Olive Juice

I knitted seven cardigans last year. I think that may be a personal record. They were all little of course, and I must admit I’m a bit addicted to the little cardigan. They’re quick, they’re cute and there’s just something about a little person buttoned into a knitted thing. It says “love”. There was a time very recently that I shed tears for my hand knitted cardigans, and folded them lovingly into vacuum-sealed bags, believing they’d get no wear in Brisbane. I started researching cotton yarns, resigning myself to the limitations of knitting with cotton. Then came one particular morning last week when we all woke up freezing. That’s what I’d forgotten about Australia, the weather might be mild, but it follows you into the house. Out came all the little cardigans. Love.

One of the little cardigans I knitted last year was this one.

So far, it has won me 197 hearts and 16 new friends on Ravelry. I modelled it on something straight from the catalogue of Olive Juice Kids, making up the pattern as I went.

I used Rowan Purelife Organic Wool in Alder Buckthorn. It’s processed entirely without chemicals. I recall finding a prickle in it. It’s lovely stuff.

And what’s on the needles now? Another little cardigan, of course. This time in a wool/cotton blend. Just in time for “winter”.

The Thrifty Gardeners

Among my library finds this week were two real gems which have long been on my amazon wishlist. The Edible Garden and The Thrifty Gardener by Alys Fowler. I’m in the process of planning our veggie patch, or food garden, as Alys would prefer. Her gardening situation is about as far from mine as possible. She gardens in the cool, fertile soil of England, where her major pests and predators include moles and hedgehogs, whilst her chief concern is how to extend the growing season through the British winter. My garden is in the backwaters of hot, windy Brisbane. My major predators will be possums and native turkeys (yes, turkeys). My climate is so warm that is seems, to my infinite sorrow, unlikely I can grow garlic. If I’m honest, the real allure of the books was Alys’s wild hair and charming, punk permaculture aesthetic.

And yet, organic gardening has common threads, the world over. Feed the soil, let the soil feed the plants. Imitate nature, not the farmers’ fields. Live with the holes in your lettuce. A hole-y lettuce leaf is better than a sprayed one.

While Alys’ thrifty ideas are getting me riled up with enthusiasm, there have been a few checks to this process. Even a thrifty gardener needs some cash, apparently. Wine crate pots are certainly charming, but they aren’t free here. Cheap potting mix is about as fertile as a pile of rotting socks. And Bunnings’ lowest prices are just the beginning of a long list of garden inputs that adds up very quickly. Lucky the girl who has a mum to buy a pair of gardening gloves and a hand trowel or two.

A thrifty gardener, it seems, must wait. Wait while the compost bin does its thing. Wait while the green manure brings life back to the soil. Wait while the toilet rolls pile up for seed raising. Wait while tools and hardware are thrifted or borrowed. Wait while the bank balance recovers enough to buy bales of mulch and bags of sheep poo.

But there’s plenty of fun to be had in the meantime. Like perusing the seed catalogues of Eden Seeds or The Digger’s Club, or searching out local sources of manure and knowledge, or cheering on a husband who’s building a cage to keep out possums and bush turkeys.

Oh, and reading books by a British girl with amazing hair who is growing food, like you are, on the other side of the world.

Making Do

On Tuesday, a twenty foot shipping container arrived at our new house. It contained a mixture of things stored away since we first left for Germany and things brought over courtesy of the University of Queensland.

It’s been well over two months that the four of us have been living from two suitcases and a portable cot. The same four or five changes of clothes, the same bedtime stories, a small pile of bibs and a bundle of carefully selected knitting needles; this outfit saw us through several weeks in Sydney, a month in a rented granny flat and two weeks in an empty house where we supplemented the arrangement with borrowed camping gear. It was, at times, tiresome to say the least. However, I also did find it rather liberating. It’s so healthy to be reminded that our stuff is just stuff. I also found it just a little exciting. Being low on play things (for both grown ups and children) and high on time to fill meant being more resourceful. I quickly fell in love with Brisbane City Library. The nearest op shop supplied us with craft materials, a three dollar ice block mould and a blender for milkshakes and baby food. Some glue, pavement chalk and the odd sticker, and we more or less kept ourselves in thrifty fun for two long months. If I’m honest, this is the kind of fun I always plan but never make time for when Lego or Play School are at hand. And while I’m thrilled to be reunited with my sewing machine and the remaining ninety percent of my wardrobe, I hope I’m less inclined to think of these things as any more than stuff.

Winter sun

Thanks all for the encouraging comments. I’ve felt better since I wrote. I’ve even been looking at photos, and thought I’d share some here. We had very mild weather for December and much of January, and these are the days I’ll remember. One in the sling, one hand-in-hand, clear skies, bright sun, icy chill.

In Brisbane

Queenslander:

1. Person who resides or originates from Queensland, Australia.

2. Type of timber house, popular between 1840 and WWII, designed to maximise airflow and minimise extremes of heat.

First thing that happened after we collected our bags at Brisbane airport: got stuck in an elevator for thirty minutes. Nice one Brisbane. Again, I’ve delayed blogging about this latest seismic shift for the Wright family. Reasons include: a worrying illness, a frantic househunt, my card reader not working (and my fear that photo-less posts aren’t sufficiently interesting) and I must admit, homesickness for Germany. This last one is possibly the main reason, the real reason. I’ve been unwilling to open this blog and think about where we have been and where we are now. Why am I “homesick” now that I am “home”? Perversity of nature I suppose. My nature, specifically.

Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about where to take this blog now that my time overseas has ended. Instead of an ancient, foreign city to see through my eyes or lens, there is only suburban Brisbane. I’ve heard it said numerous times of late that Brisbane is Australia’s new hot city. And true enough, there is plenty to discover here, and I have plenty to say about the experience of moving back. But my posts will have to be less visual, if only because a new computer is not high on the list, and also because each photo takes me a very long time to resize and upload whilst my children occupy me for a very long time each day. If anyone can solve the slow photo issues for me, I’m all ears.

What I’d like to say is thank you, dear readers, for walking with me these last two years, when I was very far away (or close by for those in Germany). For now, I’ll keep writing when I’m able, or when it helps me, or when I have a thought to share. I’ll do my best to be interesting, and I’ll post photos when I can. Perhaps, rather than avoiding these painful feelings that accompany thoughts of Germany, I’ll make use of them here, somehow.

Now we are here

Well here we are. For two weeks we’ve been wallowing in a sea of jetlag and familial love, gradually growing used to being Australian in Australia. Things have come rushing back; sights, smells, colours and sounds. It’s incredible how quickly the senses adjust. Just as if I’d never left. But when I close my eyes, I see Germany. Cobblestones, red roofs, the front door of our building. I try to enjoy it. I know it will fade soon enough.

Slipping Away

Just days now until we leave Germany. My time is almost up. It’s a bit painful to dwell on here, so I won’t. Funnily enough, winter has arrived to bid us farewell. After months of unseasonable warmth that bore no comparison to the extremes of last year, the weekend brought a thick white blanket of snow and a sudden plunge in temperatures. I ventured out with my camera during the week, hoping to find a way to capture it all before it’s too late, terrified of forgetting what this time of our lives has been like. Sadly I only managed three photos before my crew reached their limit and the project had to be abandoned. Shame, though it was -10c.

But then, unexpectedly, I managed to get out on my own. True it was for a dentist appointment, to make every last use of our German health insurance as all of us (who have teeth) have done this week. Nonetheless I managed a few photos of this city I love so much, before the light faded, and my breastfeeding mama deadline was up.

I’ll miss you, beautiful Leipzig.

Last year

Last year on New Year’s Eve, I was pregnant without knowing. I had my suspicions though. Kate and Liz were here with me. Along with the rest of Germany, we lit fireworks outside our house in the snow, and tried not to get blown up.

2011 was much more than I bargained for. I got depressed when the snow melted. I hated Germany, for a while. I went home to Australia, hugged my mum, and learned that not everything is better there.

I discovered Spring in Germany. I fell in love with the city I live in, it’s beautiful streets, it’s parks and canals, it’s horrific and glorious history.

Rose had her first hair cut, and made her first real friend. I found a fleamarket beyond my wildest dreams. I’m not going to say any more about it. I ate lots and lots of ice cream. Some I made with egg yolks and double cream. I wish I still had time.

I found out I was having a boy, and cried for several days. I did a lot of thinking, about men. I went to England, my favourite place. I slept in a tent with my daughter beside me. I ate pork pie and damson jam.

I experienced labour, it was crazy. I fell in love with my son. I waited and waited for summer to come. It did, the day I went into hospital. For three days it was 30 degrees. When I came out, it was raining.

I cried a lot. Theodore cried more than me. Rose cried a little, and Tony not at all. I watched two seasons of Downtown Abbey, twice. I started to sense my time in Germany was running out.

And now it’s time for us to go home. In just a few short weeks, we’ll be back in Australia, home to see family and friends, then off to live in a new place. I’ve never been to Brisbane. I hear it’s nice. But there are snakes, and floods, and no one I can call a friend. But that’s where I started here, so recently. And now here I am, thinking of the loved ones I’ll miss, and the wonderful times I’ve had here.

But enough of that, for now.

Zum Geburtstag, liebe Rosie

Dear Rose,

Today was your third birthday. Your Dad made pancakes for breakfast. Yours was the shape of an “R”. The living room was decorated with 38 balloons. I tried to make some bunting, but we’re terribly sleep deprived and I couldn’t manage it. Instead, I got out my collection of hankies and tied them all together. It looked grand, and you loved it. I decorated your chair with flowers, just like in the book Miffy’s Birthday by Dick Bruna.

All your presents were wrapped in red paper. You didn’t know or care that your new bike was bought second hand from the neighbour, or that your doll’s house once belonged to the lovely Hochschild girls. Aside from these we gave you glitter pens, a little stethoscope and an old black “doctor bag”, since “doctoring” is big with you right now. We also gave you a groclock, which was a pathetic attempt to recover your sleep habits. You seemed to like it. Your favourite gift is a blue ballet outfit. It was given to us years ago by Sarah Schachtel, who bought it at a garage sale. I’ve kept it hidden all this time. I can see it causing problems, you already want to wear it all day.

We organised a party for you at the last minute, and by “last minute” I mean morning of. Nevertheless, you had heaps of guests, and our flat became a chaotic whirl of children, babies and adults. You wore a dress that my mother made for me, with smocking and a peter pan collar. You asked for an apricot cake, but we couldn’t get dried apricots and your cake was chocolate instead. When we sang, you cried and hid your face. You didn’t want to blow out the candles.

At three years old, you’re an enchanting girl. You’re articulate, stubborn, imaginative, bossy, serious, silly and kind. Your storms are very stormy, your sunshine bright. We love being your parents.

Happy birthday darling girl.

I wish you a Mary had a little Christmas tree*

I’ve been all but silent here lately. I wish it wasn’t so. But let me be frank, life is a struggle for us right now. Our Christmas was small this year. But I’m confident it’s one I’ll never forget. It began at 1am, then again at 4am, then another time at 6am before it properly kicked off around 7.30. The prevailing fog of desperate fatigue made it hard to feel festive. But somehow we were able to enjoy a present ceremony, church service, skype conversations and finally a delectable dinner with Chris and Hannah. Christmas traditions were adhered to rather rigidly when I was growing up. And that was good, they were good traditions. But a little flexibility is sometimes a virtue.

This year I didn’t bake lebkuchen or stollen. But I did bake fruit mince pies, with fruit mince I made from scratch. And Delia is right. I’ll probably never reach for the Robertsons again.

I didn’t make Christmas stockings for each family member, but I did buy antique pillow sacks from the flea market, and they looked grand.

I didn’t make a wreath or a dried fruit garland, but I did make potato printed wrapping paper with Rose.

I didn’t have time to make the brandy custard. But Hannah’s pudding was so indescribably delicious that ordinary cream was fine.

I didn’t knit or sew anything for anyone. But I did make homemade Nutella for Tony.

I’ve been hesitant to share this, lest Theodore read it one day and feel sad. Theodore if you’re reading this, please know that we love you. We know it’s not your fault that you cry and cry. It’s not your fault that you can’t seem to sleep, nor even eat, sometimes. We’re tired, so very tired. But we love you, and we always will. Long, long after this phase has passed.

Tony and I watched Meet Me at St Louis last night. Well, some of it anyway. Judy Garland was a strange looking girl. But I couldn’t help noticing these words are somehow very meaningful. For us, this year. So I wrote them down for Tony, in a Christmas card I painted with Rose.

Someday soon, we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

*The title of Rose’s personal carol