words and pictures - catching up

Officially the end of summer today. Seven degrees outside:: snow on the mountain. Cold. Blustery. Rainy. Perfect weather for curling up on the sofa with my delicious new book. Maybe later. I've got work to do today. It's crunch time for the tomatoes.

"Pull 'em out. t. o. d. a. y. Every last one. Frosts are coming tonight."

That was the word in the school car park this morning, as photocopies of CWA green tomato recipes were passed around. After school drop, it was back home to face the inevitable, I rugged up, braced the cold and went outside.

I pulled out all the tomato plants, all thirty of them, to reveal long lost scribbled labels, that had been pushed into the soil next to tiny seedlings all those months ago. Brandywine, Amish Paste, Napoli, Roma, Black Russian.

Snip, Snip, Snip. I cut the green tomatoes off the vines and they fall into the basket. Plop, Plop, Plop. My hands are freezing. It's raining. The wind lashes my face. It's muddy. It's cold. I wish I could do it later. But it's now or never. By tomorrow, the predicted frost will turn them into black mush.

So many green tomatoes. Admittedly, I was a bit late getting them in this year. And as a result of my lazy gardening, they spent autumn catching up with a long finished summer. And today's cold snap means that they never will. That, coupled with mild weather and this mostly verdant crop is the best I could hope for. No ripe, luscious, sun kissed tomatoes for us this year. But I did learn a few lessons about growing tomatoes; Don't over crowd the plants, they need lots of space for light and growth. Get them started early or better yet start them off in a greenhouse. And you have to actually tie the tomato plant to the stakes, not just stab it into the ground next to the plant and hope they'll somehow, miraculously attach themselves. ahem.

Now these green guys, all 10 kilos of them, will sit on the kitchen floor, alongside boxes of patiently waiting quinces, hopefully some ripening, and if I can ever catch up, some cooked into chutney. Or perhaps, some dumped on the compost heap. To eventually be dug back into the ground to nourish a new crop, at the official start of next summer...

More catching up over here.

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Words and pictures - a long drive

You make a few sacrifices when you move from the big smoke to a little one. And yeah, sure, you're prepared to make those when you consider what you'll gain.   The green, the fresh air, the space. But I do miss the culture of big city life.  The galleries, the restaurants, the festivals, heck even a night out at the flicks would be an absolute treat for me these days. But then, as parent of small children, you kinda forgo most of these things anyway, no matter where you live, at least for a little while. 

We're just under an hour from Hobart, which doesn't sound very far, but at night it's a drive fraught with bad roads, bad drivers and potentially bad road kill.  And while yes, Hobart does pack a vibrant artistic punch for what really is a very small city, it's still a big effort for us to organize to see anything in town.  It requires either an overnight stay or a sober late night drive home, a Nonna sleep over to watch the children, well, it's all a bit of a palaver really.

So excitement was high on Monday night when we bundled up the smalls, grabbed a rug and a thermos of hot chocolate and headed down to the nearby river bank, just ten minutes before kick off. A five minute drive, we parked right alongside the designated "best vantage point" signage. The river was still and smooth with the quiet town lights reflected in the water, while the night air was unseasonably warm, with nary a breath of wind.  We sat and waited with great anticipation.   Slowly but surely, a glowing 1959 Chinese Junk, named Suzy Wong, drifted by with set-sails filled with moving images of film, maps, portraits and text woven together by a hauntingly beautiful soundtrack.  It was so enchanting to watch.  The children were totally mesmerized. As was I.  I wish Suzy Wong was floating on the Huon River all the time.  It was spellbinding. We watched for about an hour before the yawns and eye rubbing of the smalls were our cues to get home pronto.  Which we did. Within minutes.  I guess when a contemporary performance does make a rare appearance in a small rural town, it has its advantages over the big city shows.  It was pretty cool to see such an outstanding spectacle without a long drive home.

Thanks to Pip for her weekly assignment of words and pictures.

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words and pictures - little things

The little ones who share my home, they play, they giggle, they shout, they grow.  

I must remember their little things.  

Their little games, their little wonder, their little fun, their little laughter. 

I must write down these little things.  

Must photograph these little things.  

Can't forget these little things.  

Their little toys, their little clothes, their little beds, their little chairs. 

Please stick around, these little things.  

Don't go too soon, these little things.  

Their little ears, their little noses. 

Their little feet, their little toeses. 

Little stories. Little songs.

Little sighs and little tears

Their little hugs.  Their little kisses. 

Ooh I love these little things. 

Very precious little things.

Please stay forever  little things.

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12 comments cute, elsa, hugo, words and pictures

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words and pictures - cosy

cosy autumn morn

warm in the soft golden light

a moment to dream

more cosy goodness here

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Words and Pictures - school lunches

Who threw out their milk? Not me, second row, second from left.

There's a new game at Pip's with a theme each week to write or post a picture about.  I've been loving reading all the players tales about this week's theme of School Lunches.  Here's mine:

I don't remember too much about my school lunches. I was a two Sao biscuits sandwiched together with butter and vegemite kinda gal.  Wrapped in greaseproof paper.  No mess, no mush. Quickly and easily gobbled up on the go so as not to take up too much playtime. 

My strongest memory, well nightmare more like it, is actually a recces thing.  I started school in 1973, a time when some well meaning bureaucrat thought all children should have a big drink of sun warmed milk for morning tea.  I went to a tiny catholic school in a South Australian country town with only two class rooms. Single desks in neat rows all facing the blackboard at which stood the scary Sister Rose.  Who must have been at least 100 years old.   She wielded a wooden ruler and would smack you without hesitation for the slightest misdemeanor.   

After a pleasant morning of reciting our times tables, we'd march out to the bitumen and pick up our warm milk served in a cardboard pyramid.  Kinda like a Sunnyboy without the orange flavoured fun.  Sister Rose would briskly snip off the corner and you had to suck the milk through the soggy cardboard.  Oh boy, makes me cringe to think about it.

But if that wasn't bad enough, one day Sister Rose found two full triangles of milk sitting upright at the bottom of the bin.  "Right" she said glaring at Kathleen O'Reilly and me, "you will do!"  And she grabbed us by the scruff of the neck and hauled us over to the bin.  "Drink it!" she demanded.  Let me tell you right now Sister Rose was pretty scary to a five year old,  actually she'd scare me now if I saw her on the street, and not only for the fact that she'd be 140 years old.  Our meek protests of innocence fell on deaf ears, "I don't care, drink it!" was her response.  So Kathleen and I picked up those now close to putrid,  full pyramids of milk out of the bin and sculled them down. Gagging all the way. 

Thankfully, the Room Temperature Milk For Schoolchildren program was phased out not long after.  I managed to survive it with some shred of dignity intact.  And it's no surprise I can't remember too much about school lunches,  I've blocked it all out,  save the comforting nostalgia of a Sao biscuit. 

 

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