Random

A friend of mine just texted to say that she was going to be interviewed by the police because she may have driven behind a car yesterday that a dead body was found in today. Eeek! When I texted to ask if she was scared, she said 'yes, I need a gin.' At that point, I called her to say, 'Make sure the cops pixilate your face and synthesize your voice when they interview you for television in case it was a mob hit.' In New Zealand, the 'mob' refers to the Mongrel Mob, a heavily tattooed, not necessarily motorcycle riding, drug dealing gang. The guys are the New Zealand equivalent of Hell's Angels, only harder.

My friend said 'Maybe I'll have to go into the witness protection programme!' She sounded so excited, I volunteered to be her minder. It could work. We both love to cook, we both like wine, we both laugh at the same things at the same times. I suggested that we could pose as middle aged lesbian lovers and have mixed media parties. Our husbands would have to visit us wearing dresses. I'm flying down to see her next weekend, so I'll get all the first hand information on her interrogation.

In New Zealand, cops are gentler than in the USA. They are respectful. They call you sir or ma'am, 'invite' you to help with investigations, allow you to attend funerals of the people you've killed even though they know they are getting ready to arrest you, and they don't carry guns. They have them, they just don't carry them unless they are called out on an Armed Defender incident. They do have pepper spray, and tasers have just been introduced to the nation, those scream inducing, Star Trek looking implements of torture guaranteed to make an atheist pray for mercy.

When I lived in the States many, many, many years ago, I worked for a Sheriff's department. My brother was a Detective in Georgia, and my ex was a cop. Many of my friends were in law enforcement. I supported their right to carry firearms. But after living in New Zealand for so many years now, I wonder if I still support that? I doubt that many Americans have to rush out into the plains and defend themselves against wild animals or marauding Indian renegades, and I wonder if the presence of a gun amps up aggression rather than de-escalates it. I dunno. The cops here seem pretty laid back, overall. It's a hard one. On one hand, I think 'yeah, shoot them in the ass if they invade your home,' on the other I think, 'why would I want a weapon that brings potential danger just by having it in the house?'

Besides which, handguns are illegal in NZ unless you are a gun collector. I don't seem to have an answer for this ramble, it is just that, a ramble.

However, if you read a blog posted by 'peekingthoughthewindows.com' , take pity. It might just be my friend.

Letting Go

The boxer's in the back yard barking, but I can't be bothered to go out there and tell him to be quiet. For some reason, my concern that he'll disturb the neighbour is not present this morning. Perhaps I've let go of my fear that they'll call the dog patrol who will come by and leave a threatening note on my front door.

Letting go is an interesting process. I am more of a let go-take it back-let go-take it back-someone pry it out of my hands-kind of person.

I was thinking about letting go in the middle of the night last night. Our house is still on the market, still unseen by the one person who will fall in love with it and buy it out from under us at the price we want for it. We don't have to sell, we want to sell because we want to move somewhere else, start a new lifestyle, and I, for one, have been drooling to get it over and done with since the inception of the idea that we would move to Napier.

Unfortunately, I have no control over this house business. I've tormented myself by looking at other homes in the region we want to move to, but realistically, we can't do anything until this place sells. I've prayed that God would release the home in Napier, that the house here would sell, that it would go quickly, we've done our homework and advertising, and the agent is holding open homes, but I can't do a darn thing about the market or the timing.

Not only does the move to Napier represent a new lifestyle opportunity, for me, it represents something to look forward to.

Which creates a dilemna for me. If I let go, what will I have to focus on other than right here, right now? I'm not good without a vision. If I don't focus on the move, perhaps I'll miss opportunities that just waiting it out and seeing would miss. If I focus too hard, I get frustrated.

A veritable Catch-22.

So, sometime between 2am and 3am, I decided I needed to let go. To let this thing happen in its own time, to trust that what we are looking for will happen.

I'll let you know if I pick it up again.....or, if I sign up for that technical writing course I've been checking out, or, if in a fit of frustration, I run away somewhere.

Anything's possible.

Dichotomy

The other day I had to switch my dental appointment. There didn't seem to be one available in the next few months, then suddenly the receptionist found one.

'That's God looking out for you,' she said, convinced in her faith.

I'm a Christian, and there was a time I would attribute any and all good happenings to God. Extra money, the successful completion of a University course, the health of a friend, a gift of a new refrigerator to replace my defunct one, etc.

While I believed then that all good things were of and from God, I wasn't a Satan blamer, unlike a friend who, without a flashlight or knowing where she was headed, slipped on the steps one rainy night, spraining her ankle. As we applied ice, she declared, 'the devil tripped me.'

Perhaps it was the lack of a flashlight that was the problem.

I figured then, and now, that we must take responsibility for ourselves, but these days, I wonder to what degree God really involves herself / himself in the nitty gritty of our lives. (Please don't comment on my acceptance that God may be female. It isn't relevant to this posting. If you feel the need, find a theology blog. )

Which leads me to... if I don't think God cares about the dentist, why do I still bother to pray, asking God to help friends and family, and seeking guidance for myself and my life, and just this morning, entreating help for a lost bracelet and our upcoming home purchase?

Someone once suggested that I ask the universe for help. I couldn't relate to that concept. Everytime I considered it, all I could envision was an old promo for the soap opera, 'As The World Turns.' Maybe my friend who asked the universe for help found it hard to relate to the concept of God.

I don't think this ramble has a conclusion, the thoughts are a work in progress, and the only thing that seems to settle with me at the moment is this:

No matter how much my thinking has shifted about God's involvement in the mundane, I would rather walk in the dark with God, than to go alone in the light.

Romancing The Blog

Now that I have a blog, I find I must romance it. Like a lover, I must think about how to create meaningful moments with it, I must nurture it, stroke it, and try to develop its potential. I have to feed it.

I want to introduce it to all my friends so they can see what it means to me, and what if they don't love it as much as I do? Suppose they say, 'This is not for you,' or , What you did with your blog was absolutely disgusting?' Will I flounce out, smarting beneath their opinions, or ignore them to my detriment?

Of course, if they love it, I will revel, basking in their praise like a cat in the sun.

And, how exactly does a person have a blog romance? What parts of myself will I give it? Will I be thoughtful, funny, and enticing? Will I give it my heart? Shall l show my intelligence, or would my blog prefer that I be a little bit ditzy? How much honesty shall I give? Total, or is that too much information?

Ah, this love affair with blogs. New excitement, fresh romance.

Energy

So our house is up for sale. Anyone want it?

It's exciting facing the prospect of change, but it's also exhausting. Everything has to be kept up to viewing standard, and while we are not slobs, we like to throw things on the foot of the bed until we're ready to put them away, or leave recyclable items on the counter top until we go outside and drop them into the bin.

Now, it has to be done immediately. Apart from the obsessives in the world, and we do need obsessives, I might say, I wonder how many people invest this kind of energy into day to day living.

The other thing about invested energy is, when do you stop investing?

I was outside yesterday, scrubbing down the sides of the house and back walls, cleaning the yard, spraying mold retardant, and pounding nails on the porch. I also was getting rid of cobwebs and dirt. I was pissed off because I had to do it. I had asked for help, it hadn't come, and if I wanted it done, I could see the chore was mine. Those extra dollars we might get from viewing appeal depend on my energy, my drive, and my obsessiveness. I'm not the only one who can do these things, but I am the only one who will, without waiting until it is too late or things fall apart.

At the end of the day, I wondered, whose responsibility is this? Too tired to sort it all out, I had a glass of wine and went to bed.

The Auckland Food Show - Irish Style

If you've never been to a food show, you've missed a good thing.

Food, wine, cooking demonstrations, all kinds of new products, people jammed into small spaces, divine smells, cookery, utensils, and lots of free samples. A great way to spend an entire day and lots of money.

If you've never done a foodshow with an Irish friend, you've really missed out.

For reasons pertaining to lawsuits, the guilty shall remained unnamed. Let's just call her 'C'.

Here we go:

'Yahhooooo!' C yodelled down the phone line. 'Want to go to the foodshow? I've just found out it's in town, and last year I bought a case of Villa Maria wine for $6.95 a bottle, and this year I want to get three cases for the end of year hygienist's party. We can walk around sampling all the wines and eating the food, did I say I also have to get a case of wine for the girls at work, and we could have a lady's day out just looking around the place.'

She delivered her message without ever pausing for breath.

Spending a day in a food hall with my uber extroverted Irish friend sounded like my kind of fun, and the last time I had taken a risk happened three months ago when I navigated 20 stairs on a pair of crutches. I was ON!

We met in the lobby of the food hall. Immediately, C wanted to know where the wine stalls were.

It was 10:00 a.m. A little early for me.

'Look at that,' she beamed.

Before us lay a treasure trove of gastrononomy and viticultural gleanings. Just inside the door stood the Chilean Wine stand.'Oh, my gosh,' C chortled as if a genie had materialised in front of her. She quickly grabbed a Chilean white wine sample for herself and for me.

She is thoughtful, my Irish Lass.

I sipped, she gulped. She asked for a Sauvignon Blanc sample while I tried the Cabernet. I was still sipping when she poured a jolt of her white into my sample.

'Try this,' she said, just before spinning off to taste the gourmet crackers.

It would probably be good to point out that I am a red wine drinker, and only rarely am I tempted by white. The last enjoyable white I had was a Fletcher Riesling made by Craggy Range Vineyards in the Hawke's Bay, New Zealand. Long finish, crisp, apple flavours on my palate, fantastic. I'm also a big fan of fusion cooking, but I do not mix my wines. I poured the concoction into a spittoon, then shoved my way through four very dressed up women to get to C.

'Where's the Villa Maria stand?' C asked me, shoving the map that showed all display locations into her handbag. I was about to tell her to look at the map when her attention was diverted by the Victorinox display.

'Eek! she shouted over her shoulder as she ran towards it, ' They've got the same can opener that I got here last year.'

'Is that good?' I enquired, catching up to her.

C held up the appliance. She also started waving an empty can of Watties Baked Beans.

'$20 bucks, four-in-one function, and look,' she said, showing me the rim of the bean can. 'Perfectly clean edges. Very safe.'

A dental hygienist, C admits sharp implements and clean edges are very important to her.

She decided against the opener, hoping to find a better deal at another booth.

Like a moth to a flame, she landed at the next wine stand.

She slid me a Merlot sample and claimed a Chardonnay splash for herself. 'Yummm,' she sipped, checking the price list in case she wanted to buy a few dozen cases. 'Could I have another one of these?'

I moved to the Syrah samples.

'I'll try that Sav Blanc you have,' she told the rep, 'and the reds.'

'I thought you didn't like reds,' I reminded her.

'But these are free,' she articulated.

I was afraid she'd soon start slapping the bar and yell out, 'Line 'em up for me and my friends!'

At that point I figured she probably had 800 'friends' in the building.

We made our way to the Electrolux Theatre to watch a cooking demo.

'Last year I found three cases of Villa Maria for cheap,' she lamented. 'I don't understand.'

'Maybe it's because you haven't been to the Villa Maria stand,' I suggested to her disappearing form.

She had gone ahead of me and was in the process of obtaining a good sized cup of passionfruit / vanilla bean natural ice cream when I caught up with her.

'Villa Maria is a really good winery, they'll have their own stand,' I tried to reassure her.

'I don't know,' she slurped.

Inside the cooking theatre, C claimed seats front row and centre. Leaning over to me, she whispered, 'Maybe we'll get samples. When the show is over, we'll run down to the sample tables, and we'll get to eat what Ruth Pretty has cooked.'

'Okay,' I quiessed. I hadn't counted on the hoardes of white haired women pulling plaid trundlers who would turn a three metre walk into a holy grail.

As we were being crushed from behind by the ravening crowd ,'C hissed. 'I don't believe it. We were on the front row, and we still haven't gotten anything yet. We should be first.'

'Tell it to those two women who are hogging the serving dishes at the end of the table,' I said, pushing the sharp end of an umbrella out of my thigh, 'they've had double helpings so far.'

Like an obstetrician going for gold, C thrust her hand through the crowd of women, and delivered a paper plate holding five Le Puy lentils.

'Tasty,' she declared, dropping two of the lentils into my mouth. I feared I was eating someone's leftovers.

'I'm going for the dessert,' she said, obsessing. 'We were on the front row, and we didn't get any food.'

'Dessert' was a wheel of brie cheese topped with glaceed fruit, over which was poured a toffee sauce.

I raced out of the theatre to the Faro Fresh Food stand where the desert was being displayed. The vultures were already circling. Why it takes those old ladies years to walk across the street, but they can get around a food show quicker than Superman, I don't know.

'Excuse me,' C announced to the crowd as she arrived. 'We were on the front row of the cooking demonstration, and we are getting first dibs on this dessert .'

I braced myself for a riot. The fire in C's icy blue eyes obviously terrifed them. They held off.

Two mouthfuls of fruited brie and walnut crackers later, C and I walked away the victors.

Between that cooking demo and the next, we consumed bread and olive oil, Dukkah, macadamia nuts, espresso coffee, Indian curry, Swiss sausages, New Zealand made cheese, black, green and red olives, and we sniffed spices and tasted flavorings. And, without saying, many, many wine samples.

Finally, we hauled ourselves into the food theatre again to watch Ray McVinnie, a New Zealand chef, do his magic.

And magic it was.

First of all, I have to say, Ray McVinnie is sex on a stick. Tall, slender, dark haired and horn rimmed specs, dulcet toned and talented, he is funny, direct, and a no nonsense cook. His mise is definitely en place. '

'Simplicity,' he said. 'It's about the food.'

Grrrrrr, Vinnie. You Big Yummie.

Because he writes for Cuisine Magazine, and they wanted to give away subscriptions, Ray said he'd give one away for every intelligent question that was asked. There were some good questions about heat, sanitation and braising.

Once more, C had navigated us into the front row to watch his demonstration, but she wasn't taking any chances. 'Don't wait until the end of the show to go to the sample table. As soon as it gets close to ending, jump up and get to that food!'

I am short, fat, and have a limited arm span. I had recently been freed from a cast because my foot had been broken. I was guarding it the way Sauron guarded his kingdom. C is tall, willowy, long limbed, strong of foot, and fearless. Why, I wondered, was she sending me into battle with an army of greedy guts like ourselves?

'Any more questions?' McVinnie asked as he stirred the final cream into his olive and mushroom sauce.

C's hand popped into the air. 'I heard that if you fry your chips in certain meat fats, it gives off a toxic fume, and it could make you sick. Is that true?'

Ray looked into the middle distance as though the question pained him.

Really,' he said, 'I don't care. I'm about the food, about moderation, about simplicity. If you're afraid it will hurt you, don't eat it.'

Very sensible if you ask me. I wanted to ask him if I could lick his utensils.

I asked a question,' C whispered to me, 'and I didn't get a magazine subscription.'

I didn't point out that the operative word was 'intelligent'.

C is bright but gullible, especially when it comes to reality shows that point out the dangers of living.

At the end of the show, I was the first one in line for the chow, but I was at the wrong end of the table. The goodies were served three feet beyond my reach and the same two women who had been hogging the food after show one, snarfled at the end of the table.

'You'll have to kill them,' I said to C, who was at that moment, shoving a young child behind her.

I wondered if I could crawl under the table, grab two plates from the other side, and make a dash for it.

Finally, the servers took pity on us and passed us some food samples. My beef dish was well worth waiting for. I tasted the Taylor's 80 Acres Shiraz Viogner blend that was being served with it, and nearly swooned.

Two hours later, C had still not found the Villa Maria stand. I, on the other hand, had found the Taylor's stand, and was holding two bottles of the 80 Acres. My feet were killing me, and I had let enough time lapse between wine samples to be a sober driver.

I had to leave.

Reluctantly, C came with me. As we walked out the gates, she turned to me and said, 'If you hear of any other shows, let me know, and we'll go together. And by the way, if you or I win anything from this show, we'll share it.'

You bet we will, girlie, we'll both count on it.