On Shaky Ground

It’s been nearly a fortnight since my last post.  

For the most part, the silence has been for good reasons. But the days of shake, rattle and roll leading up to and following Sunday’s M 6.5 quake, have left even this earthquake hardened Wellingtonian shaken and wondering if 80 litres of stored water will see us through if it gets really serious.

The last post marked the beginning of the school holidays. Since then:-

I’ve been asked to leave another restaurant, this time because of a fire alarm. I’m developing a complex.  One might have thought that the sight of all those firemen would have provided some compensation for the inconvenience, but sadly no.

We’ve had friends around for that civil German institution, Kaffee und Kuchen.

Encouraged by the success of the honey and goats cheese profiteroles we made at Food Night the other week, I’d decided to confront my nemesis, choux pastry, once again in the hope of producing a tray of light, crisp-cased, cream filled, Belgian chocolate-smothered eclairs.  Who doesn’t want to wolf one of those with a cup of coffee of a cold, bleak Sunday afternoon?

Until now, pate a choux and I have rubbed along OK, but the results were never quite right. Instead of persevering with tweaks to the recipe that has always got me 95% of the way, I made a last minute and deeply regrettable decision to try a different one, the recipe Francesca brought home from her afternoon at Le Cordon Bleu, no less.  

They rose promisingly at first.  Then half way through, they just stopped.  I was left with hard, thumb shaped stubbs of dough. Simply put, there was no Wind in my Windbeutel.

Thankfully, long time friends Kristina and Jeremy are understanding folk.  My mother, whose mantra is “always make ahead” knew better than to say anything as we watched the scene unfold (or not) with horror.  My father gave me a hard time as always, but, just as predictably, seemed happy to do his share of damage to my newly re-fashioned cream and chocolate topped pastry fingers.  They still tasted OK, but you all know how little comfort that can be.

In the circumstances, I hope you will forgive the absence of photographic record. Admitting to one’s mistakes is one thing, being confronted by pictorial evidence quite another.

More on Kaffee und Kuchen another time, perhaps even with Kristina’s delicious Black Forest Cherry cake recipe.

I owe thanks to Vladimir Petkov for introducing me to Finnish band Apocalytpica. As a woman whose musical tastes often lean towards the young-angry-male end of the spectrum, I often hear a riff on the car radio and wonder how it would sound on my cello. Now I know.

Apocalyptica1

Unlike Perttu Kivilaakso, I have no immediate plans to perform clad only in leather trousers, my hair thrashing wildly. Leather trou don’t come in my size, and if I play with my hair out, some almost always gets caught between fingers and fingerboard, making for very painful position shifts and unwanted distraction from the purity of artistic expression.

Frankly I don’t know how Pertuu and his mates do it, but I bet they wear pony tails when nobody’s looking.

Here is a link to some of their early material, a cover of Metallica’s, Nothing Else Matters. Avoid it if you take either your metal or your strings too seriously, but it put a smile on my face.  String players my also be amused by their master class satire Cello Lesson # 1.

Continuing on a Nordic theme, Small Acts’ Jennifer Duval-Smith, also shared this very enjoyable clip. Three Swedish fishermen sing Seal’s, Kiss from a Rose.  Perhaps not my favourite Seal number, this one still goes a long way to prove my theory that good things happening around kitchen tables.  If I’d had these boys when I was running the local Russian Orthodox choir, things would have been very, very different.

We had a couple of nights of sleepovers, then took off for a few days holiday with my parents.

We stayed here:

P1030303

The Mountain House, Stratford, with the Summit of Mt Taranaki 

Visited places like this:

P1030290 (2)

Lighthouse, Cape Egmount

Did stuff like this:

P1030266 (2)      P1030276 (2)

And of course, this:

P1030280 (2)

Last Saturday we got home relieved to find that nothing had moved in Friday’s earthquake. Since Sunday it’s been a different story.

We were on the road when the M6.5 hit and didn’t feel a thing, which was a mercy because our elder two girls, especially Francesca who was just old enough to understand what happened in Christchurch and Japan, were already anxious enough.

The trip home involved chucking together a shopping list for the emergency supplies we should have got around to laying in but never quite had, finding an open supermarket, avoiding both motorway and tunnels, checking in on my sister (there were power cuts in her neighbourhood), calming the children and preparing ourselves in case the glass in our conservatory kitchen had met the same fate as many windows downtown.

Well, we were pretty damn lucky.  Not much damage at all. But doesn’t perspective change quickly.

Getting rid of our old rusty barbecue in the Residents’ Association annual large rubbish collection (an excellent service for which our ever-loving City Council has naturally withdrawn support) had seemed like good housekeeping.  We were de-cluttering, I thought smugly.

Now I just think that if we lose the mains gas and electricity, we’ll have no alternative means of heating food or water.

There is an old plug in phone.  In the attic. Somewhere.  We think.  Along with a pile of old quilts and blankets.

I bought a torch-radio that runs on a dynamo after the second and calamitous Christchurch quake.  That was thought to be in the garden shed, along with spare loo paper, tarpaulins, spades and the firewood.  Said torch is now resident on the hall table. We are are possessed of multiple tins and packets, all of which I hope we will never need.

The choice of cinema for the obligatory school holiday movie trip became a matter of which building was most recently constructed and closer to home in an emergency.  In the end Tuesday’s three family outing was postponed to a time when I can go into a public building without wondering how close the nearest exit is and what is likely to fall on my children and my car on the way out.

There was, however, no reason for the children to miss their cookie baking and sausage making classes at Moore Wilson on Wednesday.  The diminishing severity of aftershocks boosted our confidence, besides it is unthinkable to me that anything really bad could happen to you at Moore Wilson.

For years there’s been talk about Wellington, nestled as it is where the great Australian and Pacific plates meet, being overdue for The Big One.  Here, I thought, perhaps a silver lining?  Had we got it out of the way? A relatively big quake, with relatively little damage. Perhaps in the same way one might have hoped that the massively traumatic Christchurch earthquake would have been enough ruin for one generation to behold.

No, says the New Zealand Herald, because the quake wasn’t triggered by the Wellington fault line and when that one goes, we can expect an M8.5. Not much point keeping the china and lamps on the floor, because when that one comes there are going to be bigger things to worry about.

Well I’m not moving any time soon. Apparently the Wellington Fault last did it’s thing between 200 and 450 years ago.  It’s a 500 to 1000 year event. I’m 44 and I’ll take my chances.

And besides, the Herald is an Auckland paper.

Food Revolution Day: Petone Shopping

Lydia and Cafe Figg

It was another full day.

I started it sensibly by not sleeping much the night before because I was too busy blogging. When I did get to bed, the baby needed a feed.  Then not long after it seemed to be time to get up again.

The sainted husband would no doubt have taken the kids to school and let me sleep longer, but it was Lydia’s first school visit and I wasn’t going to miss that.  Plus walking to school is an important part of my latest regime.  Anyway, it had to be done.

No sooner home, showered, dressed, baby fed again etc,etc, but Lydia was back from school wishing she could stay the night there (so she likes it, thank goodness), my good friend and partner in crime Natasha had arrived (refer our recent Paella adventures) and we set off to Petone on serious business.

Naturally it was only once we’d gone too far to turn back that I realised I had left behind my shopping list for next Tuesday’s Vietnamese cooking night.

House of Knives

Still, we each had friends to collect from knife hospital, House of Knives and other places to go.

Natasha is diligent and well organised, so I think hers were probably just in for a bit of a rest and a spot of botox.  My much loved but somewhat neglected chef’s knife was there for more serious work.

We’ve been together for nearly 25 years and in that time there have been plenty of adventures.  Heck, we even go on holiday together. (Have you ever tried to chop anything with what they give you in a motel unit?)  But this is only our third professional sharpening.

We’d been going through a bit of a rough patch.  The steel wasn’t doing it for us any more, probably exacerbated by the recent guest who used the knife to open a beer. Guess how close he came to finding out just what a good knife can do.  The tip was bent. (My family deny all knowledge.) And the heel needed another regrind.  Not even the sharpest blade can cut well if it doesn’t touch the board all the way through.

Natasha’s knives were ready.  Mine had missed the regrind, so had to stay in overnight again.  A bit of a pain, but now I’ve got a good excuse for another trip.

We had a good look around the store.  Much as I would have liked the crowd sized paella pan, 2 new pairing knives and a black steel frying pan, all I came out with was a bird’s nest icing tip which I hope to deploy in making grass for Lydia’s forthcoming toadstool birthday cake.  (I loathe working with icing, so whatever you’re thinking, please lower your expectations.)

Bookfeast

Having come so far, it would have been rude not to visit Bookfeast, the specialist book store conveniently located in the neighbouring shop.

bookfeastfront

For those who like to read about food and wine, particularly those quaint individuals who still like to flick through a cookbook before they buy, Bookfeast is a veritable oasis.  It’s less of an oasis with a four year old in tow, even they are really very,very good, but I still managed to come out with a book on Vietnamese street food and a list of titles that should solve my husband’s birthday and Christmas shopping problems unto the ages.

Shop owner Sandra Young is always good for a chat and listens very patiently to my standard rant about the lack of good Russian and Polish cookbooks. She tells me she’s reducing her stock of the kind of popular books carried by the chains in favour of the more obscure and specialised books that her customers crave.

If you get a chance, check out her sale shelves.  You might reasonablly expect to see a selection of less loved volumes that have outstayed their welcome, but that’s not the way Sandra does it.  She says if a shelf it getting to full, she just picks out a volume at random to make space for the new one.  Probably not what her accountant wants to hear, but when I go back to collect that knife next week, I’ll be making a bee-line for that shelf.

By now, Natasha and I are feeling weakened, probably more from what we didn’t buy than what we did, and make our way across the road (kind of) to a place Natasha spotted when admitting her knives the day before.

I lived in this town as a child back when still was it’s own town, the meatworks were a big employer, children came to school with no shoes and nobody had heard of gentrification.  These days it’s part of another city council, the meatworks are long gone and while I’m sure the poverty is still there, house prices are up and Jackson St offers you everything from a chocolatier through crepes to curry and back again.

Cafe Figg

Amoungst this panoply, it would be easy enough to go past Cafe Figg.  As we go in, the traffic is noisy and it’s starting to rain.  Inside it’s cosy without being claustophobic.  The food in the cabinet is appetisingly presented, the staff are very friendly and a charming mural ties the autumn colours of the grape leaves overhanging the rear courtyard area to the trees framing the shop on the other side of the road.

P1030013 (2)

Lydia, who has been behaving well for some time on the promise of a hot chocolate, homes in on strawberry muffin. The range in the cabinet is more than supplemented by a menu, although in terms of presentation, that particular document might look more a home in a greasy spoon.  The new regime dictates abstinence and Lydia declined “help” with her muffin, so there’s not much I can tell you about the food.  I can tell you that they got my hot chocolate just right and that the bathroom facilities were very clean. I think I’ll take Mum there next time we’re on the loose.

By then it was time to head back to Wellington to rescue children from institutions of learning and prepare ourselves for the pizza session to come.  More on that in my next blog.  Plenty more on Petone food shops to come.