Isolation notes

I'm sitting here watching the wind try to tear the washing off the clothesline.

We've been in isolation for the past week after B tested positive for covid last Monday night. We had been dreading that moment, but when it came we were actually excited. Well, I was. B was a shadow of himself, flat and tired and short of breath.  He slept most of Tuesday, and barely remembers that day at all.

I was secretly thrilled to see the two lines appear on the test. It's been a long school term, and I'd been yearning for a bit of a break from the hamster wheel. A week off from life was exactly what I wanted. And of course the girls were incandescent with joy at the thought.

It's been wonderful. And let me acknowledge right here the privilege in that fact. We are not worried about money, we have a pantry full of food, we are warm and safe and have been overwhelmed with help and support from friends and family. We are lucky, and I know that.

Honestly, I wish we didn't have to go back to the real world. Our world here at home, just us four, is perfect for me.

There's a jigsaw puzzle on the dining table (a lockdown tradition by now) which we all take turns to pause at and pore over.

B has taught the girls how to make friendship bracelets, and now J walks everywhere with embroidery floss pinned to the knee of her pants.

We've played card games ending in helpless laughter.

I've knitted a whole sleeve on A's pink cardigan. I should have got both sleeves finished really but alternating rounds of knit and purl are boring and tedious. Another pattern I probably won't revisit.

We've baked bread, of course.

A has learned how to swing herself at last, and now spends ages out there, one of the rare times she ever plays alone.

And, perhaps my favourite part, we eat every meal together. I haven't felt harassed by the thought of dinner, there's plenty of time to think about what we'll have and to get it ready in time. 

The only two things I've missed are barista coffee and being able to just nip to the shops for something we need.

We all, including B, tested negative yesterday evening so it's time to rejoin the world. Bugger it.

Taking stock

The clothesline is sagging under the weight of towels, sheets, and pillowcases. The washing machine has been sloshing almost constantly since 7am. And there's a little girl with pale cheeks asleep in her bed at midday on a Thursday with a bowl beside her.

No prizes for guessing what's going on in our house today.

Seems like as good a time as any to take stock! Who remembers this? Takes me right back to blogging circa 2012.

Making: a pink cardi for that pale cheeked girl.
Cooking: zucchini. I never want the season to end.
Drinking: a lot less wine, and feeling so much better for it!

Reading: old blogs from circa 2012, which is what reminded me of the fun of taking stock.
Wanting: my little girl to feel better.
Looking: at the washing spinning on the line. Thank goodness for sunny windy weather! Best disinfectant I know.
Playing: Wordle, and not understanding the fuss everyone is making over the words.
Wasting: time blogging when I could be separating the sleeves of the aforementioned cardi.
Sewing: nothing at the moment which is ridiculous considering that, for the first time in my life, I now have a dedicated sewing desk.
Wishing: school holidays were a bit closer.
Enjoying: the change in seasons. Soon the sun will be coming inside in the afternoons.
Waiting: for good weather on a weekend so my friend and I can hike to the summit of Mt Taranaki.

Liking: my new/old tracksuit pants from the op shop.
Wondering: if I was supposed to move the cows today. 
Loving: feeling like autumn is on our doorstep.
Hoping: no one else catches the tummy bug.
Marvelling: at how quickly one gets used to not having a vegetable garden.
Needing: to figure out what's for dinner.
Smelling: the scent of fabric softener. I know it's a pointless luxury but I love it, especially in times like these.
Wearing: my new track pants non-stop!
Following: the covid news, much as I'm desperate to tune out.
Noticing: that my kid's wet bag is coming apart at the seams. Maybe there is some sewing in my immediate future.
Knowing: that it'll be a very early bedtime for me tonight.
Thinking: constantly about my family in Australia. Three years next month since we were all together.

Bookmarking: sweater patterns for my sister.
Opening: the compost bin and releasing a cloud of fruit flies UGH.
Giggling: inwardly at my sick girl telling me solemnly this morning that she will need a lot of attention today.
Feeling: so happy in our new house. Living here is so easy, it could not be more perfect.

Baking bread

Back when I only cooked from packets and jars and didn't know my shallots from my spring onions, I never realised that making bread was anything special.

My sister, who cooks all kinds of incredible things, mentioned once in passing that she could never get her bread to turn out right. It gave me pause because I knew she made some extraordinary dishes. But not bread? Something so simple, such a pantry staple, how could it be difficult? 

Once I did learn to cook and to make things from scratch, I also learned that the fewer the ingredients, the more important the method. Bechamel sauce, chocolate mousse, jam. Bread. 

I can make a creamy bechamel with my eyes closed, and after years of experimenting, I can somewhat reliably turn out a decent crusty bread. 

I still cannot master my mum's chocolate mousse recipe, however. It has like, three ingredients. Mum can't understand why none of us can get it right, and we can't find that magic touch to alchemise those three disparate ingredients into the lightest airiest chocolaty-est confection.

But, back to the bread.

It must be about ten years, on and off, that I've been baking bread. Mostly being disappointed with the results, and overwhelmed with the science and the variables when trying to understand why my loaves were flat, or dense, or airless.

I've tried so many bread recipes, all promising a beautiful loaf. I've dabbled in sourdough. I've tried dozens of bread mixes. I've used a breadmaker, a loaf pan, and now, my favourite method, a dutch oven.

Like many people, covid gave me a reason to address bread baking again. For some reason, during the first lockdown in March 2020, I turned out beautiful puffy loaves one after the other. Finally! I had it! Then we came out of lockdown, and with the same recipe I was now getting flat hard frisbees. Some so sloppy I tipped them in the bin rather than waste time baking something so obviously wrong. 

I still carried on baking, found another recipe, and baked it again and again. I've made this bread over a hundred times I'm sure.

As so often happens with these things, I didn't consciously realise what was happening until I recently mentioned to a friend in passing about "when I bake bread" and she said, gosh do you make bread?? And I realised that I do. And I don't even really think about it anymore. I know my recipe off by heart.

And now I've realised that the trick is to choose a recipe that's not too arduous for you, and make it over and over so that you know know it back to front. You can look at your dough and you instantly know what it needs. 

It gives me inordinate joy that my kids, the fussiest eaters on the planet, who love packet food above all else, adore my homemade bread. "Crusty bread! Crusty bread!" they squeal excitedly to each other.

Here is the bread recipe I use: 

https://www.lifeasastrawberry.com/easy-crusty-french-bread/

One thing I love about this method is how much additional detail and information is provided. This, I am sure, helped me hugely to perfect my loaves.

Now if I could just conquer that chocolate mousse.

The house blanket

Right around the time when we got serious about building this house, I started on an epic crochet project, a huge intricate blanket named, beautifully, Sophie's Universe.

The house project and the blanket project became, for me, inextricably linked. Both long slow-burn projects, both with their share of difficulties and false starts and bits needing to be ripped out and re-done. I gave myself a deadline: when the house is finished, the blanket should also be finished.

Sometimes it seemed the house would win, and other times it looked like the blanket would romp in at first place.

Through the summer days and the truckloads of metal, wood and brick deliveries, I doggedly hooked away. In front of the tv in the evenings, during the school/kindy day, a snatched moment on the weekend. As winter crept in, the house grew and the blanket spread across my lap. The house barely progressed, but the blanket became too big to finish one round in an evening. Then winter slowly withdrew and the blanket lay idle, folded neatly in its basket, and the house raced ahead again as spring bubbled up around us.

As you would know, there have been ups and downs in the house build. In some way those memories, good and bad have been stitched into the blanket. All the ebbs and flows are preserved there, even if I'm the only one who remembers.

Now here we are, living in this house. To all intents and purposes, it's finished (4L of paint notwithstanding).

It's summer again. The blanket is barely half finished. One day I folded it into the basket and never picked it up again.

Today however, I opened the storeroom and saw the blanket, still neatly folded and patiently waiting. I pulled the basket down and tonight once the smalls are in bed, I'll sit down with my hook and find my place in the pattern, choose a colour and add another round.

The house may have won the race, but if I can spend all winter under the comforting bulk of the blanket, in our beautiful new house, I'd say I won anyway.