Rain, rambles and roses

It's one of those quiet, blissful Saturdays at home. The first weekend in many that we're just 'around', settled in, not packing or unpacking, enjoying. It's cold and rainy, and a perfect weekend for staying in with the fire crackling and something nice in the oven. Pottering, I think they call it.

Pic by Mr. Tacc. Morning misty. 

 

It's been a busy and stressful couple of weeks, so I didn't sleep well last night, my brain ticking over and wakeful. (I keep looking for the 'off' switch, no such luck yet.) So I got up, made a cup of coffee and sat in the window of the study, watching the ducks waddling one-by-one down the farm track past the window, the galahs scrubbing under the tree, and the misty rain falling. Pretty soon, the rain stopped and the dog was all too happy to go out with me (in my stompy-spotty galoshes) and wade through the long grass down to the other end of the farm.

When we got back, we found these beauties! Lettuce mix and coriander for seed. I'd cleared out this old barrel pretty soon after we moved in because I wanted to get a few things in before the cool weather. These are the first to grow, but there are twenty or so garlic plants shooting up from quiet spots tucked in under the roses, and broad beans just sprouting, to be the first home veggies in spring. They're up a good three or four centimetres and going well.

Lettuces and coriander for seed

So the day turned out well: some sewing, some baking (shortbread, and a lemon tarte), and a nice brunch out together at a gorgeous tucked-away local cafe that Mr Tacc discovered on Friday with the writers' group. We're definitely settling in, and weekends at home are grand.

I hope your weekend is shaping up to be sweetly relaxing too!

Verdict: the dog likes

.
Lemon delicious pudding.

After licking the bowls across the floor, he licked the rims of the bowls. Then he licked the outsides of the bowls. Then he licked the floor around the b0wls for good measure.And you may ask why I'm washing part of the floor at 10:15 on a Friday night?

Out and about

This drawing is not by me, but it encapsulates what is going on over here. A bit of skipping girl artistic life being gleefully skipped through. If that's fair to say. Now that I've been captured by a cold and forced to sit still, I can tell you a bit about what's been going on.

Lots of drawing!
I started my children's book illustration course last Saurday, and enjoyed myself enormously. Since then, I've been drawing every day. Everything from good old mundane things (traffic lights, rubber boots and a pot of anchovies) to wild characters (a dragon on a trampoline).
Also surreptitious drawing of fellow-commuters on crowded trains. One of them clearly paid me back by sharing their germs. (Atchoo!)

Lots of editing
Since I took on this job over six months ago, I've seen quite a few titles onto the page and off to press. The fun part is always choosing the designer, working on the design, getting illustrations (if the book needs it) and seeing the whole thing come together.

Last Friday, there was a little bit of dancing around our offices: the book closest to my heart came out and it's FAB! Super-fantastic material, great cartoon illustrations, fun design and the coolest program for kids to make and analyse videos. If you're a teacher, you need one of these. I've seen a lot of educational books, but don't you love it when one of them falls together so perfectly?

Lots of thinking
I'm still working on the Artist's Way program. This week, I'm supposed to avoid reading, to allow me time to let my own voice come back above al the words, words, words that fill my life (life, life - it's like a song!)

How does an editor not read? I asked myself this question with much incredulity and some angst. Well, very effectively, as it turns out. The funny thing is that my boss commented today on how I am hauling butt this week (not her words). The secret? Write contracts, briefs, emails and harrass people by phone. Next week I'll read.

Lots of organising
My passport expired. My tax returns were a mess. My bookshelves were dusty. My shoes in the closet were in a heap.

Did you notice the past tense? I'm getting to it. It's all going away.

Lots of sneezing
And finally, a cup of Lemsip and a little sit down. Sorry I've been away.

Drunkard's path

No, I'm not talking about me. Or anyone else for that matter! It's the name of this quilt pattern -- a classic red and white design from sometime at the end of the 19th century.

The photo was taken by Mr Tacc some years ago, when he was invigilating an exhibition on quilts from Canada and the UK. Needless to say, we talked about that show endlessly, and as he had plenty of time to look at and think about the quilts, he had lots of interested questions to ask and ideas to discuss.

I remember this quilt because I loved the clarity of the red and white scheme, and the way that the simple repeated shape (quarter circle on square) became complicated and fascinating when you looked more closely. It sort of weaves and dances. Drunkard, indeed -- I think it's just someone having fun, or a kid in a candy shop, or me at Haigh's chocolates (isn't that the same thing?) Looking everywhere at once.

I'm thinking about drawing a lot and reminding myself that in order to draw, you have to look. So pardon me if you come across a gal in the street, giving an intent stare at passers-by, clouds and the sky (today I was taking photos on Collins street at lunch). It's just me, and I'm just looking.

This time last year

On exactly this day last year, this is where I was:


In front of an amazing chunk of history, an effect of architecture, a monument of achievement. A cathedral like this one is not just a cathedral, a building: it's lives and deaths, laws and mystery, religion, belief, families and locality. Ego. Perhaps baser impulses of envy, pride or greed.

This time last year we took the train from Rome to Orvieto. On the tourist trail, I was suspiciously holding myself aloof, even while we piled out of the train station and whooshed up the funicular carriage, climbing the rock to the town.

Our self-catering place was in the unpopular end of town. It required a bumpy journey on a little bus with our big bags - all of which made us grin with glee because it cut out the loud Americans. And I hate loud American tourists in Italy. Sorry. But it's true. Luckily, they won't -- or don't -- walk, so we were spat out by our surly bus driver at a nondescript little square, some judicious directions in improving-but-rusty Italian leading us down an alleyway, to a door, a long dark staircase upwards, and some negotiation.

'You talk into the speaker phone.'

'No, you.'

Poke.
Nudge. Scuffle.

'Argh.'

BZZZ>>crackle-crackle<< -'Eh, umm, Buon Giorno....' We explain. We think we are understood. We start to rattle and babble along in broken words, but she understands: we are the Australianos, but he lived here in Italy, when he was small. Short. Little. Piccolo. The Italian flows around us, long streams of which we gather, 'How lovely! You are welcome. But you were once small! (a poked finger toward his tall frame, and much laughter) My daughter comes soon. She speaks English.' The creased old face of a nice woman, late in life meeting and interested in strangers, much though they present a difficulty of language, perhaps slightly worrying. We're all right. Paying guests who are no problem and who even understand Italian. We get big grins.

Late that night, still jetlagged from the flight from Australia three days earlier, we drift through the deserted town. Sit on cold stone benches. Sigh at the soft light. Stare intently at scultpured reliefs on the cathedral front, carved when the world was young, over 600 years ago. Hands were once alive.




It's like filling up on a long drink of water - or milk, and feeling the sustenance of the art and the power of the images filling you back up again. Yes, this is why I studied art history. This is the Renaissance and its tangled precedents and the master artisans of Europe. The Christian history and its worldly remnants. Myths and legends: of the master craftsmen, now, as much as of the religious rites they depicted.



It's hard to explain my love of Italy and how I feel more alive there, but this comes close. It's something in the comfort of inspiring but understood old friends: art works that I have loved and studied with curiosity since the first days when I heard of them, and saw them in books.


Sometimes life is quiet and sometimes it's loud. Some days, like the day exactly a year before today, it fills you with a richness you can feast on for decades.

If time is a river

If time is like a river, when you hold your hand against the current, does time wash around you? Push and pull you. Slip around you. Hold tight: push it back. Twirl and whirl, like flying hands flipping the current of air out the window of a car.

Did you do that when you were a kid? Let your hand bounce and sway in the air as you rush along. I don't do that much now that I know how to drive. Being a passenger I can't let go of mantle of responsibility. Mirror, shoulder, mirror. Watch the traffic. Even when I'm not driving. To let someone else drive and to sit back - that's a little pleasure. I do that sometimes when Mr Tacc drives. Trust to know that you are safe, like you were when you were a kid, with your family, going places.

I'm rowing upstream at the moment, like so many of us. I wonder what the banks of the stream are like, and if there are picnics to be had on grassy green banks. Flowers to pick. Time rushes but playtime, it stretches.

Tonight I have spent the evening on my own, drawing whatever comes to mind. Not this wistful rower: she came along a few months ago. Solid things. Coffee cups and pear trees. A strange little llama. And a coupla characters I'm rather pleased with.

I'm thinking (deep breath) - I'm thinking I'm going to sign up for a night class in children's book illustration. I don't feel like I can afford it, but who cares? (And that's my own fault for not doing last year's tax, silly girl -- so far missing out on Kevin's play money. Sorry; stimulus. I reckon some drawing stimulus and a challenge from someone outside would be good.) The moral of the story I need to illustrate with my own life is: catch up, do your paperwork, get your beans and take them out to the drawing garden, where they might grow.

Do you think there might be flowers?

Seeking peace

I'm in a strange old space at the moment. Not a lot of blogging, but I don't apologise. I feel as if no one's reading (the old radio trick of feeling like you're talking to yourself) and frankly, I've lost a bit of interest in what I have to say. No point talking to yourself when you're not even interested!

This autumn I've struggled against burn out. I know I need to break free of the burn out cycle, but like many people, I believe I can do everything in the time that's available. I think I'm capable of getting everything -- and I do mean everything -- out of every day, and I'm confused and baffled when it doesn't happen. Even more so when illness comes along to force me to stop and rest.

Why write about it? Well, sometimes speaking our demons is vanquishing them. Naming names to take away the sting. Sometimes I need to recognise that the only thing that stops me from being happy is me. Looking in the mirror and worrying whether or not I am happy.

I may take a break from posting here, or I may not. I do want to feel that I am not 'letting myself down' if I do. If I'm not here, I'm just away, sitting in the sunshine, looking at the sparkles, counting the warm fur on my dog's neck, and loving the green of the grass.

I've just realised that I need to do this one thing: to go slow for a while.

Once upon a time...

Have you noticed, recently, that the word 'Stories' keeps coming up?

It's usually plural, and I'm seeing it everywhere. First it was that national book chain, advertising that they have 'All the best stories' - and one of our TV channels boasts about their stories, and the library, too.

The Duke and Duchess of Urbino (1465) by Piero della Francesca. Uffizi Gallery, Florence, Italy.
More than just an interesting story.

Today, we received a flyer from a second hand bookshop, promising to deliver a new story for my Enjoyment! (Their caps). Not only do I hate random capitalisation (it's okay; I won't rant), but I'm beginning to get annoyed by this use of the word 'stories', too.

What does it mean? Why are all books suddenly 'stories' as if we are kids at bedtime needing to be soothed to sleep? Maybe we do want escape and fantasy reading. Are we really that stressed out? (Or are we listening to the media too much?) I'm not sure I want a juvenile relationship with words and books and the amazing strands of people's lives that make up the incredible wriggling mass of interesting, odd, and complicated humanity.

Do you?

Yours,
Puzzled

Up to the blue -- or should dad be boo?

I got eight hours of sleep last night: this is an achievement! Up and out in the regular early, not the dark and extra-early early, and these autumn days are gorgeously crisp. Lots of dog walkers. Balloons in the sky.

I took this photo at about exactly this time last year, and although I forgot my camera today, this was just what the sky looked like. Pearly clouds and the jewel-bright balloons.

Sadly, sometime in that long sleep, I seem to have caught a cold. I've been sneezing my way around the house this morning, and it's not looking good. I've got one more busy work day ahead of me, and Sewjourn's quilting bee tomorrow, and dinner out, and more catching up with friends on Sunday, and I just want to go to bed and sniffle.

Up early; out in the dawn

I woke up at 5:30 this morning. Dark and still, only one apologetic hoot from a train and no traffic on the road. But I couldn't sleep.

I don't think I've had a full night's sleep, or, more certainly, two full nights in a row, for weeks.

I read a book recently in which the same thing happened to the main character. Eventually, she got used to operating on less sleep. She started getting up and going out for walks. Today, I found myself doing the same thing.

Sleepy dog wondering what's going on, but happy to be out. He's a darker shadow in the grey gloom, still so dark that I can't see the shadow of his tail, but I know it's wagging merrily. The parrots are shouting at each other from the safety of two popsicle-stick trees, one on either side of the road. Not a light in most houses. Cracks of orange in others.

Soon, dark morning walks will be the norm. It's been nearly two years since Toby and I were up and out in the dark every day. This time last year, I was getting ready to leave my job. To quit corporate marketing and make use of the round the world tickets we bought, before coming back and figuring out what happens next. Now, I'm here, back in Melbourne and in a new job and a different career that I enjoy enormously. Not every moment, but most of them, and many of them greatly.

We went to Italy last May. Slept the long flight and woke up in Rome. Despite my happiness in this moment, I want to do it again. To live in Italy, for a few months. To be in Italy.

Recently, I started writing daily pages -- thoughts and ideas, no design to the words, no audience, just stuff. It was a treat, today, to be up early and to write without one eye on the clock. Two cups of coffee and the mists of night dreams fading away.

I had a nightmare last night which is now making me laugh. Yesterday, the talk on our street was of the spate of burglaries on our block. Some houses have been done twice. We haven't (yet). I thought 'What if they took the laptop? All my photos of Italy!' I resolved to buy a back up drive, today, and to back up the whole machine and hide it.

So, then I'm dreaming, late at night, and I find myself on a lilo (air mattress), half-sinking, in a lake. I had a big camera, and I was trying to keep it above water, while sitting next to me was a guy (I don't know who, some New Zealander), and he kept saying, 'Don't worry; I'll download your photos and then they'll be safe even if you drop the camera'.

Then a shark showed up. And I woke up. (This shark was not very scary. Its teeth were remarkably tiny, like fig seeds, all in a row, and I think it sort of slobbered on my leg. It even looked more like an overgrown trout, because I've seen lots of trout and I've never seen a shark.)

- And who said that we don't dream our daily concerns? Back up those photos or the trout-shark will come and slobber on you. That's what I say.

---

As you can see, early mornings make for rambling.

Here's something gorgeous:


Spoonflower fabric of the week: Teacups, by Hannah Raeside of Manchester, UK. I've been profligate and ordered a yard. It's going to be cushion fronts, for the colourful scatter of cushions I am determined to make, inspired by the latest CraftSanity interview with Jennifer Paganelli. At some point in the interview, both Jennifers are chatting about how fun it is to have real colour in your house, and how everything doesn't need to be 'matchy-matchy'. Well, I agree. A light went off in my mind, and the cushions will be happening. I can't wait to show you the first pair!

Around the world on a Great Melbourne Day

I love the way that this city is sometimes a playground. - Or, at least that's the way it feels. Yesterday's activity took us from Italy to the Lebanon, through the Middle East and then to 1970s Australia. Into the city and it's the 50s, before Portugal, Italy (again), and a dash up to handbag heaven. Oh, and a short stop in Korea. Finally, music under the stars with an Italian in Algiers, two Spaniards and an Austrian. All in Melbourne.

Coriander, parsley, spring onions, fenugreek, turmeric and lamb. Mmmm...

How did it happen? With a morning start at the Mediterranean Wholesalers (coffee and canolis), we explored north to the A1 Lebanese Bakery, which was our landmark as we hunted for a shop that would stock fenugreek leaves and dried limes. We've been inspired to try some Persian cooking, and tonight's dinner of lamb with quormeh sabzi is quietly simmering away as I type this, sending interesting and delicious smells throughout the house. Sure enough: a very kind shopkeeper helped me to find both fenugreek and dried limes. This is why I love Sydney Road.

Dried limes. They smell amazing! Tantalizing. Fantastic.

A quick dash to Fitzroy to say hello at Meet me at Mikes, where a special stash-tastic suitcase of 1970s ladybird books was the pick-up for this secret agent. (Two old guys stopped later on and said it was a cool suitcase. "1950s!" said one guy, "And it's even been overseas...")

Off next to meet a lovely friend for lunch, I hopped the tram and - ding!ding! - down to Federation Square, where a flashmob of swing dancers were cutting up the concrete, swing jazz style, to the sounds of big band in a beatbox strapped to the back of a bike. Swing Patrol, kids! Do we love it? We love it!

Can't you hear those grooves? This is not Melbourne, but it's the same gorgeous style. The Swing Patrol site is down, so this is a photo from the Calgary swing dancers.

(Just lookit all that water. Can you believe that's where I grew up??)

But I couldn't find my friend.... Hmm, she said she'd be at Fed Square. Up the steps, down the steps - hmm, one of the dancers is waving at me between twirls - it's her! Turning a neat toe in keds and gingham, having a blast. We settled in until the beats moved on up to Town Hall. I'm not a dancer, despite some two-left-footed attempts, but I enjoyed watching the action and spying the tourists whose open-mouthed delight made my day. There's nothing better than a mob of people spontaneously breaking into dance! (and me without my camera)

Journal Cafe at the City Library refreshed us with Portuguese Custard Tarts (Go there. Have one. I never liked custard tarts before meeting these beauties.) "Let's go handbag shopping!" said my friend - so it was up to Catherine Manuell to try on all of the bags. She didn't tell me she'd been haunting the place and that I was to provide final colour call between two favourites (see pages 4-5). We left with her new bag proudly on-shoulder.

Could it get better? A stop at an Asian stationery shop was pretty divine and only cost a dollar ten (that stuff is addictive) -- and then it was time to race home, pack a picnic, and head out for a free concert under the stars at the Sidney Myer Music Bowl.

Two cups of coffee, free music, and thou...

Nan went to the opening night, 50 years ago. We snuggled under the stars as my lovely Melbourne day ended to the sound of Rossini's overture for "The Italian Girl in Algiers", Spanish guitar from Rodrigo (Concerto di Aranjuez), Albeniz, and Schubert.


We're a little tired today. But happy, oh so happy.

Ladies who lunch ... and garden

You know you're with the crafty girls when the first thing they say is, "ooh, let's see the bracelet!", and the second; "You coordinated your outfit to go with that, right?"

- 'cause they know my handmade wardrobe options pretty well by now.


Of course, there were some hellos and such beforehand, but that's the gist of it.

Lovely lunch today with Ms. Pops, tea-towel terror of the West, and her partner in placemats, TinnieGirl. Guest of honour was jet-set jewellery queen, Handmaiden. I could have sat in the beautiful restaurant all afternoon, enjoying the breeze from big windows and the beautiful art on the walls. Where? Cookie, of course. One more reason to love that place.

Sadly, it was back to work and the reality of heavy construction-work moving commas and laying a perfect line of logos, regulation-width.

Four books off to press in the morning, and for the last week I've been like a flower professional before the Royal Horticultural Society flower show. A quick prune there, a top lopped off over here. Some gentle rearranging to show the best face forward. Crisis: An APHID! Pzsssht! Whew, wiped out. Did someone pack the florists' wire? Where's the florists' wire? WHO PUT THAT DAMN COMMA DOWN OVER THERE?!
Until finally, the whole towering construction: text, images, covers, spines, logos, Gold master CD-ROMs -- and my sanity -- are ready for the lawn-mower ministrations of the printers.

This illustration is total cheese. I couldn't resist. I mean, do they really shoot such falsely-staged shots anymore?

Somehow I always thought of printers as Vulcan-like swarthy folks in dark noisy caverns full of smoke-belching ink monsters. Taming the presses with iron forks on large poles -- that sort of thing.
(Aside: My printer's called Richard. He's very dapper on the phone from Adelaide, rather more of a choreographer than a blacksmith. But that's an aside: no doubt the heat's getting to me...)

My computer's ominous grinding noises are driving me wild: time to check the dinner plans and heave the husband off the desk where my sewing machine ought to reside. I've been crafting a lot recently, and though nothing's finished, there will be a thing or two to show in photos ere long.

But tonight, for a shot of flame, one of my favourite TV shows -- have you ever noticed how Food Safari nearly always features a shot of flaring flames above a stove with something wildly sizzling?

Can't you just imagine Maeve sidling up to the cook in her too-tight t-shirt, breathing 'Oooh, go on - do that thing where you make the stove flame up for me!'

zow-ie!

B

Thinking....

About family. This is a photo of my Great-Grandmother holding my Grandmother. In 1915. Don't they look gorgeous?


We're awaiting the arrival of the next generation, any day now - a son due for my sister, in Canada. The farm animals baby quilt's almost done, and I'll have some pics on the weekend. All I need now's a name (will you decide when you meet him, geeker?) and a date to embroider on the label, and we're off.... (Well, from my perspective, of course. I'm sure this all looks a little different to my sis!)

B

Fragile

I wasn't sure what I was going to post tonight, and have been looking at some photos for inspiration. Not just for the blog - for me. Last year's rush of excitement at getting back to drawing again has died away somehow, and I find that I haven't drawn a thing since before Christmas. It's all empty. Shake the jug; nothing comes out. I tried last night and the pen felt awkward in my hand.

I wonder if there are different kinds of creative personas we wear for different times and phases of our year and our lives. The looking-outward phase, the quiet mulling stage, and the time for resting.

I'm not sure what it is at the moment. Suffice it to say, I'm captivated by the amazing artworks made by craftspeople across the millennia. Like this jug in the V&A Museum, London, carved sometime before 1500 by Islamic craftspeople from one single rock crystal. One crystal. A false move in carving, and the whole thing would shatter.

I'm amazed at the skill built in one lifetime - which is, after all - so short. We went to the gallery on the weekend, and I saw a quilt from the 1840s, metalwork, pottery, paintings, prints. My head's gently whirling-full of ideas and images and so many patterns and colours that I'm halted in place, captivated by spinning colourful dreams.

Crafting continues, but the creative part of my mind has gone elsewhere for a while. I'm enjoying finishing projects and completing already thought-out patterns, but while my hands are making things, my creative mind is developing something entirely unknown. I wonder if something new is forming and thinking, in a creative chrysalis, sometime to emerge? It might be fragile. I wonder....

Cricket for Crafters: a picture-post

Well, my secret is out. Cricket. That sport many of you refer to as akin to watching paint drying - an opinion I used to agree with but now, for many years.....

This represents excitement and the sunny days of summer:

So - why would a crafter be interested in cricket?

Well, it's well known that we are fascinated by patterns, particularly nice neat squares and lovely colours.


And art quilters look for interesting and unusual patterns everywhere.

(No, that is not me with a scorebook, stats cards and a radio. There's cricket, and then there's obsession....)

Why else do we like cricket? We love fabric, and we appreciate its bright colours and draping qualities:


And if it all gets a little slow for a while....

Well, we can always pull out the scrap bag and make brooches.


Five brooches, made at the MCG; many overs, plenty of interesting people watching, a mild sunburn and a lovely day. That's why I love the cricket.

B

PS. Photo credits, all to Mr. Tacc., except for the one at the bottom. (And I'm in trouble for forgetting yesterday...)

Little Things

This little coin purse was finished yesterday, with much thumping and banging (who said there would be metalwork involved in sewing? Ha!) It's the progeny of my purse frame class efforts in December with Nikki and the gang (Bellgirl called it a choir, but that sounds more like a 50s pop group) -- and it will soon be heading off in the post as a little surprise for someone. On further details, my lips are sealed!

Today's the last day of my holidays, and it's back to work tomorrow. Ending the holiday as we started it, we are showing around some out-of-towners today, friends of friends, with a road trip out of the city. Part of me wants to stay and sew, ekeing the most out of this hoiday for my most relaxing hobby, but the other part has been out for a walk and seen that it's a beautiful morning, set to be gorgeous day. Do you ever want to cram more than one day's worth of fun into the days you've got?

I suppose that's my theme of the new year - trying to resist cramming - with all of the connotations of stress, discomfort, and shoddy workmanship that it implies! - and enjoying the moment. Be a little less demanding of myself. Learn to follow what's important, not stress about the unimportant things. Right. And with that, I'm off to zip up a couple of seams before we have to hit the road!

Toodle pip.

B

Away... and back again!

I hadn't intended to take a blog-break, but with the onslaught of Christmas I felt pulled apart. All I wanted for Christmas was to stay at home, nose stuck in a book.

I knew a break was coming, and when it finally did, I pulled in my horns, tucked the sheet up over my head, popped the 'Back in 5' sign on the door, and hibernated. (There's four metaphors for you. Want some more? No? OK.)

Lime baked cheesecake, mangoes and sparkling rose.

Wooowee....

So, we've had quiet days and a stack of books. Shortbread came... and went. A similar fate met the cheesecake. I spent a day with my best friend, and we scored booty on the side of the road in the form of an abandoned armchair. We went fabric shopping. I sewed, sketched, slept in, sorted out, dusted (my goodness), and slept some more. It's all very ordinary, but sometimes it's quiet everyday home life that you need.

Baby grow for the nephew whose arrival is anticipated any moment now.
Red fabric fused to light interfacing; satin-stitched to the grow. My drawing.

Here's a little something I made today, and I'll be back around the traps with comments and posts. I couldn't leave my little part of Blogland - but it's been nice to be away -- at home -- for a while.

toodle pip, back anon.

B.

Good things

I got up early this morning, needing to shake the sleep and some clingy bad dreams out of my mind. What better than an early-morning run with the dog?

It's a glorious day - 'Uno altro bello giornata!' calls my little old neighbour as Toby and I jog by. He's a keen gardener, and today he wants us to share some of his lettuces, fresh and smelling like pure green would smell, if it was a smell. 'Grazie tanto, e Toby ditto grazie anche' - we both thank you, in our dreadful Italian. We love garden presents!

Off we trot, to pass the next Italian garden. Now, this is one I've got my eye on. I am trying to work out how, in Italian, to ask about the multi-grafted tree in the front yard. It has lemons (citrone), grapefruit (that's pompelmo, right?), and at least 2 other citron fruit all grafted onto and happily growing on one tree. And once a year it gets all of its branches lopped off -- ohh, ouch, it looks awful -- but sproing, it comes back again and fruiting like mad. I want to know if I could do this to my lemon tree.

When we first moved in, I seem to remember telling Mr Tacc. about the 'scary' old man who stands on the street every morning, watching people walking past. Then we got a dog. Now, every morning, they have an open-armed reception, a big Italian-dog cuddle and lots of 'Ay!' hellos. My dog adores this man. Even when accidentally broad-sided by the hose (now, that was funny!) Soaking wet, Toby leapt over the wall, tail wagging furiously, he barked once at his friend as if to say - 'Hey! Look what you did to me! I'm all wet! Want to play again?!'

On Friday, a leaflet for classes at the Centre for Italian Studies arrived in the post. I'm pretty tempted. Not because I want to learn holiday Italian but for the gardening goss. I want to know how these guys get such amazing gardens with artichokes, aubergines, zucchini, and of course, rows and rows of tomatoes in the front garden. There's only so much you can say with words like 'bella verdure' and 'grazie'. And 15th century art history terminology. They didn't talk much about grafting in my textbooks....

I'm off to enjoy my cafe, panettone, e la bella giornata.

B

Tested and proven: sewing lowers stress levels

I had one of those days. You know, the kind of day when the phone rings and you wince. Because the last three phone calls were the harbinger of hassle and trouble, things gone awry, files that have been lost and the owner off on holiday, colleagues on jury duty, major projects teetering over the deadline abyss.

Your schedule is such that you've got a full day at work with a superhuman supermarket sweep to do at lunch, two errands on the way home, extra house guests for dinner, and a freelance deadline to meet. By tomorrow.

Days like these make me feel like I'm standing amidst a pack of kittens -- each one of them is climbing up my arms and legs with their little tiny claws going pick-pick-pick. Pick-pick-grab-pick. Everyone wants a piece of my attention. Where is there time in this for me?


I got through that day, folks, and I survived. The next morning, early, I sat down to sew, in the sunshine. Just for ten minutes, and just one hand-sewn seam to close up a project. Sewing saved my sanity.

Calm stitching plus a sense of completion: I practically skipped out of the house to meet whatever those stress-kittens could throw at me in my day. And do you know? It wasn't so bad. I could just flap my new scarf at the worries and let the pompoms do their stress-busting trick. pop-pop-pop ... All gone!

Cooking with Tobie

I find that heading rather amusing: you would too, if you knew that my small home companion is a food-obsessed kelpie cross called Toby.

Actually, I'm talking about Tobie Puttock, and the cooking Master Class that I went to last night with friends Nicky and Cathy, and Cathy's friend Gary. Did we have fun? Just check out the menu, and make your own mind up:

We had lots of fun!

Here we were expecting some tiny tastings and a glass of aussie bubbly, a hall packed full of women (come on, it was going to be all women, wasn't it?) - by which we betted on city girls with HandBags (the capital HB signifying the Large Price Tag it came with). In other words, not our thing.

The words, 'It's gonna be a bun fight' were uttered. But we were delighted to discover that we were wrong.

Maybe it was the buy three tickets get one free offer through Delicious magazine, but the atmosphere was fun, with groups of friends out for a nice evening. We all embarrassed ourselves by scoffing thick chips in the bar before the event and then walking in to see white linen; cutlery; multiple wine glasses at each place. We thought there would be three canapes shared between 100 people, but what we got was a three-course meal, with wines. (Though sadly the Marsanne ran out before they got to us, and the service was not great, nor were they gracious about the wine disasters). But the chips were a good idea: Tobie turned out to be a talky-talker, and so was the coffee-making guy that the sponsors wheeled out first. So we sat happy, drank wine, watched and enjoyed. And there were prizes, but despite my announcement that I was going to win the magnum, I didn't. Phooey for predictions.

So -
Did you know that gnocchi doesn't have to glue your mouth shut? I didn't. And that vanilla, in moderation, tastes amazing with morels.

What's a morel? Here's a picture, in situ, of a morel:


(What, did you think in situ meant in the ground? Sorry.)

You'll be glad to see that it was not all note-taking and tasting, and the doodle-girl in me broke through after the second sip (read: glass) of wine. (The Pod-person above the morel is a result of a rant about someone's workplace; nothing to do with the food). And those who know Tobie will be delighted to hear that his hair registered a '6' on the bouffant scale (this photo, for comparison, is about a 2.5).

Morels remind me of a spectacular summer at my parents' cottage in Canada, when Dad found a wealth - nay - a fortune! - of morels in the woods. I seem to recall very earnest inspection of mushroom identification books, careful par-boiling and a tentative taste, followed by an all-out, no-holds-barred frenzy of morel eating, including morel omelettes and morels on toast. (Remember, Dad?) One bite of the gnocchi and I was whisked back to that summer. Even at $XXX per kilo, that's cheaper than airfare..... Mmm.

I've never been to a cooking class before, and I'm pleased to say that I would go again any time. For techniques and in-depth learning, I'd go for a day or weekend, hands-on course, but for an evening of entertainment and mild learning, in a great atmosphere, and with fantastic company, this was excellent. Next time these classes come to town, I'll be there.

B