some of the newer tattoos to cover up some older gang-related ones.) The rocks would heat in the fire for two hours to get “white hot,” he explained, as a couple of his colleagues including Kingi, Antz’s nephew who didn’t look a lot younger than him, Wuzz with some fine rasta braids, and Rangi, in a Harley sweatshirt, finished digging the pit . Antz soaked cloths in a large barrel; they would cover the hangi after it was placed in its earthen pit. One of the Hawaiians had wandered over to watch and noted the similarity to the Hawaiian imu, or earth oven. It is, in fact, called an umu in Te Reo Maori. Steaming food with hot rocks and vegetation in a dug pit has equivalents all over the world, including the New England clambake. A history of New Zealand food I have read notes that the first Europeans to land here were impressed with the practice, which was more sophisticated and efficient than the open-hearth cooking used predominantly back home.

Ngapari and his energetic and mischievous grandson, Te Pou Tokomanawa (meaning, as his grandpa explained it to me: Pou means post, Toko means support and manawa is heart, "in other words I see him as my support for the future in carrying the things that I teach him") –who lives with Ngapari and his wife, Tina – showed me the veges (not veggies) prepared for the hangi: pumpkin, squash, kumara (traditional sweet potato), and potatoes. As the rocks heated, Antz wove piles of puka leaves through the wire basket to encase the hangi. The food is most definitely steamed, not roasted, thanks in part to whatever greenery is used to wrap it – cabbage leaves more commonly now, but also wild watercress, and the traditional puka leaves. Although New Zealand has much ocean coast, no one I’ve spoken with had ever heard of using seaweed.

Marty Davis (in blue t-shirt with iwi elder in photo slide show above), Ngapari’s equivalent for another of the local iwi, spoke with me as we waited. Traditionally, Marty said, Maori see land “not as an asset on the balance sheet, but as a treasure or taonga.” He was clearly practiced in his message, quite articulate but also honest. “We have a generation of some lost souls,” he acknowledged. “So we are concentrating on the next generation, helping them understand, ‘Who am I and where am I from?’” The revitalization of the language is key, he said, as was being politically organized: “Education leads to awareness. Awareness leads to tolerance. Tolerance leads to a better society.”

Ngapari’s wife, Tina Nui, was one of the efficient band of women working behind the scenes in the kitchen to prepare the food that would go in the hangi and be served with it. Traditionally, men handle the fire and cooking and women the food prep. Tina is known for her famous creamed paua (abalone), which would be served as the first course of the hangi meal. The local Maori always collected abalone from the ocean, she explained, but now must get a permit. Another traditional seafood the Maori gathered was kina, sea urchin. “Back in the old days we were taught to eat the whole thing or leave it alone,” Tina told me. “Now people just eat the yellow bit. If old people saw that, they’d slap you on the neck. I was brought up to eat the whole lot. I like it nice and fresh out of the ocean.”

Since unfortunately we could not stay to taste the hangi itself – much to the disappointment of our hosts and us – Tina did give me a sample bowl of the creamed paua, which was delicious. It was reminiscent of a really good, thick clam chowder with a bit more flavor and no potatoes. Tina starts with onions, chopped up abalone sauteed in butter and then adds milk, cream, a little flour and some spices. “I'd take a bowl of Tina's creamed paua over a hangi any day," said Antz.

The stones were ready and the hangi basket was filled with meat: huge sirloins (butt), rolled pork bellies, and whole chickens. The netted bags of veges went on top along with a bag of stuffing. The basket was lain in the pit and then the crew set about raking the hot stones into the pit, very hot and sweaty work. After the stones were in, the hangi was covered completely with sopping wet sheets and then wet gunnysacks after which dirt was shoveled over it to prevent any steam from escaping while it cooked for about 3 hours.

The meat from a hangi is very tender with a pervasive flavor of smoke and the vegetables soft enough for a baby to eat. Although I did not get to taste this one, the one we ate on Waitangi Day in Patea (see below) was fork-tender and quite smoky, if a little bland. I hold out hope that I will still get to taste a traditionally cooked one before leaving in July. Hangis, Antz told me, are a celebratory meal for Christmas, New Year’s, 21st and 50th birthdays. It’s an easy way to cook for a crowd, he said. “It saves a lot of catering. It’s just natural. It’s just how we are.”

Alex's Turn

2009-04-07T22:09:00.002+12:00

And now for Alex's words, which were actually published in the Wanganui Chronicle last week. He wrote this in response to a request from his teacher who had been approached by the local newspaper for a "good news" story at the school.

My name is Alex and my family and I moved to Wanganui from Vermont, U.S.A. in January to live for seven months. For the past two months I have been going to Wanganui Intermediate School. Although it was hard to leave my friends at home, I was excited to try going to school in a different country, and it has been great so far, better than I thought school could ever be. At WIS, I have been able to try many new things such as robotics and ukulele. I really love doing robotics and Mr. Szabo is an awesome teacher. Also, in Vermont we didn’t have swimming at school because we were not on an island surrounded with water, so it wasn’t as important. I must admit that I am not so good when it comes to swimming but it turned out that it wasn’t all that bad. My teacher, Mrs. Zander, is extremely nice and she encouraged me to actually try. Also, the kids in my class are very welcoming and I’ve already made some friends that I know I’ll have forever. I’ve been thinking that I might like to come back and do an exchange year when I’m in high school. – Alex Pasanen, age 11

2009-04-02T20:59:00.002+13:00

This is a speech Nikko wrote for English class here - presented with a multimedia slide presentation of photos of Vermont, foliage, cows, ski slopes, etc. along with a tin of maple gingersnap cookies made from real Vermont syrup we brought with us. It's always interesting to think about home when you are far from it.

My Home State

Vermont. Probably not the kind of place you all think of when someone mentions the United States. No, there aren’t any skyscrapers, billboards, four-lane highways or anything like that. Let’s just say Vermont is different. Now don’t get me wrong here, there are people in Vermont, but to most Americans, Vermont and “the middle of nowhere” are a pretty good fit. This is assuming, of course, that they’ve even heard of Vermont in the first place.

Anyway, Vermont is located in New England which is in the northeast corner of the U.S. Specifically; Vermont is right around Massachusetts, New York, New Hampshire, and right under Canada. Here let me show you on this map. As you can see, it is quite small, resulting in the second smallest population out of all the states with a mere 660,000 people, about half the size of Auckland. As I said, people do live in Vermont, with the largest city, Burlington, just a bit bigger than Wanganui. I myself live in South Burlington, which hopefully you all are smart enough to figure out, is just south of Burlington. Here’s a map of Vermont to show you.

Meanwhile, I’m going to tell you some facts about Vermont.
· Vermont is the largest producer of maple syrup in the United States. You only get Canadian maple syrup here in New Zealand, but it’s unfortunate because Vermont’s is definitely way better.
· Vermont is a farming state. It has the highest ratio of cows to people in the United States. Kind of similar to New Zealand with sheep.
· Vermont is home to the famous ice cream company, Ben and Jerry’s, and the global snowboarding company, Burton.
· The capital of Vermont, Montpelier, is the only U.S. capital without a McDonalds.
· Vermont is called “The Green Mountain State” even though the mountains there probably look like hills to you Kiwis. (Our highest mountain is Mount Mansfield at 1,335 meters, which wouldn’t even come close to the top 50 in New Zealand.)
· Vermont was the birthplace of two former U.S. presidents, Calvin Coolidge and Chester A. Arthur. I told you people do live in Vermont.
· Lake Champlain, bordering the west side of Vermont, is the sixth largest freshwater lake in the U.S. It is almost twice as big as Lake Taupo and has its own version of the Loch Ness monster called Champ.

There are also many fun activities to do in Vermont. Here are some of them: First of all, Vermont has many popular mountain biking tracks. This is mainly because the ski resorts need business in the summer and the ski trails are also great for mountain biking. This is great fun for the adventurous. Another popular activity in Vermont is tramping. During autumn, the foliage is amazing; with the colorful leaves providing a great backdrop for a good tramp in the Green Mountains. This is one of our great fames as a state. But let’s not forget the winter. Vermont provides the far best skiing in the northeastern part of the U.S. People come from states all around to visit the ski resorts. Some of these are Stowe, Jay Peak, Killington, and many more. And skiing is quite different in Vermont than in New Zealand. Have you ever thought about skiing through the trees? Well that’s how we do it in Vermont. Here let me show you some pictures of the Vermont ski slopes. Anyway, if you’re not up for downhill skiing you can always cross-country ski or even take a tramp in snowshoes.

So as you can see, Vermont is probably a different look into the United States than you might have expected. But even though it is located in the “middle of nowhere” there is plenty to do and see. So if ever go to the U.S. and you’re near Vermont, you might just want to make the side trip. After all, it’s the great place I call home.

Loads of Lemons

2009-03-25T23:29:00.011+13:00

Lemons, lemons everywhere (with some strawberries thrown in for good measure...)

In addition to the lemons we “rescued” from our absent neighbors’ tree a few weeks ago (see blog post of Feb 21) and a few times since (irresponsible to let them rot), another neighbor, Jeanette, took a week of holiday and left us a huge basket of lemons from her father’s tree.

I love all things lemon, but even to me, the pile was quite daunting. Nothing to do but get on my lemony way.

First I made a double batch of Nigel Slater’s Demerera Lemon Cake with Thick Yogurt. The recipe name alone sounds good enough to eat. I have fond memories of demerera sugar from childhood when Lex and I would mush the crunchy golden crystals into softened butter and eat the mixture by the spoonful. I loved how you caramelize the lemons for the top and the cake had beautiful texture from the ground blanched almonds (you can buy them already ground in the supermarket here – not in Vermont I don’t think?). He also uses the time-honored technique of poking the oven-hot cake with a skewer and drenching it in citrus syrup. Salivating yet? Recipe below.

[Major aside: Have I mentioned already how much I love Nigel Slater? I owe the Wanganui library for 10 days of overdueness on his stream of food consciousness, slightly-more-robust-than-twitter-but-not-overly-verbose daily eating and cooking journal, The Kitchen Diaries, which I pored over every night in bed for about a month until Mark said, “How can you just read recipes like that night after night?” (We’ve only been together for 25 years and this is not a new habit.) Other recipes of Nigel’s – lemony and not – that we have recently tried and loved include Chicken Patties with Rosemary and Pancetta (a great easy weeknight supper and huge hit with all three boyz who begged that I not just make it once in their lives and move on as I tend to do), Pork and Lemon Polpettine with a secret flavor punch of finely chopped anchovies, and Strawberry Mascarpone Tart – elegant and easy and not too sweet, which I really appreciate. (See photo below - even though it isn't lemon.) The Roast Pork Sandwiches – a slab of belly roasted with peppercorns, fennel, bay leaves, and lemon juice piled on good bread (I found some!) with arugula (rocket here) and thick slices of summer tomatoes from the market – were really good too, but the kids couldn’t quite deal with all that belly fat. I’ve got to try the Roast Lamb with Anchovy and Mint too, but my family is a little lambed out right now. ]

I also made the kids’ favorite: lemon squares, although the recipe I found on the web seems to be a bit eggier (4 eggs?) than the one I make at home (Does anyone have a perfect one to share with me?) and, for the lovely ladies in my knitting, spinning, and weaving Wednesday group, a slightly messed-with version of a Lemon Yoghurt Cake.

This recipe came via Chris, another food-loving neighbor, from an Alison Holst cookbook; she’s a New Zealand icon in the kitchen. You’re supposed to bake it in a tube pan but I don’t have one here so used a large springform and made Nigel’s caramelized lemons (doubled with one lemon and one orange) to form a decorative circle on the top. I overbaked it a touch because I forgot to set the timer for the last 10 minutes, but it was still delicious, with the super-caramelized fruit, chewy and almost toffee-like on top.

On the savory side, I had already made a big batch of preserved lemons but, with this new harvest, I made another two jars, one for Jeanette and one for my friend Margot. I love preserved lemons; they are simply the best combination of salty and puckery and so simple. See method below. This is a basic recipe. Some recipes include hot chile peppers, star anise, cinnamon etc. but I like mine straight up for most flexibility.

You need a large super-clean glass jar with tight-fitting lid. Figure out how many lemons will fit in it quite tightly. Wash the lemons well – and don’t even think about doing this with sprayed lemons. Put a kettle on to boil. Cut each lemon like a flower into quarters but leaving the stem end intact. Get a bowl of non-iodized coarse salt (sea or kosher) ready and use your fingers to fill each lemon “blossom” with about a tablespoon, placing each filled lemon in the jar as you go. Squeeze the juice from another set of lemons - half the number of lemons you have in the jar and pour that lemon juice into the jar. Fill the rest of the jar with boiling water, sliding a clean knife around the side of the jar if necessary to make sure no air bubbles are taking up space. Screw lid on tightly. Let jar sit on counter for about 10 days, turning it upside down every day to redistribute juices and salt. Then refrigerate and start using. Notes for use: always use a clean fork to remove lemons from jar, rinse preserved lemons before using, and always remove flesh before using -- it’s the rinds you want.

The photo at left is a recipe test I did for a food friend, Deborah Krasner, who is finishing up a tome on cooking all parts of the animal back in Vermont. It is a lamb shank tagine with green olives and preserved lemons along with some cinnamon, ginger, cumin, and saffron and only water to braise. It took all my willpower not to throw in a little wine or stock, but after aggressive reduction and fat-skimming of the final sauce, it came out quite delicious. (Deborah assured me, after the fact, that the recipe comes by way of Mediterranean cooking goddess Paula Wolfert and that water is authentic, which I figured.) You’ll have to wait for her book to get this particular recipe, but if this has whet your appetite, lamb tagine recipes using preserved lemons are plentiful.

Other things to do with preserved lemons:
· Blend a vinaigrette with the salty, briny punch of preserved lemon. Whiz the rinsed peel of half a preserved lemon in a blender or processor with 1/4 cup olive oil, a tablespoon of fresh oregano or parsley or cilantro, freshly ground pepper, a pinch of sugar, 2 T lemon juice, and a little water . Depending how salty your lemons are, you may not need to add salt. Inspired by Bill Granger, Bill’s Open Kitchen. Serve on a sturdy salad or with fish, chicken, and pork.
· Roast a whole chicken with a rinsed preserved lemon rubbed over the skin and then put in the cavity, or chicken pieces with slices of rind tucked among them.
· Make a preserved lemon and tomato salsa to serve with fish – from the gorgeous NZ Dish magazine try this: ½ small red onion, thinly sliced and soaked in water for 15 mins, drained, squeezed dry + 3 quarters of preserved lemon rinsed and scraped of flesh and thinly sliced + 2 tomatoes, halved, seeded, and sliced + 2 T lemon juice + 3 T olive oil + 1 clove crushed garlic + ¼ tsp toasted cumin seeds + ¼ tsp sweet paprika + 2 T chopped coriander. Mix together and season to taste.
· Whip up a preserved lemon mayo by folding a couple tablespoons or so of finely chopped rinsed rind into 1/2 cup blend of mayo and crème fraiche (or sour cream) and a small handful of chopped dill or chives to serve with grilled chicken breasts, chicken burgers, salmon, or salmon cakes (thanks to Taste.com.au for this idea)
· There’s this great pasta recipe in Cooking with Shelburne Farms: Pasta with Sweet Peas and Morel Mushrooms. It has cream and tarragon and lemon in it too. After we developed it for the cookbook, Rick started serving it at the Inn in a restauranty version enriched with a dollop of crème fraîche and he used finely minced preserved lemon rather than the lemon zest.

OK, I’m hungry now.

TWO LEMON CAKE RECIPES

Demerera Lemon Cake with Thick Yoghurt
by Nigel Slater from The Kitchen Diaries

Abridged from headnote: Serve with thick Greek yoghurt or tart crème fraiche. Use unwaxed or organic lemons. My note: US measurements in parens.

For the topping:
a lemon
demerara sugar – 2 tablespoons (soft brown sugar fine here)
water – 4 tablespoons

For the cake:
butter – 2oog (about two sticks)
demerara sugar – 200g (use soft brown sugar although it’s not quite the same, a scant cup)
plain flour – 90g (2/3 cup)
ground almonds – 90g (2/3 cup)
baking powder – ½ teaspoon
a large lemon
large eggs – 4

For the syrup:
demerara sugar – 2 tablespoons (soft brown sugar fine here)
the juice of a large lemon

Set oven to 160 degrees centigrade (320 degrees F). Line a large loaf tin with baking parchment (simply cut a piece of paper the exact length of the tin and lay it inside the tin and up the longest sides). To make the topping, slice the lemon thinly and put it in a small saucepan with the sugar and water. Bring to the boil, then watch closely for five minutes or so, until the water has almost evaporated and the lemon slices are sticky. Set aside.

Beat the butter and sugar together in a food mixer till they are light and fluffy. [I managed this all with a hand mixer, which is all I have here.] You can expect it to take a little longer than it would with caster sugar. Meanwhile, weigh the flour and almonds and mix them with the baking powder. Grate the lemon zest and add it to the flour mixture. Break the eggs and beat them lightly with a fork, then add them to the creamed butter and sugar a little at a time. The mixture will probably curdle a bit but don’t worry. Remove the mixing bowl from the machine and gently fold in the flour, almonds and baking powder with a large metal spoon (a wooden spoon would knock the air out). Scoop the cake mixture into the lined tin, then lay the reserved lemon slices on top, overlapping them down the center of the cake. Bake for 45 minutes, till risen and golden. Insert a metal skewer to see if it is ready. If it comes out clean, then the cake is done; if it has mixture sticking to it, it needs a few minutes longer. Remove the cake from the oven and set aside. For the syrup, stir the demerera sugar into the lemon juice; it will only partially dissolve. Spike the top of the cake with a metal skewer, then spoon over the lemon and sugar. Leave to cool.
~~~

Citrus Yoghurt Cake
Adapted from Alison Holst’s Lemon Yoghurt Cake

For topping: make Nigel’s caramelized lemons above – doubled with one lemon and one orange
For cake:
1¾ cups sugar
rind of 1 lemon and 1 orange
2 eggs
1 cup oil (I used half canola and half olive oil)
½ tsp salt
1 cup yogurt (I used Greek whole milk plain – she says use whatever you want including flavored, but I’m a purist)
3 T lemon juice
2 cups self-raising flour (you can find this in US or use 2 cups a-p flour, 4 teaspoons baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon salt)

Preheat oven to 180 c (350 f). Easiest to use food processor: Process sugar and rinds together until finely chopped together. Add the eggs, oil, and salt and process until thick and smooth, then add the yoghurt and lemon juice and blend enough to mix. Add the flour and process just enough to combine. Pour cake mixture into buttered and floured pan (bundt or large springform). If using springform, lay caramelized fruit, alternating lemon and orange slices, in circle on top of cake. Bake for 30 mins (more like 45 if not in bundt), until a skewer comes out clean.
~~~

And what do you do after such an amazing day?

2009-03-18T22:36:00.008+13:00

Well, the day after the hike the boyz went white river rafting while Margo and I meandered around the town of Tokaanu near Lake Taupo, where we soaked ourselves and our sore legs in natural hot spring pools and had a serendipitous morning tea in a vineyard. The division of activity worked for everyone.
Alex's favorite part was jumping off this waterfall...although the soak in the private hot spring at the end of the excursion was also fun...as was the excitment of riding the rapids.

And now for the non-adventure side of things:

Before the hot pools, while searching for a cup of coffee, Margo and I stumbled into a small, picture-perfect, family-run vineyard where Jenny, sister of the owner, kindly offered us tea and warm slices of her mother's wartime fruit cake. The vineyard produces Pinot Noir, Reisling, and Chardonnay grapes, she explained, but her brother has outsourced winemaking to someone over the last couple of years so that he can care for his wife who has Alzheimer's. Jenny was there visiting from Herefordshire to help with her sister-in-law and relieve her brother a little and, by her own admission, was pleased to have the distraction of visitors. In addition to the cake recipe, she also shared a promising sounding recipe for celery and blue Stilton soup. (As opposed to white Stilton, she said. Who knew there was such a thing?)

After the boys white water adventure and our hot water adventures (teacups to soaking pools), we joined forces again to stroll through the Tokaanu Thermal Walk where I finally managed to capture the oozing glory of bursting hot mud bubbles on film.

If it had only been chocolate....

Tongariro Alpine Crossing March 14, 2009

2009-03-17T21:42:00.019+13:00

By the numbers: Seven hours, 19.4 km (12 miles) ascending to 1,886 metres (5,905 feet), 800 of which we actually climbed around and across three mountains, stunning jade-green lakes, rust-red craters, moonscape, and alpine tundra fueled by 10 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, six plums, five apples, a dozen really good homemade peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies (NYTimes version of Cook's Illustrated recipe) and a bunch of neon sour gummy worms (among other things). Just our party of 5 (including my Kiwi friend Margo) and another 1,500-odd trampers doing the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, named one of the best one-day hikes in the world. Oh and the weather could not have been more perfect. The experience was truly a highlight of my life -- and I think the boys would agree.

The shuttle bus to the start of the hike (tramp in Kiwi-speak) picked us up at 6:55 am and we started on the trail around 7:30 am well fueled with coffee and bagels (yes, I found some decent ones here). It was quite lovely to be up there so early -- although we were far from alone...

as you can see by the long line of hikers in front of us heading for Mount Ngauruhoe, best known for its cameo as Mount Doom in The Lord of the Rings movies.

Mount Ruapehu bathed in early morning sunlight. This is our closest ski slope too -- about two hours from home here in Wanganui.

The boys all bundled up at the start - it was cold with a sharp wind in places. Thank heavens for our good friend Margo, who came with us, and had piles of extra gloves, hats, etc for us to borrow. (Not to mention that she found us a perfect apartment to stay in for the weekend and arranged all details. We're in a bit of travel-planning overload.)

The weather on these mountains is notoriously changeable and can be quite dangerous with visibility going from good to zero in the space of an hour, but Margo had efficiently arranged for perfect weather too.

Mount Doom with a recent dusting of snow, very early this year.

We came from down there!

Me, in red, and Margo, in orange a few hikers back. This uphill chunk at the beginning was not a piece of cake, but it was a good work out. The diversity of ages, levels of expertise, and languages on the track were quite amazing. (Margo got into a nice chat with guy in front of her about his sexy legs...although, ostensibly, she was asking him where he got his legwear.)

Despite growing up less than 90 mins from this hike, Margo had never done it. (She does point out that she lived thousands of miles away in London for 30 years but I still gave her grief, of course.)

Across moonscape, up rocky hill.

As we climbed higher, the volcanic formations and rocks were fantastic, not to mention the views of terrain. I wished for a 360 -degree lens.

Halfway through, shedding layers, staying motivated through strategic deployment of snackage and the awe-inspiring views.

On a clear day, you can see Mount Taranaki, which is about 80 miles away - as this picture managed to capture.

The first view of the Red Crater - one of those sights that photos water down from their true-life brilliance.
Nikko snapping away - the boys were truly impressed by the grandeur and diversity of the landscape we covered.

The Red Crater with Mount Ngauruhoe behind.

The Blue Lake.

Descending, very gingerly, the skree (very loose gravel) to the Emerald Lakes. Alex and Mark followed the example of some who merrily ran down the hill, ignoring the fact that one poorly placed step could send you somersaulting down the precipice.

Margo, almost at the end of the skree, which must account for her smile. Although those gorgeous lapis lakes might have something to do with it too. (It probably wasn't the strong smell of sulphur that arises from the craters around the lakes.)

This actually captures the color pretty well. They are just breathtaking. Their vibrant color comes from the minerals in the volanic earth and they freeze in the winter in that hue.

Looking back from whence we came. Red Crater, backed up by Ngauruhoe, and then Ruapehu, which is incidentally quite an active volcano with the last major eruption in 1996. (In Maori, the name means "pit to explode.")

Specks on the crest to the right are hikers at, I believe, the highest point of the hike at 1,886 meters. Yes, we were there.

White gentian flowers like this one were blooming along the lower track in many spots, although the alpine plant life is relatively sparse and not very colorful. Apparently, most alpine flowers are yellow or white because their pollinators - moths, flies, and beetles - do not have the same eye for color as do butterflies and bees.

View on the descent of Lake Rotoiara and then Lake Taupo in the distance.

The last hour in the sunshine but still some wind. It was gorgeous, but a little anticlimactic said the boys.

The steaming Ketetahi Springs on sacred Maori land passed on the way down.

A final view as we near the end framed by the omnipresent flax seed pods - the leaves of the plant were used in traditional Maori weaving of baskets, rugs, and capes.

Lest you think all we do is travel...

2009-03-08T16:28:00.025+13:00

...we are doing regular life stuff too, not just jetting off every weekend. It's part of the balance of things, not to mention the fact that credit cards have limits and we can't really afford a seven-month vacation. Plus, while we want to see the country, one of our goals of this whole thing was to experience the more regular day-to-day life of a different country. Can't quite believe we've been here two months today. Here's a quick catch-up with each family member on general impressions of daily routine as well as the ventures beyond.

Nikko (above on mosaic couch in Lake Taupo region)
Nikko’s been playing golf on a junior circuit the weekends we’ve been in town. He also tried out for basketball and made the A team but then, unfortunately, was moved to another team because we leave before their big tournament in August. He has started playing tennis with the school program too. (And although he doesn’t want me to say this, his clarinet teacher signed him up for the orchestra and he’s giving that a go.)

What is the most fun thing you’ve done at school?
There’s very little homework, which works for me. An exciting thing was that a beaker blew up in my science class and all the girls screamed. We did cool tests with snails in science too; my teacher paid her son to collect them for us. My English teacher looks like Bill Murray. We had a day of athletic competition at Cooks Garden last week where the world's fastest mile run on grass was once achieved. I tried discus for the first time and didn’t do so well, but it was interesting. What’s not fun is walking outside between classrooms when it’s raining out. But school is pretty much school wherever you are.

Give me a highlight of what you’ve done since we’ve been here?
Playing on a really nice golf course at Lake Taupo (photo above) and going to Sydney and seeing kangaroos and koalas. Also watching the hydroplanes on the river here a couple weeks ago and the bike races in the velodrome at Cooks Gardens (photos below) that same weekend.

What do you miss most from back home?
Our television and weather that’s semi-predictable. The weather here changes by the minute; one second it’s pouring and the next it’s the nicest day of the year.

What are you looking forward to?
Next weekend when we do the Tongariro Crossing, one of the best tramps (hikes) in New Zealand. And when grandma comes to visit and when grandpa and Susan come and I get to play really nice golf courses like Cape Kidnappers and Kauri Cliffs.

Mark

What is the most interesting thing you’ve done or seen at work?
On the hospital side, I’m getting used to using less testing, less technology, and using more clinical judgement and more clinical skills to drive decisions. People are generally quite patient about waiting for tests and getting answers and it’s interesting to think about that in relation to the US because, at some point, the US healthcare system is going to have to spend less money, which will likely entail somewhat slower responses and some limits on services. It’s interesting for me to think about whether people in the States will be able

to deal with that.

A highlight of what you’ve done since we’ve been here?
Hiking between the volcanoes up near Ruapehu (big, flat-topped mountain below) and just seeing all the different geographic areas of New Zealand from the beautiful beaches of the South Island (with Nikko on Abel Tasman beach above), to the striking but somewhat barren volcanic areas (geothermal bubbling mud and steam in Lake Taupo region below), to the lush rainforests (moss in Nelson Lakes tree below) and the mountains (Taranaki with cow above) and riverbed farming regions (Whanganui River view below).

What do you miss from back home?
I miss the snow and skiing.

What are you looking forward to?
Exploring the South Island, seeing glaciers and Mount Cook.

Alex

In addition to all the stuff Alex mentions below, he is, of course, playing soccer all the time he's not doing everything else.

What is the most fun thing at school?
School is awesome. I really like robotics and my teacher, Mrs. Zander, is awesome. We did a day at Lake Wiritoa, which was like an all-day field trip when we did kayaking, orienteering (where my mom helped and finally learned to use a compass), making a raft (see below - Alex in baseball cap), and four-way tug-of-war (Alex is #23). There are lots of nice kids but I’ve become good friends with a kid named Nico who is in my class and we’re doing a rock band together and he slept over Friday night and we played lots of games. The fact that he’s called Nico is extremely annoying to my brother. Hee, hee.

Give me a highlight of what you’ve done since we’ve been here?
Jetboating at Lake Taupo (left) was great and Lake Wiritoa with my class and the zoo in Sydney.
What do you miss most from back home?
My friends and our house.

What are you looking forward to?
The science road show that is coming to school. Nico told me that last year it was awesome and they made a cucumber turn red. And I can’t wait until Grandma and Grandpa come to visit. I can’t wait to show Grandma the market (honey lady at the market below) and the view from our house.

Melissa

Tomorrow I start volunteering in the kitchen at the local hospice and this week I also start my Te Reo Maori language course. Those are weekly commitments, in addition to jazz dance Tuesday nights, glass bead workshop Wednesday nights, and helping out in the reading room at Alex's school Wednesday mornings. Then of course there's my all-important job as family chauffeur. (I drive on the left like I was born to it -- and only occasionally hit the windshield wipers on instead of the signal.) No one worried I would be twiddling my thumbs, but even I'm surprised at how quickly the time gets gobbled up. I hope I haven't overscheduled myself...that would be a shock, wouldn't it?

The most fun thing has been trying new things like knitting (again) with a group of women who gather weekly to knit and spin (I hope to try that too) and the glass beads (which, despite my teacher's assurances, don't seem to want to get round even with the coaxing of a very hot flame -- ones pictured are my first tries...roundish on left, not so round on right, including a fragment of one that literally burst on me) and I look forward to forcing my middle-aged brain to wrap itself around a new language. I love meeting so many new and different people and hearing their stories - whether it be the 70+ Dutch woman who was reminding me how to knit; the dynamic Valda who runs the kitchen at hospice; or Ngapari, a local Maori leader who invited me back to see a real hangi (traditional feast of meat and vegetables steamed in a hot rock pit, behind us in picture above - wire basket being prepared for meat with puka leaves below) at his iwi (tribe's) marae (meeting house).

Highlights include seeing the boys settle into school happily; hearing Hawaiian visitors speak Hawaiian to the Maori during the day of the hangi (it was in their honor) and being amazed that even after hundreds of years, the shared Pacific Island roots of the two groups mean that they can understand each other (and also share similar traditional pit-cooking techniques); making new friends (with our three closest neighbors, we had a progressive dinner this Saturday and below is Lesley serving the classic New Zealand dessert, pavlova - meringue with whipped cream and fresh fruit); and seeing things I never thought I'd see...like the Sydney opera house and even motorcross racing!

What I miss - crusty baguettes and distinctive cheeses (I know, I'm a broken record but they are my most favorite edibles), maple-cured bacon, a clothes dryer when the weather's damp, my food processor, and my cookbooks. (Friends and family too of course, but it is suprising how in touch one can feel with all the technology available.)

What I look forward to: Everything to come.

A Long Weekend in the Land of Oz (subtitle: more pictures, less words - well, I'm trying at least)

2009-03-05T21:58:00.002+13:00

We almost didn't get to Sydney this past weekend as planned (rather last-minute when Alex got Monday off for a teacher training day and we used that as an excuse to all play hooky). It was reminiscent of the time we nearly missed our flight to Disneyland because Mark forgot to set the alarm and the kids (much younger then) stood with the saddest looks on their faces when the not-very-nice airline counter lady said, essentially, "Too bad." Luckily, Mark had a connection (read, patient) manning the gate and all was saved.

But I digress and Mark told me to make this next post, "Less New Yorker, more USA Today." I don't think he was talking about writing caliber so much as subtly suggesting: less words, more pictures. So, suffice to say, we had absolutely no idea you needed a visa to travel to Australia for a three-day weekend (an American would not need such a thing to come to NZ, say if they were living for seven months in Australia), but we were informed of this requirement as we checked in less than 40 minutes before our plane's scheduled departure. Apparently, we aren't the only idiots in the world to have done this and Qantas customer service seemed accustomed to issuing last-minute visas which didn't take too long, but long enough that we made it onto the plane with only a few minutes to spare -- and a few jangled nerves. Thank heavens it all worked out because we had a truly fabulous weekend in Sydney, jampacked with food, culture, nature, science, and even a little beachtime.

Arriving early Saturday morning, we headed quickly to the Sydney Tower from which you get a 360 high above the city, which is quite striking with water undulating all around its tall buildings, gardens, and many attractions. (The visit also includes a pair of movies about Australia which involve 3D and moving chairs, a hit with the boys of course.) Oh but first we stopped at David Jones, a big department store known for its food hall - a bit like Harrods but not as posh or huge. We indulged in our favorite snack of bread and cheese. The bread was fine (I've yet to find a great crusty baguette in this hemisphere), but we had two very good Australian cheeses - with the distinctive personality I've been missing so far in NZ cheeses - a natural rind blue from Tarago River and Stokes Point smoked cheddar. We threw in some good salami and chocolates and cookies for dessert. The array of meats, pastries, prepared foods, and cheeses was really impressive, including fruits like spiky rambutans and preppy pink and green dragon fruit, which has to be the most arresting fruit, outside and in, although we bought one later and it looks more interesting than it tastes; it's kind of got a kiwi-like texture, but flavor is just generally a little sweet with not much else going on.Displays of creamy rich Australian yogurt there, and in many stores, were topped with different kinds of fruit and also muesli, sort of evocative of an Italian gelateria (see below).

We continued our day with one of those hop-on, hop-off buses that gave us a good overview of the city, its history and layout, and a chance to rest our legs between explorations. We did get off at the Sydney Fish Market -- the second largest in the world after Tokyo -- for oysters they shuck by the 1000's on a busy weekend day and sashimi sliced to order from hunks of very fresh fish. There were blue crabs, abalone, sea snails, and scallops sitting pristine in their pink shells, big curls of octopus and smaller squiggles of baby octopi, huge whole fish and piles of heads and scraps for stock. Alex managed to conquer his first oyster and I particularly enjoyed the native Sydney rock oysters with their sweet, gentle salinity and frilly-edged white and black shells.

We wound down at the end of the afternoon with a stroll through the beautiful and varied botanic gardens that flow along the water and have fantastic views of the harbour, the harbour bridge (and the crazy people who've paid lots of money to creep gingerly along the top of the bridge), and opera house. Its lawns, groves, and weather-carved sandstone cliffs must have been the site of at least half a dozen weddings on just this one summer afternoon. Between the gorgeous flora and the great numbers of fascinating grey-headed flying foxes (aka fruit bats) hanging and swooping in the trees, we'd turn a corner and come upon yet another couple being photographed.

We were exhausted, having gotten up at 4 am in a time zone two hours ahead, but Mark had found a great performance to attend at the Sydney Opera House so we took power naps, chowed down some food at an outdoor cafe within view of the opera house, buzzing with many performances and audience members (see below), and headed to a very impressive performance of Midsummer Night's Dream - the Sydney Symphony and women's choir under new conductor Vladimir Ashkenazy playing Mendelssohn's music with a small cast performing an abridged version of the classic, literally among them. We did not know at all what to expect, but it was really cleverly done with references to the musical partnership such as Bottom's donkey head being a construction of two tubas like a pair of huge ears. Nikko seemed to appreciate both being able to see the musicians up close and a little of the Shakespeare, which he is studying in school here. Alex made it through the first half and then fell asleep --understandably. It had been a long day.

Day two in Sydney involved a ferry over to the Taronga Zoo (just like in Helsinki a few years ago), a huge and very modern zoo with more amazing views back onto the city. Among other sights, we saw the iconic Aussie symbols: koalas (and Alex bought one with gift money from family back home - thanks!), Tasmanian devils, kangaroos, and wallabies. Other highlights included a wonderful bird show concluding with a bird trained to take donations from the hands of children (see Alex below), elephants having water fun, and riding the gondola up and down to the top of the zoo.

We finished off Sunday with a bus ride to the famous Bondi Beach, a perfect crescent of golden sand with good surfing and a polyglot of tanned bodies from all over the world (mostly young of the backpacking species). The boyz took a dip and I people-watched, trying to figure out if the attractive couple next to me conversing in northern European-accented English (him, long blond rasta braids and a fantastic tentacled tatoo; her, short pixie haircut and perfect bikini body) had known each other for a couple hours or a couple days. We then followed a guidebook suggestion and had supper at an Italian pizza and gelato place called Pompei's (yes, missing an i) with super-good, crisp-crusted pizzas; really lovely beet-filled ravioli sauced with poppy seeds, butter, and crispy sage; and wonderful gelato and sorbet including fig and blood orange, before taking a walk along the cliffs away from the beach until the lights back at Bondi twinkled and beckoned us to bus it back to the hotel. We fell into bed sandy, tired, but satisfied.

Monday brought us to the renowned Sydney Aquarium where we saw the live versions of many of the creatures we had seen "harvested" at the fish market on Saturday. The more exotic animals on display included lots of sharks with a tunnel under them for best viewing, dugongs (closest relatives are elephants and they look like a big elephant seal), and platypus (platypi?) We did learn they are one of only two monotreme species in the world, combining characteristics of birds, fish, and mammals and they're too darn cute, twirling through the water with the energy and grace of otters - see below, although the dimness of their habitat made them hard to capture.

And then we took a little tour of the Chinese Garden of Friendship, an oasis in the middle of the business district (though not far from Chinatown where we grabbed a burnished and completely messy bbq duck for lunch from the recommended Tai Wong BBQ where, when I asked for napkins, the counterperson gestured weakly at a box of tissues, knowing full well they would be as effective as using a teaspoon to dig yourself out of a snowstorm). At the garden, we were lucky to find the young man in charge of the plants, recently returned from a trip to China and starting work on trimming back, he said, two months of rampant growth (didn't look rampant to us). He was working on one of the Penjing trees, the Chinese precursor to Japanese Bonsai, he explained. He told us how he was grew up in Hong Kong and was influenced by an elderly Chinese neighbor to fall in love with the art at the age of seven and then started working at the garden in Sydney at age 16. When I asked if we could take his photo, he said as long as he could borrow one of us to help hold a branch he was training. Alex happily volunteered. Nothing like hands-on experience to imprint a memory.

Then before heading to the plane (with plenty of time to spare), we spent a few hours at the Powerhouse Museum of science and technology, built in the old power plant, where the boys were thrilled to find a Star Wars exhibit, from the US of course (Boston even), which did a truly awesome job of illuminating the science and technology behind the models, sound development, robots, and concepts behind the movies including hands-on robot building. We got home to Wanganui at 3 am Tuesday morning, absolutely wiped, but very happy we'd hopped over the Tasman Sea to at least take a peek into Australia while we were down here.

Foraged Friends and Fruit

2009-02-21T16:09:00.019+13:00

Foraged fig, prosciutto, and goat cheese pizza on the grill

Book club picnic in the hills around Wanganui

Foraging for fruit and friends (with recipes)

I am– as anyone who knows me would surely agree–friendly and outgoing…or nosy and a tad too talkative, depending on your perspective. As my kids would say, “Mom, can’t you go anywhere without talking to someone you don’t know?” So I wasn’t that worried about making friends here in NZ even though I wouldn’t have the built-in possibilities of school or work like Mark and the boys. I had my friend antennae up from the beginning, interesting in itself because they are a bit creaky from non-use back home where I hardly have time to keep in touch with the friends I already have.

At the risk of making my new friends feel like targets of a well-aimed friend capture machine (mmm…that could be fun to design) or like acquisitions proudly trotted out to show, I feel very lucky to have already found a few kindred spirits with a handful more hovering on the horizon. I hope that these friendships flourish while I’m here and that I don’t lose them when back in Vermont. There is so much technology now to keep us in touch and I muse sometimes on how that might have salvaged a few friendships I have sadly lost over the years due to distance and life-diverging paths. (No, I can’t find them on Facebook…I’ve tried.)

The first people who reached out a friendly hand to us were our next door neighbors, Jeanette and her husband Laurie, who could not have been more welcoming from the first time they waved a greeting as we drove through their front yard, which we must do to get to our house. Jeanette is very crafty (her meticulously maintained gardens are dotted with mosaic tiles and birdhouses she has made) and loves to cook. We’ve already shared a lot of recipes and cookbooks and tastes of things back and forth. I’ve brought over maple gingersnaps and lemon ice (photo at left, recipe below) and she’s returned with a huge bunch of homegrown chard (called silver beet here) and passion fruit syrup made from fruit off a vine at her father’s house. Jeanette is going to teach me to knit and we’re taking a glass bead workshop here together starting this week. At our first drinks and cheese visit she served a red onion chutney that Mark loved, a recipe from Annabel Langbein, who has quickly become a new favorite cookbook author, a little bit Deborah Madison (for her local, seasonal recipe approach) with a strong dose of the simplicity and practicality of the British cookbook writer Delia Smith who I also like very much. They also had us over for an all vegetarian feast when a fascinating Turkish friend of theirs was visiting. He speaks five languages including Japanese, French, Russian, and English and leads tours around Turkey and southern parts of the former Soviet Union. He doesn’t eat after the sun has set and during the summer he is fruitarian, he told us, living almost exclusively fruits and nuts.

At the end of the first week Mark was working, the boys and I took a Department of Conservation trip to see the rare blue duck. We did see the infamous duck, although the action was minimal and the boys were a bit disappointed that we hadn’t known to bring bathing suits; jumping off the river cliffs looked way more fun than hanging out with a bunch of old people trying to spy ducks through binoculars. There were just a few folks on the trip under the age of 65 – and although I did have good conversations with a few of the older folks (one retired sheep farmer who had some interesting insights and another former farmer now working in an agriculture extension role at Massey University who took me up to see their food and agricultural sciences department this week), I struck up a conversation with the only other woman close to my age. She was also wearing a Chelsea football shirt, a promising first sign.

Margo recently moved back to Wanganui from 29 years spent in London after her mother died unexpectedly and she bought out the family home just a five-minute walk from our house along the river. She grew up on a sheep farm north of the city and always figured she’d come back to help her mother at the end of her life, but ended up returning a bit sooner than expected. She works in accounting and her husband, John, a Brit, is a civil engineer who worked on the Chunnel among other interesting projects. Right now they are concentrating on getting the house in order so, happily for me, Margo has time to go for long walks with me a couple mornings a week.

I’m also lucky that she is a bit out-of-shape right now because, while in England, she was a serious marathoner who did major races including a six-day run across the Moroccan Sahara and a similar extreme race across Siberia in January. We’ve seen DVD’s of some of her running exploits and they are not for the faint-of-heart. Our walks are very mellow but fun and she has a curious attitude like me about everything. Two weeks ago, having spied some fruit trees on a walk around our neighborhood, we went back and collected quite a lot of different fruits, including banana passionfruit (Margo picking them above and on the vine below), figs, a few apples (not quite ripe yet), blackberries, and also lemons – the latter were not technically wild, but literally falling to the ground rotten from a tree growing in an absentee neighbor’s yard. It would have been criminal, we agreed, to let them go to waste.

I used some of the lemons in a lemon ice (pictured above, recipe below) from the Simon Hopkinson book I’d been reading – his writing and attitude are so British, I love him. Made grilled pizza topped with figs (photo at top – I used the NYTimes no-knead pizza dough based on the no-knead bread recipe and it was great) and then a cake with the figs and a different one with the blackberries and some rhubarb (given to me by Mr. Sharp, the local knife sharpener, but that’s a story for another day). I conflated the two to create the cake recipe below.

Also made a roasted fig and plum (from the farmers’ market) butter following the roasted apple butter method from the Shelburne Farms cookbook. It is the perfect cheese platter condiment – goes great with blue or a good cheddar. As for the passion fruit, it's not as intensely flavored as the standard kind, but good nonetheless. I made a huge batch of syrup that I sadly oversweetened, but it’ll do. I folded some into whipped cream and filled brandy snap cookies with it. Very yum. I’m about to experiment and make a lemon bar (they call them slices here instead of bar cookies) with the passionfruit syrup instead of lemon juice.

Last week I had Margo and another emerging friend (I hope), Marion, to lunch. Marion is a doctor whose husband works with Mark, but she actually called me after I contacted the local hospice to offer to volunteer in their kitchen. She works part-time as a GP and also works at hospice. She was raised in Zambia; both her father and grandfather were bush doctors. She invited me over to a delicious lunch first and we’re going to work together on a booklet about feeding your loved one at the end of life, a topic that is near and dear to her heart. The lunch I served for her and Margo was the “superfood” meal I noted on Facebook. She’s into healthy eating and I had been telling her about the story I did on functional foods for the Free Press and thought it would be fun to theme a meal that way. So I did cold cumin- and lemon-poached salmon (not wild, but sustainably farmed in the Coromandel up north) served with a spiced yogurt sauce and a broccoli, sundried tomato, and almond quinoa salad. Dessert was yogurt parfaits with gingered roasted rhubarb and apricots, topped with the cookbook maple granola made with almonds, pumpkin seeds, and dried cranberries. I found pomegranate juice for sale at this local Indian bulk market so we sipped pomegranate spritzers. (Leftovers made a great picnic for an outdoor concert Mark and the boys and I went to that night. The line-up included a band called OpShop, the name for secondhand stores here, and Dave Dobbyn, an icon of the Kiwi music scene for more than 30 years: a little Eric Clapton, a little Willie Nelson, and even a little Neil Diamond all mixed up.)

My other new friend was discovered in the local independent bookstore where I landed within the first few days of being here. I was asking for recommendations for books and also if they knew of any book clubs that might welcome a transient Yank. (After finding out I’d written a cookbook , they have very kindly ordered it and tentatively plan for me to do a reading when it arrives!) As I was paying for my books, a woman came in to pick up her order and they said, “Oh Sally has a book club. Maybe she has an opening.” Luckily, Sally’s book group did welcome me – as did Sally, who works for the local county council directing their arts and culture projects and used to manage the library, so I have her to thank for their great cookbook collection. She is a kindred spirit for sure and knows absolutely everyone foodie and arty in town. She is fixing up a charming old house in an outlying town called Marton and a couple weeks ago I went to hang out with her for a few hours while the boys played golf on the local course (Mark was on call). While we chatted I pitted a huge bowl of tiny, tart Damson plums from her backyard tree and then helped her design a plum compote spiced with black peppercorns, star anise, sugar, and a good slug of brandy. I have some in the fridge and am sure it would be absolutely brilliant (that’s what they say here all the time) with pork.

The first book group was this past Thursday night and it was also absolutely brilliant. We actually picnicked on a plateau on a hill with sheep peering curiously at us over the thistles. Helen, a freelance education writer who moved from England four years ago with her husband, just closed on the land and they are going to build themselves a very small (like 500-square- foot) house there. It was beautiful and peaceful with hardly a car passing on the road far below. The weather was gorgeous and we toasted Helen’s purchase with champagne and then took turns digging out the cork of a bottle of wine I’d brought (the first I’ve had here that wasn’t screwtop – I didn’t even check!). They have a very different way of doing book club where they each put in $10 (about US$5) every meeting and one person is responsible for buying book(s) and bringing them to the next meeting and explaining why they chose them. They then go into a central box from which members “check out” whatever they fancy with everyone just sharing their thoughts as they read them.

We wound down before dark since we had to walk down the hill, except for Annette who four-wheeled it with all the picnic stuff. (Annette, incidentally, started the local farmers’ market and owns a very cool environmentally friendly inn up the Whanganui River called The Flying Fox with access only by flying fox, or zipline.) The light was amazing, as it often is here. Sally called it The Blue Hour, a perfect name I thought for that magical and transient moment of dusk when everything is shadowed in hues of blue. Apparently the French coined it originally: l'heure bleue. In the summer it is often when the smell of the flowers is strongest, Sally told us, and it’s the name of a famous French perfume, too.

Book club on Helen’s (in hat) property – Sally is the one hiding behind her hair in front

Recipes

Simon Hopkinson’s Lemon Ice (really frozen mousse or semi-freddo)
Couldn’t be simpler. Very rich and delicious – it stays pretty soft. Says it serves 4 but I would say 6 at least.

Beat together 8 large egg yolks with 1 cup sugar until light, white, and fluffy. (Yolks here are so bright orange it was never white.) Add juice of 2 large lemons (I used 3 because I like things on the tart side) and beat until “the mass starts to rise up once more.” Beat 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (I did this, but seems picky to have the 2 T) heavy cream until soft peaks form. Fold cream into lemon mixture gently but thoroughly. Freeze for at least a few hours. If you dollop it into small glass or ceramic dishes (like small glasses or custard cups) and freeze those, it’s a neater presentation and should solidify a bit faster. I served it with fresh strawberries on top. SH says with his usual dry tone: “there is no need – most definitely not – to scoop spoonfuls of it into a ‘tuile’ or a basket.”
- Method direct from “Second Helpings of Roast Chicken” but I’ve abbreviated his directions.

Fig, Ginger, and Orange Yogurt Cake
This is a hybrid recipe using the base of Annabel Langbein’s Rhubarb and Yoghurt Crumble Cake from “Eat Fresh” and inspiration from the gorgeous New Zealand food magazine, Dish, whose Feb-March issue featured a Plum, Coconut, and Lime Cake.

2 cups flour
1 T baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
140g (1/2 cup or 1 stick plus 2 T) softened butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature
Juice and zest of 1 orange
2 teaspoons finely grated fresh ginger
¼ cup plain yogurt
4 ripe figs, sliced
½ cup chopped walnuts (optional)

Preheat oven to 180 (375) degrees. Grease a 25-cm (10-inch) springform pan and line with parchment paper. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, and baking soda. In another bowl, beat together butter and sugar until creamy. Add eggs and orange juice and beat well. Beat in zest, ginger, and yogurt and then add flour mixture and stir gently just to combine. Spread into prepared pan and top with slices of fig. Sprinkle chopped walnuts, if using, between figs and press gently into batter. Bake until golden and skewer inserted in middle of cake (not through a fig) comes out clean. Let stand 15 minutes before releasing springform collar. Cool.

Some Lists (but not 25 Random Things)

2009-02-10T16:11:00.012+13:00

Since lists seem to be the rage these days, thought I’d throw together some of my own. (And since I'm still struggling with photo placement, see captions/explanations at related points below.)

LIST #1: Nine Things I Took for Granted (and don’t have in NZ)
1. A dryer. They are pretty rare here. Alex said, “Oh I didn’t realize we didn’t have one. I thought we were just trying to be good.” The woman at the high school uniform shop noted cheerfully, “We don’t have dryers, we have sun.” (Not today, we don’t.)
2. At least two toilets in the house. There is one outside in the shed, but it’s not really conducive to use in its current state.
3. My food processor. The one in the house is a multi-purpose processor, blender, coffee grinder and does neither of the first two things well. (But coffee is probably more important than pesto, so that's OK.)
4. Knowing how your pots behave on your stove. I made some dry-fried green beans by mistake.
5. Gallon jugs of milk. My boys go through milk by the gallon, not the litre. (See photos of boys - above in front of coal-fired paddle boat on Whanganui River -- our house is at the top of the hill behind them. Also photo with Dad who also drinks lots of milk - hiking around Mount Ruapehu.)
6. Screens on the windows. There are practically no mosquitoes, but swarms of flies.
7. A cover on the barbecue grill. Only the deluxe versions have them here. We’ve taken to using a roasting pan cover to help hold heat in, but I haven’t yet tried to cook a largeish piece of meat yet; fat hamburgers have given us enough trouble. (Grilled pizza worked ok -- per photo above of one in process topped with foraged figs, proscuitto, creamy feta, and honey-caramelized shallots.)
8. Really good artisanal cheese. (Well, I didn’t quite take this for granted, but I do miss it.) There’s decent cheddar, feta, and blue but no funky and oozy, dry and crumbly, or otherwise deliciously different small-batch cheeses.
9. The Sunday New York Times. I know I can read it online, but it’s just not the same as curling up with the real thing.

List #2: Five Things About NZ That Make Me Smile
1. Sharp cheddar is “Tasty cheddar.” I agree.
2. Tuis – the black and white birds with the most amazing vocalization range from warbles to grunts to cackles.
3. The Dr. Seussian cabbage palm trees everywhere. (See trees at nearby Wiritoa Lake above.)
4. The Norfolk pines that look like those cellular stations masquerading as evergreens on Vermont hilltops back home.
5. The retired sheep farmer who said that Kiwi sheep have two short legs and two long (because they’re always grazing on such steep pasture). (See photo of some of many Kiwi sheep on way to new pasture above.)

List #3: Five Things About NZ That Remind Me of England
1. Everyone is always having tea. (See Mark above.)
2. Milk chocolate digestive biscuits.
3. Crumpets in every grocery store, making the boys very happy. (“Mom, are they made that way on purpose to let all the butter drip in?")
4. Everything is “brilliant” and “heaps” of fun. Trash is rubbish and trunks are boots. (See photo above.)
5. There is a fish and chips shop on every corner – and an Indian restaurant. Sometimes they are combined.

Boyz on School - first impressions

2009-02-08T18:03:00.004+13:00

Alex:
1) We have big black lace-up shoes and tall wool socks for our uniform, but during school we don’t have to wear our shoes and socks and many kids just go barefoot. (And people, mostly kids, just walk around town barefoot, including going into stores.)
2) We have houses in school just like in Harry Potter. I am in Wakefield and I already earned house points for my house. We have a ribbon with the house name on it and Mom has to sew it on my school sweater.
3) It seems like there’s going to be a lot more writing in school because we’ve already written a bunch.
4) Our science teacher is called The Mad Scientist and he’s a huge Obama fan. He has a picture of Obama on his door. In our first science class, we put our fingers through flames.
5) Many of the kids are extremely polite, like they introduce themselves and shake your hand, but some of them also swear a lot.

Nikko:
1) They do speak English here, but they use quite a few different words like “heaps” for lots, "zed" for the letter z, "rubbish" for trash, and they have “tea” instead of snack.
2) The first day of P.E., we played rugby with an invisible ball. The teacher said it was to practice the mental part of the game. It didn’t help me much because I didn’t really know how to play anyway.
3) People seem to let bad words slip out in school; two of my teachers swore on the first day. (My English teacher also told us that if he had seven Alzheimer’s moments, we could remove him from the classroom.)
4) There are heaps of rattails here. Lots of the boys have short hair with one long tail in the back. They all try to hide them by tucking them into their shirts at school because they are not allowed to have them.
5) All of the kids think everyone in America is a gangster and that everyone lives in big cities like Los Angeles and New York.

Notes from Mom - The boys had a short week to start because of Waitangi holiday on Friday, but all seemed to go well. Alex's middle school is more cozy with one main classroom and teacher per class and Nikko's high school is big with 1,800 students and a very spread out campus. It's too early to tell how the academic level matches where they are in Vermont, but it looks like it'll be fine. Alex is in a mixed-age class of year 7's and 8's so not the youngest in the class as we had feared since we were pushing him up. Nikko is in mostly "extended" or advanced classes, including P.E.! The school supplies lists were dizzying with each subject requiring a different number/size/shape notebook. The bill, however, was a nice surprise with most of the books costing less than a quarter. Alex starts soccer pick-up games with the school team on Monday night and Nikko is exploring the possibility of trying out cricket (on the beginner team). Mom has promised not to offer to volunteer in the schools quite yet.

Being Truly Welcomed

2009-02-03T22:40:00.000+13:00

Haere mai! Haere mai! Haere mai!Once! Twice! Thrice! Welcome.

During Mark’s first week of work, we were invited to a Whakatau, a Maori welcome ceremony, at the hospital -- which I wrote about briefly in a Facebook post -- but will explain better here along with a second more elaborate welcoming Powhiri (pronounced pofiri - that controversial wh being an f again) for all new students and their families I attended at Nikko’s high school yesterday morning.

The invitation to the event at the hospital on January 21, stated: “Gentlemen must wear long trousers; ladies must wear a skirt (preferably long).” (Later I read on a website, “You are expected to act in a dignified manner, for Maori accept your physical presence as representing all your ancestors. It is considered rude to show disinterest during these proceedings, walk in front of a speaker or talk.”) An elegant younger woman of Maori heritage who works for the local Maori health center greeted us and explained what we were about to experience and told us that she would be our guide, ensuring we didn’t do anything embarrassing. The women entered the room first, but the men would be seated in front of the women to represent their role as defenders of the women, she instructed us. We were serenaded as we walked into the room by a female Maori elder wearing a carved horn necklace and matching earrings and then a group of staff (mostly non-Maori, or pakeha, a commonly used Maori term for New Zealanders of European descent) sang a traditional waiata (song) for us.

An older Maori man in tweed jacket -- "Uncle Bill" everyone calls him, he told us later – then welcomed us and our ancestors with lots of gesturing and lyrical words (his energetic brandishing of a walking stick had Alex a little scared at a few points) into the family of the local iwi (tribe), along with other recently arrived doctors from South Africa, Sweden, Britain, and India. (He repeated many things three times – interesting in light of some of the Greek traditions we are familiar with through Mark’s stepmother’s family.) Mark, who had been volunteered to represent our small group, followed our guide’s prompt and explained where everyone was from and thanked the hospital for the warm welcome. (He did great despite his reluctance to be the spokesperson. Of course, I would have happily done it but women are not permitted, our guide had explained apologetically. She had also asked if we would like to share a traditional song of our homeland but we declined, feeling a bit strange about singing the US national anthem as she had suggested given that we were only one of the countries represented. I later read that, “Visitors that sing of their homeland or in their native tongue are said to bestow their hosts with the voice and sound of their ancestors… a great gift and honour.” Not sure that our off-key version would have been a gift…)

The short ceremony concluded with a lovely brief song, which I wish I’d understood at the time but see the original and translation below. Then we went through a receiving line in which we pressed noses with everyone (a hongi – photo above and more on that below). And then they served tea. (This place is a fascinating mix of Maori, British, and frontier culture.) The manager of the hospital spoke after the Maori ceremony and welcomed us also, saying that now we would always carry a piece of Wanganui with us, no matter where we went (although they hoped we would stay!).

Te Aroha Waiata with translation
Te Aroha (Love)
Te Whakapono (Faith )
Me Te Rangimarie (And peace)
Tatou. Tatoue e. (Be amongst us all)

The powhiri version of the ceremony at Wanganui High School to welcome the new Year 9s and other new students (Nikko is a Year 10) on Monday morning was more elaborate with performances by the high school’s award-winning Kapahaka (traditional dance and song) group. I obeyed both my don’t-look-like-a-rude-American-tourist instincts and the pleading of my 14-year-old son not to bring my camera, but see a photo of the high school dance group above – although in traditional dress, not school uniforms, which is what they wore on Monday. They were really impressive and I spoke later to their advisor who said I might be able to come watch them practice so I can understand the movements and meaning better – and possibly learn something to take back to Lois and my world jazz dance classmates at FlynnArts! In my ignorant state of the moment, I will say that the movements of the women are a little reminiscent of Hawaiian hula, but all the dance is accompanied by song and the men’s movements are much more vigorous.

Monday’s event followed a similar format to the smaller gathering at the hospital with the female students in their white blouses and grey wool skirts entering first, followed by the boys in white polo shirts and grey wool shorts , while the student group sang and danced on the stage of a large hall. Teachers and parents filled in the back rows. When all were in the hall, an older woman sang an initial welcome (this song, I later found out, signals to visitors that they are free to approach and acknowledges the ancestral spirits of those in the room – it does have an wistful, haunting tone and apparently represents the bottomless source of ancestral tears) and then an older man or elder (kaumatua) spoke. The principal and another school staffperson (vice-principal?) also welcomed all students to the school (in Maori and English) and included some international high school principal rhetoric (e.g. “Be proud of yourself and do yourself proud.”) Towards the end, the elder articulated a really nice point about the hongi being an exchange of breath or life, bringing all present together as part of the same family. At this point, you are no longer considered manuhiri (visitor), but are now tangata whenua, one of the people of the land. From that point on, you share in the community's duties and responsibilities. In earlier times, defending the group or tending crops – in our case, it means taking call in the hospital I suppose, or doing your English homework.

I did a little research on the tradition of powhiri and found the following illuminating website for anyone who wants to know more: www.newzealand.com/travel/about-nz/features/powhiri/powhiri-introduction.cfm. A couple interesting points I thought worth including here: “The various elements of the powhiri serve to ward off evil spirits and unite both visitor and host in an environment of friendship and peace. The word powhiri encapsulates two important concepts to Maori. Apparently, the word Po can be translated as a venture into the unknown or a new experience, while Whiri is derived from the term Whiriwhiri meaning the act or experience of exchanging information and knowledge. " This seems particularly apt for our entire adventure here in New Zealand.

Mark's First Work Impressions

2009-02-02T14:35:00.006+13:00

I’ve just finished up my first full week so I now know (sort of ) what my job is here. As everything is organized a tad differently, just knowing what to call myself turned out to be a challenge. My official title is “Consultant Physician.” The term physician, however, means the same as Attending in Medicine back in the States, (so no self-respecting surgeon would allow themselves to be called a physician). There are two main aspects to the job: outpatient and inpatient (certainly the term “hospitalist” doesn’t mean much here) and I'm involved in both for a general population of about 60 to 70,000.

On the outpatient side, it turns out internists here really don’t do any primary care as we understand it in the U.S.; they consult for the GP’s (general practitioners) who do the the bulk of primary care. Since there are very few subspecialty medicine folks here (a cardiologist comes to our hospital just once a month, for example), that means I end up being the first line of consultation and we send far fewer patients on to subspecialists. So … lots of cardiology and neurology at levels I wouldn’t normally end up treating at home, like pretty intense, quasi-unstable cardiology. Also, since we do all the stress tests (and they do lots of them here), I’m seeing lots of chest pain. I have three outpatient sessions per week along with a half day of stress tests (no nuclear tests here … have to go an hour away for that, and all the way to Wellington - 2 ½ hours - for a cath). On the inpatient side, I have one intense day of call per week (which includes consulting frequently for the ER which is staffed only by RMO’s – intern types, see below – at night) and about every fourth weekend. Much of the inpatient medicine is similar to the States but, once again, no subspecialists and many different protocols and medications.

As for my partners in the hospital, there’s one Kiwi, and the others hail from Pakistan, India, South Africa and Romania. As we had heard, there really are not enough docs here and many leave for more money elsewhere (especially Australia). Folks seem to really like working with and seeing an American doc (and seem to tolerate my crazy accent). Needless to say, they’ve already worked me over pretty hard to stick around longer than six months. Probably the biggest differences on the inpatient side is (a) you don’t really need to do much documentation, just what you feel is necessary (there’s really no malpractice here), and (b) the educational hierarchy is quite different. As some of you may know, in the English system students can enter into medical school right after high school (it’s somewhat combined with undergrad). Then after that, they typically do a couple of years as a “resident medical officer” (RMO), rotating between medicine and surgery. After all that, they can become a registrar, where they focus on “GP” work, or Internal Medicine, etc.

The RMO’s I’m working with also come from around the world: NZ, England, Wales, Bahrain, China, India. At least a few have started hinting that they’d love to come to the States for residency and hitting me up for tips on how to make that happen. As you can see from the photos, the hospital is under renovation with a really nice new addition that houses the ED, surgical “theatres”, obstetrics and the CCU (kind of like FAHC …. There is even a similarity in the sunny logo, although the signage is all in English and Maori, unlike at home). All my colleagues here have been very welcoming -- from the manager of the hospital offering us a weekend at her summer home on the other coast of the North Island, to my boss having us over to dinner, to the husband of the stress test technician inviting Melissa to watch him slaughter a lamb. Now that’s hospitality.

Part 2 of Long Weekend: The South Island

2009-01-29T14:48:00.001+13:00

(Annoying blogger thing - or just me being stupid - photos show up in the opposite order added so they go with the narrative from bottom to top more or less...and i can't figure out if there's any way to get them to be within text. I think not. FYI - the van with the slightly offensive but yes, funny saying is a type of rental van you see everywhere around the South Island...this was one of the least offensive.) Ferrying down to the South Island through the Cook Straits is breathtaking and our photos cannot do it justice. We stopped in Havelock, known for its mussels, for a late lunch on the water where the highlight was a light but rich mussel chowder. (Mussels themselves were big but not remarkable otherwise.) Swung through Nelson - a fun tourist town where a family we know through Washington State friends will be for six months doing the same thing as us (but they hadn't arrived yet) - and arrived at our lodge right next to Abel Tasman National Park in time for a beautiful walk right before sunset. It was marred only by some rather aggressive seagulls demonstrating behavior similar to Hitchcock’s Birds. We figure they must have been defending their nesting area, but we were in open beach so not quite sure. The beach just went on forever and ever, but we had to get home and to bed to wake up for our kayaking trip the next day.

We kayaked with the help of Hiro, our friendly Japanese guide who has been in NZ for two years. Just us and a couple from Israel in our group. I didn’t ask them about the current situation over there; big news in the Wellington paper had been a cafe owner refusing service to a pair of Israeli tourists. Super-calm on the way out to Split Apple Rock and then quite wavy as the wind came up on the way back, but Nikko and I pulled together and survived. (He only yelled at me for slacking a few times.) The second part of the day was low labor on our part – sea taxi up/down? coast of Abel Tasman to see lots of seals, including new pups. Then a 90-minute walk through drizzle to where the boat picked us up, at this point in driving rain. We walked through a campground and I was feeling bad for the dampness the campers would endure and being relieved that we would return to our cozy cabin where we enjoyed a couple scoops of really good chips (fries) wrapped in the customary white paper, a Greek lamb burger, a mussel burger (yes, the shellfish all glued together somehow – very good), and beef burgers -- a bit different in that it wasn’t one patty but lots of different little crumbles of meat. These all came from a funky take-out stand by the entrance to the park called The Fat Tui – tuis being a classic NZ bird (also name of popular beer) that make some amazing and varied calls, from warbles to grunts. Apparently they're great mimics and your neighborhood tuis can start sounding like your cell phone ring!

Day next, we headed in a circle (Mark’s favorite; he hates backtracking) through the countryside to the east coast of the South Island, passing through acres and acres (actually, hectares and hectares) of cows, sheep, farmed deer, and fruit orchards – mostly pears we think, although some kiwis and berries – and then grape vines as we approached Blenheim. More on less in the center, we stopped to take a drizzly walk at Nelson Lakes National Park where I discovered that the sweet scent I’ve been smelling in every forested walk so far – mysterious in that flowers are not usually present – is the scent of honeydew produced by a scale insect that burrows into the bark of certain trees and creates drops of “honeydew.” At Nelson Lakes, this is also food for a black sludgey mold that then grows on the trees, not too attractive but usually not detrimental to the tree, a ranger informed me. It does attract wasps, however, one of the many invasive pest species within the NZ environment. At the lake, we also saw traps for other introduced animals that have become major pests – stoats (ermine in the US), weasels, and rats. (The only native mammals in NZ are a couple varieties of bat – all else has been brought in.) All of these animals eat eggs of threatened native birds, including kiwi, and so are under attack by the DOC (dept of conservation) everywhere with traps and poison. (And big signs warning you to keep your dogs on a leash so they don’t accidentally consume the cyanide. yikes.) The original problem was rabbits – brought over for food (rats, too) – which, naturally, bred like rabbits and their burrowing made mincemeat of sheep pastures, so the stoats and weasels were brought in to take care of them, but since NZ has no coyotes or foxes (which explains why there are not sheep barns at all – they stay out all the time), the stoats etc. have few predators and therein lies the problem.

So on to Bleinheim, home of the famed NZ sauvignon blanc, unfortunately my least favorite style of wine (I have been known to call it essence of lawn clippings in a bottle, but Mark rightly pointed out that it’s really the pithiness – as in grapefruit pith – that I’m reacting to). We managed to pop into three vineyards for tastings before they closed on Sunday evening, which did not change my opinion of NZ sauvignon blancs but did open my eyes (palate?) to other decent wines from the area including a nice pinot gris from Wairu River, one of the original wineries, and a good merlot from River Farm, a vineyard with new owners and a new name as of this year. We did not venture to one of the highly regarded winery estate restaurants with the kids, but went to a good restaurant in town named Bacchus where highlights of the meal were a lovely rack of lamb (if they can’t do that right here, there’s a problem), wild goat ragu over pasta (goats are also sort of a pest, although they are farmed too), and Nikko said not to forget his steak (a cut they call Scotch filet) wrapped in bacon. There were two bowls of fresh veggies (they call them veges here) for the table, which must have each been swimming in a stick of melted butter. Now I like butter, but that was even a bit much for me.

Back home on the ferry the next day (after the boyz squeezed in a round of mini-golf – critical to all Pasanen warm-season vacations) and, after a stop at Paraparaumu beach for great fish and chips (groper – no “u”and not related to grouper) under the watchful eye of many seagulls (but no attacks), arrived home late Monday night. And even after such a brief time here, it did feel like coming home. (End of travelogue for the moment - next entry will be more day-to-day observations.)

Trip to Wellington and South Island over Wellington Day long weekend (Jan 15-19), Part 1

2009-01-24T23:20:00.000+13:00

After a painless 2 ½-hour-drive with just one stop to examine a golf course at Paraparaumu for Nikko, we arrived in Wellington. The city has a gorgeous setting and reminds me of Vancouver, BC quite a bit. The hotel Mark had found through a last-minute bargain website (to which our neighbor Laurie had directed us)was super: The Copthorne, right on the harbour in Oriental Bay, with a balcony overlooking the boardwalk where locals and tourists biked, ran, and strolled by the whole time we were there. (It met with Alex’s approval because David Beckham stayed there recently – and it also had a great indoor pool on the 7th floor. ) Our first stop was the famed BurgerFuel– which Mark had read about online from the US– where we had a little afternoon snack of their signature “Bastard” burger – beef, bacon, mango, avocado, cheese, lettuce, tomato, aioli, ketchup. It was big and it was good. Just across the street in the center of a major city crossroads was a huge bungee ride and we watched some guys go thwang in that.

We then took the cable car up the hill to the botanical gardens from which you get a great view of the city and many different plants of course – gorgeous rose garden and even trees dressed in lacy underwear (yes kids, that’s art). We stopped at the cool flagship bar/brewery of a hip local brewer called Macs where you can inhale the fine scent of brewing (boys not so fond of that smell) and then they begged for Indian food for dinner so we headed to the main walking street drag to a recommended spot. It was fine although everything was quite a bit sweeter than we’re used to, including naan bread with Christmas-themed dried fruit (even green maraschinos!) baked into it. (Now that's fusion.)

Thursday we spent basically the whole day in the huge national musuem, Te Papa, a few minutes walk from our hotel along the boardwalk. It is really amazing with treasures of natural history, culture, and art along with multimedia attractions (like a simulated earthquake and a deepsea dive) that kept the kids happy. A life-size bull made of corned beef cans was featured in one exhibit, representing the Western introduction of “pisupo,” or canned foods, named for the first product introduced in cans to NZ: pea soup. We ate dinner in a really good Italian restaurant called Zibibbo after finding out that the Maori restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet had closed, sadly. Still waiting to taste authentic Maori food. (Our waiter, incidentally, was Irish and we had good service. There really is no tipping here and the service is quite different than in the States. It’s always initially friendly, but there’s absolutely no guarantee they’ll come back to check on you, see if you want more drinks or water, and you practically have to beg for the bill most places.)

Flashback two weeks...

2009-01-23T22:18:00.000+13:00

So just over two weeks ago after a three-day trip (including wonderful family visit in northern Cali and a not-so-wonderful accidental international fruit-smuggling incident in the Auckland airport that cost us NZ$200), we were escorted by four cars (needed to hold all our luggage)and various welcoming folk to this charming 85-year-old house on a hill with lovely view (as shown above) of the city of Wanganui and the Whanganui River (the h is controversial - more on that later). The city is about 40,000 in population and very friendly and navigable -- even from the left side of the road and for the directionally impaired such as myself. It was a major ocean and river port, but is not a tourist magnet although it does boast the river on which people can jetboat (fast and adrenaline-inducing), skull or kayak (the opposite), or take a ride on the only paddle steamer still operating in New Zealand (coal-smoky but fun) and some lovely parks and gardens, as well as a stunning beach with cliffs and black sand (the golden sand beaches elsewhere in the country are regarded more highly by natives). Within the first few days we had discovered the farmers' market, the library, and the soccer (football) fields; checked out both boys' schools (which start their new year at the beginning of February) and the hospital where Mark is working; and Melissa had struck up conversations with just about everybody looking for friends, jazz dance and Maori language classes, volunteer opportunities and other ways to ensure she doesn't get bored while not working here. ("Fat chance," says Mark.)

Inaugural Post

2009-01-22T22:17:00.000+13:00

(Our first post...a test of this blogging thang, as Mark would say.)

It was nothing compared to the celebration of yesterday, but today we commemorated two weeks of living in New Zealand with a walk down by the river through Kowhai Park after supper -- tea they call it -- of pasta salad with NZ feta, veggies, and chicken sausage made on the George Foreman, my inaugural experience with this fine? invention. The boys threw the already well-worn Nerf football (new at the start of this adventure), which often prompts people to talk to us about the US and we stopped for icecreams (always with an s here), including the classic Kiwi flavor, Hokey Pokey, studded with caramel bits. Then we walked home and up our hill past the neighboring sheep (those white blobs above boyz' heads) and cows grazing on a slope so steep you'd think they'd fall off. As seems to be the case every night, there was a stunning sunset to watch from our living room over the river and ocean in the distance. Up early tomorrow morning for the boyz and me to take a group nature excursion to see a local threatened blue duck population.