Rhubarb crumble

Last night we had a rare night in, so we curled up on the sofa with the cat and a bottle of pinot noir, watching cheesy dramas (Robin Hood and Desperate Housewives) while the wind and rain howled and hurled outside.

On the menu was Lancashire hotpot and rhubarb crumble. I love rhubarb crumble, and it is my husband’s favourite dish. Okay, so I know that to some people rhubarb is ‘war food’ but I admire its honest simplicity and its ubiquitous durability. My husband laughs that he had never eaten ‘posh people’s food’ – avocados; olives; cherry tomatoes; guavas – until he met me. But he had always eaten rhubarb.

My granddad used to grow it in the garden. We would ‘help’ him to dig over the vegetable patch when we were children. I was easily distracted by the worms and the archaeological finds I made. I was convinced I had discovered treasure once when I slammed a spade into one of my brother’s toy soldiers, buried during some long-forgotten military campaign.

And crumble – well, it’s just edible perfection, really isn’t it? It has to be made with butter and the texture as you roll it between your fingers is satisfying to the soul before you even eat it. I’ve never been fond of pastry – it’s too fiddlesome and sticks to things when it shouldn’t. My hands are never the right temperature to mould it and then roll it out, and it just never looks right. But crumble – well, any fool can make that!

Rhubarb with strawberries or ginger or coconut or orange peel – but rhubarb every time. And then the addition of cream (preferably double) or icecream (Kapiti gingernut is a current favourite). I’m not a crème brulee or a tiramisu girl. I’m not interested in pavlova or pannecotta – but I’ll take the rhubarb crumble for an effortlessly sincere taste of home.

I used a recipe from the BBC Food website, and the above image is from the kitchen gardens website.

My newest favourite thing: Kingfishers

When I went for a bike ride last week, I was whirring round the bays when I saw a flash of brilliant blue. At first I thought it was a metallic crisp packet, it was so shiny, but then it took off and flew into a tree. I put on my brakes, pulled my feet out of my clips and admired the radiance of the kingfisher.

This is such a gorgeous, dazzling bird. It looks as though it is adorned with jewellery, and not the cheap stuff either. I carried on my ride, more aware now of the variable oystercatchers (I have visions of them being good at times and fair to middling at others), terns, petrels, and shags (we call them cormorants – it saves the giggling). Apparently sea birds sneeze excess salt out of their bodies. I think that’s fascinating!

I never thought as myself as a bird-watcher although I do remember as a child that my mother used to call me to the window to point out the blue tits, woodpeckers, nuthatches, robins and chaffinches. Not starlings – she didn’t like starlings.

She used to hang out a little bag full of nuts and scraps and bread crusts suspended from the rose trellis. The squirrels used to shin up the wooden joists and grab the bag in their greedy little paws. As they nibbled the goodies, they would be dive-bombed by twittering sparrows who wanted their turn.

When I first came to New Zealand, I realised the birds were different. Your kingfishers don’t look like our kingfishers. The herons, robins and magpies are all different. I bought a book to identify them and, in lieu of any native mammals to study, I got quite adept at naming the feathered companions to our walks.

If I didn’t know what a tweeting species was, I would invariably just give it a name at random – my husband was never any the wiser. Rifleman was my favourite. I’m still not sure that I’ve ever seen one, but it’s a cool name.

The fantails used to freak me out – they don’t behave in the way that I expected birds to. Rather than streaking off, they flitter about your head and feet, swooping in to catch the tasty morsels you disturb. Now I know what they’re doing, I’m quite happy to share my world with them. And what a rich, beautiful world it can be at times.

Robbery alert!

A report in this week’s Southland Times reveals that a couple of British tourists made a false claim to police about being robbed of their possessions, intending to conduct an insurance scam.

An eagle-eyed off-duty policeman spotted them using a supposedly stolen wallet in a supermarket and their scheme was well and truly rumbled.

Regardless of the foolishness of doing this in such a small town where word gets around, I would have thought it was impossible that their story could have stood up to close scrutiny.

Apparently the men described their assailants as eight ‘well dressed’ men at 11.50pm on Saturday night. I lived in Queenstown for seven and a half years and I never saw eight well-dressed men in all that time, let alone all on one night!

Opening Night

I am in a play that opens tonight. The play is The Devils by John Whiting, and it is on at the Gryphon on Ghuznee, presented by Stagecraft.

For the next two weeks there will be late nights (I’m unlikely to be home before midnight), spotty skin (I don’t usually wear make-up, but you have to on stage or your face disappears under the lights), cramped dressing rooms (27 cast members in about a 4x3m room with low ceilings), smelly costumes (I play a nun with a hunchback and I do a lot of writhing on stage – those things are not made of sweat-free fabric), and poor nutrition as eating habits (no pun, or indeed po nun, intended) become erratic at best.

My housework will remain undone, my exercise regime will suffer and my husband and cat will feel sorely neglected. So why do I do it? Because I love it! I love that opening night feeling; the buzz of excitement and nervous energy backstage. I love the feeling that so many people have worked together to put on a production that will entertain and provoke.

And I love acting – playing different characters and throwing myself into roles. I get to wear costumes, pull expression, speak words and vent feelings I would never do in my own life. I am a voyeuristic magpie, borrowing from the experiences of others and presenting them back to them.

I want to make people laugh and cry, gasp with horror and smile with understanding. I want to make them think. Above all, I want them to leave the theatre with a greater understanding of something – anything. I know it works for me. I just want to share that feeling.

If you’re in Wellington between now and 31st May, come and share it with me.

Bolton Street Memorial Park

Between the cyclone in Burma and the earthquake in China, I was feeling rather melancholy earlier this week.

I was in town and had some spare time between appointments so I took a stroll through the Bolton Street Memorial Park. In a strange way this cheered me up. There is something deeply moving about cemeteries; they are places of peace and respect.

Without being too crude about it they are also places of growth, suffused with natural blood and bone. Plants regenerate around graves with verdant abundance. Splashes of colour punctuate the grey stones and the brown earth. One life may come to an end, but life as a whole goes on.

The dead are interred with reverence. There are rituals that attempt to find order amidst the random chaos that is living. There are places the grieving can visit and follow their own protocols to deal with their loss.

As I paused among the headstones, people smiled and spoke to me. I found sympathy and peace. The neat paths in the cemetery are beckoning, leading to new avenues. I felt as though there was reason and rationale in this place. There can be beauty and dignity even in death. It is not all in vain. I was bizarrely rejuvenated.

E nga mate, haere, haere, haere.

Tuakana: My Newest Favourite Thing

Last week, through an opportunity at work, I spent two days and a night on the Massey University marae, learning Te Reo Maori and Tikanga. It can be a minefield, especially for someone like me - English, white, and female - a trifecta of tribulations.

I find new experiences initially frightening, but ultimately rewarding. I am still haunted by memories of going to a new school and finding a seat in the cafeteria at lunchtime. I like swimming but am terrified of unfamiliar pools where I don't know the routine about lockers and changing rooms. Dinner parties; award ceremonies; sporting events; church services - all can fill me with trepidation until I know what to expect and what is expected from me.

I did, indeed, learn many things and am grateful for the experience. The best part of the whole wananga was the concept of tuakana/teina. My understanding is that the tuakana is an older brother or sister, who is your senior to whom you defer and ask for advice and guidance.

This is not necessarily to do with age, but more to do with wisdom. As a teina you are the younger sibling, but also have points of value and merit that you can teach to others which may be more to do with attitude and outlook than experience. I love the fact that the relationship works both ways.

We had two lovely 'big sisters' (Sian and Terina) who helped us out with all the protocol and customs - we followed their lead and asked them questions and they were approachable and made everything positive and welcoming.

I think everyone in life should have someone who fulfills this role. I have been blessed with two big sisters and a big brother of my own, who always look after me when they can. Geographical distance and daily concerns mean that sometimes this isn't possible and I miss them all greatly. For those who aren't fortunate enough to have a large family, I think a tuakana should be top of their wish list.

Gunner Inglorious

Last week I went to see an excellent play called Gunner Inglorious at Soundings Theatre in Te Papa.

The one-man play, based on true events in a book by Jim Henderson has, apparently been performed over a hundred times around the country. It is still remarkably fresh and captivating and thoroughly worth seeing. I don't know what the future plans for this production are, but I strongly recommend that if you haven't yet seen it, you should do so.