Feeling sluggish....

It was only a matter of time, after the seemingly endless drizzle and rain of the past week, before the Giant African Land Snails (GALS) appeared in the garden.

True to form, one appeared about half way up the door frame this morning, and has  yet to move. He is in dire danger of getting his shell cracked like a nut when the security gate opens, if he doesn't up his snail's pace a bit. 

They really are fascinating creatures, and the Blackberries came out for quick pics and posting onto BBM pages.  GALS buck the trend of small being cute, and I can't work out why.

Their smaller cousins are regularly relocated, preferably over the neighbours wall, when discovered in the flower beds.  I can't bring myself to scatter slug and snail repellent, or to smash them, but I sure as hell don't want them on my patch!  Gardening in the Lowveld brings enough challenges with wildlife of the munching or slithery kind, without adding snail slime.

But when we find GALS in the courtyard, on the lawn or in the driveway, we always stop for a prolonged investigation.  Perhaps a photo or two, including something for a size comparision, to entertain English family who just don't believe that we get snails that big!

We then leave them to go on their way, although we've yet to see one actually move. They seem to drop out of the sky, hang out for a bit, then disappear into thin air.

It is awfully hypocritical to enjoy their visits, but to eject their smaller kin.  Somehow, GALS just don't have the "yuck" factor of a regular sized mollusc. And as we've yet to find one in the flower beds, the association of them chewing and chomping on my beloved plants hasn't happened yet!

Luckily for them, they don't like acidic foods, such as oranges or grapes. Heaven help them slurping down the limes from my Dawa tree - hell hath NO fury like a woman whose carefully nurtured limes are stolen, destroying her cocktails!  Actually, the thought of tossing one of these monsters around is a bit nauseating, can you imagine the mess?! 

Junk Mail turned up an interesting ad, offering 10 GALS to swop!  And apparently, they make great pets, being pretty much mess free.  They are, though, causing concern in the USA.  Three were smuggled into Miami by a young boy, sometime in the 1960's, and subsequently released into the wild by his Grandmother.

Picture the scene - Joe and his pets arrive at Grannie's house for a visit.  WIth a shriek, Grannie shows off her incredible wind up baseball arm and hurls the damn snails, complete with bucket, over the garden fence.  Seven years later, 18 000 (yes, eighteen THOUSAND) GALS were happily scooching around Florida. A single female can lay 1200 eggs a year, and they destroy stucco (cement plaster to us South Africans) - guzzling it for the calcium it contains. Just as we like Sally Hansen to protect our nails, GALS relish calcium for harder shells.

It took a further 10 years, and an estimated $1 million, to get rid of them.  Don't you wish you had THAT government contract, snail bashing, and paid handsomely for it!

I remember my own grannie telling me stories of eating snails and rabbit.  It was hard for a baby boomer child of plenty, to imagine why, with so many good things to eat, one would ever willingly eat something as disgusting as a snail, or as cute as a bunny.

It'll be a very frosty day in hell before I eat a snail, a prawn, a mushroom, a mussel or crabmeat. And we have a rule in our house - we don't eat anything that could be a pet.  Meaning that furry, cute, big earred or large eyed darlings are instantly named, putting them firmly on the protected list!

Placed in an untenable situation once -a friends house for dinner, with said friend excitedly boiling the crayfish he'd caught on holiday - I was advised by a sympathetic fellow guest to smother the thing in peri peri sauce, and swallow fast.  Hence I don't buy that story of the garlic sauce served on snails tasting so good.  If that were the case, why not ladle sauce onto a bread stick?

However, my gran was a child during WW1, and raising a family on rations during WW2, so I guess protein was protein, pass the horseradish please. I suppose if the worst happens, we can feed the GALS on lettuce, marinade them in Nando's peri peri sauce and slug them down our necks.

Survival belongs to the not-so-sluggish..

Local is Lekker!

Right, enough dreary emo stuff about my kids doing what they are meant to do - grow up and leave! 

Moving swiftly away from all the angst, it's time to get back on track with this blog and resume the ongoing tale of a lightly green journey.

After our launch Local-Lish-Us Spring lunch on the 14th October, I (belatedly) started digging up and researching that species, the Locavore.  Or Localvore, depending upon your preference.  For ease of reference, hereafter abbrieviated to LV.

Google it, and the pages roll up, excitedly leaping off the screen, so much enthusiasm and delight.  Just reading some of the pages transfers goodness and a beatific smugness right onto me - watch out universe, you are saved!

Oh, wait just a minute....that link mentions why LV's have got it wrong.  Click click, and  damp cloud of heavy, practical and downright depressing news opens before me.  Damn James E McWilliams.  Double damn, after reading his comments, and about his book, as well as numerous blogs, newspaper interviews and suchlike, it's hard to blow a raspberry at his grown up reality check.  The anti LV's make some sense - not what I want to read about, at all!

Switching back and forth across interminable electronic arguments, spanning several years, and it becomes blindingly clear that battle lines have been drawn, and everyone is so hell bent on defending their point of view, and obliterating the opposition, few are actually listening.  Fewer still are ready to sit down and talk compromise: how do we take the idealism and pertinent points from one side, and mix it with the economic hard facts and broader picture of the other, to create a middle path for all. 

Could this 'take no prisoners - I'm right, you're wrong, I don't need to listen to your nonsense' date back to good ol' Dubbya 'if you are not with us, you're against us' speech of 6th November 2001? Have we forgotten the art of debate, the elegant cut and thrust of verbal foils? How on earth do we negotiate compromise and solution finding, if all we hear is the resounding clang of our own opinions and beliefs, whilst watching our opponents lips move, soundlessly?  For goodness sake!

In Dubbya's defense, he was far from the first to imply the 'either or' scenario.  Lenin, Orwell, Mussolini even Hilary Clinton climbed on that bandwagon before he did.  But it does feel as though we are breeding intolerance at a fast rate.

So, as with anything, research, research, research.  Both sides of the argument.  Then pick your own path to follow, one which will grow and sustain your interest, soothe your conscience, and satisfy your intellectual challenges.

As for me, I am now shopping with my glasses permanently on my nose, reading the Made in... section on the labels.  Slowly but surely, replacing the out of stock items in my pantry, with similar items sourced locally.  It's making shopping more interesting, for sure.  My little vege patch smiles at me through the kitchen window, and I willingly share the teeny surplus with a friend.  She, in turn, doesn't laugh or turn her nose up at the small offering - accepting them with grace. Dairy will be reduced, and doubly so when Robert leaves - he is the milk drinker.  But I'll buy locally made cheese, and less of it.  Good for the pocket, my hips and puts me into both the pro and anti Locavore courts.

As for meat, we already eat very little, and again, when the carnivore heads down south in February, that will shrink even further. I've discovered that the avocado oil I buy in litres in P n P, isn't local, but yesterday I found a brand which is. A switch will be coming up shortly. This LV stuff is getting simpler by the minute! 

Thank you, James E McWilliam, for pointing out the shortcomings of the ultrastrict and Marco Polo LV's.  Finding the middle path between what you espose, and the ideals of Locovore living, really is the best of both worlds.  Happiest of all, I believe that I'm treading my path based on facts and ideals that make sense to me, cherry picked from both sides.

Now why can't the drum banging Dubbya's at both extremes do the same?  You're both right, guys, shake hands and start to work on and collate the goodness you both believe in.

A strong, united front, to reduce meat / dairy consumption, grow your own where possible, support local business as much as you can, eat seasonally, or preserved just makes sense, and instead of giving the broader community the chance to slip through the cracks, saying that "both sides are wrong, so why bother at all to make some changes" woo them with positive encouragement.

All together now, heave!

Tears and Fears

I'd diarised to blog this afternoon, but common sense should have told me otherwise.  Today is Roberts last day at school, matric exams commence in 2 weeks.  The culmination of a long 10 days of one formal school event after another was a 2 hour long Valediction service at Uplands this morning.

I'd been warned to expect tears and heartache, so filled my elegant little bag (ditched the shoulder and posture wrecking Nine West weekender sized beauty!) with a lipice and packets of tissues.

Fully prepared, camera at the ready, I descended on the school hall.  Thirty minutes early, entailing a lengthy stand on cripplingly beautiful, skyhigh red suede wedges.  Lesson 1, read the invitation properly!

Finally sat down in in a carefully selected seat with a good view, surrounded by parents excusing themselves to their neighbours, in advance, for the tears they were going to shed - even the Dad's were at it! All this before the matric students or staff had even entered the hall.

Spent the bit of time on hand BBM'ing (is that a real word?) Keith, to ascertain why I couldn't remember his Valediction service, 4 years ago.  More proof of increasingly worrying bouts of amnesia? He led me on for a bit, before admitting even HE didn't attend his one - GHS reserved it's Valediction for students receiving Honours.  Not a situation we often face in this household!

The Head of Academics, in his speech at Honours Evening last night, admitted that the huge number of children receiving Academic Honours and Colours was largely due to the parental genes handed down.  I'm not sure how I feel about that, looking at the paucity of awards for academia earned by my sons and myself.  Luckily, I'm an old, wise dog, and have learned that school honours celebrate achievements earned at school, and bear very little relevance as to how the many remaining years are played out. 

As parents, we proudly look at the school reports and marks, sports medals won, Eistedfodd certificates achieved, and measure our children by them.

But hang on, we were doing the same, 12 or 14 years ago, when those same kids started playschool. 

Copies of those school reports were eagerly shown to all and sundry, who were delighted that Robert had learned to cut out, Keith could manage the pegboard, they both ate all their food, with a knife and fork, and were independent toilet users!!

I can't remember when I last looked through that file, or even the Primary school report files.  Somehow, the latest achievements and results are the only ones we are interested in.  So why will the high school reports and matric marks matter in 5 years or so?  Once they've achieved the necessary to get into the tertiary facility of their choice, and begun passing those exams, these critically important, dreaded, cause of tears, anger, despair results achieved in matric will also be consigned to the past.

What will matter, is the inner strength, determination and moral fibre they have.  Those values remain with them for life.  And those values were instilled from the earliest years, by their family and teachers. There are no exams set to measure these qualities, instead, they are tested by life and living, daily, for the rest of their days.

So I'm delighted to report that my sons can eat in public, manage the toilet alone, drink from a proper cup, pass reasonably the required 7 subjects and while it is a little premature, I'm confident that Robert will soon join his older brother as a school leaver. OK, that sentence doesn't have the same "oooh" and awe factor that "my son got a full house of A's" or was awarded the "Sportsman of theYear" trophy do - but at one stage, telling my friends proudly that Keith could tie his own shoelaces at school, produced the same "ooooohs"! 

And like Keith, who is discovering and growing into his own wonderful potential; Robert too will continue to grow and to excel, in ways that are yet to appear on the horizon.  The final figures on his certificate, the number of awards on the wall will disappear into his rear view mirror, and be replaced by new and exciting achievements.

It's been a very long and emotional year; today twisted the razor blade embedded rock that's torn my insides apart one time too many.  Enough - we need to get on with the exams, say our farewells, let him loose on his future, and continue with ours. 

I'm the worse at goodbyes - sentimental and emotional -I hang on with a white knuckled death grip, to the bitter end. A few years ago, someone taught me the trick to saying adieu: a tight hug, fond kiss, turn and walk away, with nary a backward glance.  Instead, look forward to meeting again, and saying hello.  I've spent so much of 2012 dreading today, that it feels as though the entire year has been spent in mourning something which hasn't happened yet!

Onward and upward - survive the next month, and embrace a new chapter.

Kitchen Gardens and Keeping it Local

I do enjoy pottering in my vege garden. A more peaceful and tranquil hobby than this I can't imagine. A little worm tea, lots of water, some gentle weed pulling. Excitement as the leaves flourish, and eventually we're cutting spinach, basil and rocket, enjoying the mini tomatoes, and laughing at the bizarre carrots and sad little potatoes that result.

My destiny is not a regular table at the local farmers market, selling the fruits of my hobby.   Much to the relief of the local greengrocer - his livelihood is in no danger from my fresh produce!

We harvest 6 or 7 pea pods at a time, and never more than one courgette – as organic and low carbon footprint as we are, we barely supplement, let alone replace, shop bought vegetables.

Sadly for the kitchen gardener, aesthetics rule, and shoppers are rather demanding as to the colour, shape and appearance of fruit and vegetables. Designer fresh produce for visual perfection - but how does this affect the quality and wholesomeness of the food? And since when did appearance trump nutrition? 

Enough, I fear, to put the kibosh on expanding kitchen gardens to supply the broader community, preventing the sharing of an oversupply and turning that into a little income earner for some households. 

National purchasing and distribution, developed by large chain retailers, has created a bizarre situation where produce grown locally is transported thousands of kilometres away, handled, chilled, placed back on trucks and shipped back to its starting point, some weeks later. 

Fresh, I think not.  And as for the carbon footprint, wear and tear on the roads etc... 

Further proof of the ridiculousness of this procedure is the ongoing trucking strike.  As it starts to bite and affect our daily lives, we can’t get cash out of the ATM’s, petrol is running low at some service stations, and weirdly enough, it is the FRESH produce at local supermarkets that seems to be worse affected, rather than the dry goods and other groceries on the shelves.

I’m so happy to see that our fresh produce, in ordinary times, is replenished regularly.  But doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that a supermarket placed in a geographical breadbasket, as they are here, is running out of tomatoes, avocado’s, lemons, fresh chicken and meat, to mention just a few of the locally grown / raised items? 

It is therefore fascinating to read Capitec Bank advising its customers to draw cash at the supermarkets, as the bank can’t refill their ATM’s, and the supermarkets can’t get their surplus cash collected, due to the strike.

It would be marvellous if the people who can alter current distribution and purchasing patterns could use this situation to rethink and replan their supplies and distribution.  Instead of the habitual moaning and increasing prices after a strike; the difficulties opened up new opportunities to do things differently, and better.

Evolution is an ongoing process, and perhaps the time has come for centralised distribution and enormous transport costs (both to the earth and the economy) to evolve to an alternative, healthier way of doing things.

 

Gifts, Talents and Finding Our Path

 

Feelings of inadequacy, of just not making the grade, seem to haunt us throughout our lives. 

Do you wistfully gaze at a friend or colleague, as she competently completes a task you struggle with? Or just seems so incredibly organised and on top of her game, all round? 

Women’s magazines, under the guise of "uplifting" real life stories about women, just make us feel more hopeless. They mean well, printing encouraging tales of women, our age or older, doing things which make us gasp or gulp. Overcoming a dread disease, and then running a marathon... with one leg. Giving up a career as an investment banker to paint pretty designs on good old Bata takkies, thereby turning a hobby into a profitable little business.  

Or, encouraged by the response to her contribution on Cupcake Day at playschool, an ordinary woman packs in her well paying job to start up a cake shop. Employs 3 people, pays off her start up costs within 12 months, has oodles of time now to spend with her kids. 

Inspirational and well meaning they may be, but somehow, I feel more diminished by these success stories.  I’m just not gifted in that way.  Now, I enjoy baking. Especially the bowl licking before loading the dishwasher (saving water on the prewash cycle!) 

My friends and family really enjoy the resulting feast, however, that doesn't stop the many rude remarks about the product appearance! Sniggers over the lopsidedness of the chocolate ring or the uneven lemon yoghurt cake. "That's not from the shop!" they chortle, "must be homemade - it's squonk!”

 So clearly, a career in delicious, unattractive baked goods will not be mine. 

Creatively, the world is awash with resourceful and inventive women, who casually design and bead necklaces, snapped up by fashionistas. Who's watercolour hobby has led to earning a living by illustrating books. Who discover ability for triathalons, mid life. 

So where does this leave me, and masses of other women who, like me, believe they don't have any saleable talents? We can do things, but just not quite well enough to sell them on. 

Well, here's what I'm learning, fast. We ALL have gifts, and use at least one of them every day. The thing is, we take our skills and abilities so much for granted, we don't see them as such.  We are zoned into the grand perspective of things – a Napoleonic view of conquest and success, measured by an extreme level of power, influence and affluence.

That's why the smartly dressed executive, coolly rapping out instructions for the au pair, planning a dinner party for 8, simultaneously completing a presentation as she plans her next flight has us boggle eyed in awe.

But hang on a minute.  Who has a knack for soothing a fractious infant?  Who is able to feed a family of four on a shoestring, and have the neighbourhood kids lined up for home visits, “cos your mum cooks the best food”? Who just looks at a plant, to have it bloom wildly?  Who puts in a full day at the office, in a job that is light years away from being her “dream job”, gets home through fume infused traffic, and by 8pm has fed, bathed, checked homework, chatted and cuddled the sprogs, before collapsing in a heap in front of the telly? 

I realise that this is not the picture you had of your life, aeons ago when you graduated.  But how many of those powerful people are doing what you manage to do, day in and day out, with none of their resources?

Perhaps you are the mum the school calls on, for fetes, tuckshop and PTA duties.  Your other half abdicates the bill paying and administration of joint affairs, because you are organised and focussed.  Friends call on you for common sense advice and support.  At functions, people gravitate to you, drawn to the joy and laughs radiating from those around you.  Your home draws admiration, for the clever little touches and warmth it has.  Baking and / or cooking has you humming away. 

That’s the secret – some things we do effortlessly, without much thought.  And enjoy them.  It’s the things we do to relax, that bring peace and harmony back to us, that are our gifts and talents. 

I challenge you to keep a diary for two weeks.  Nope, this one’s not a food diary (trust me, no book big enough to track what I guzzle down in a week!)  List at least two things you did, every day, that you enjoyed doing.  Or that you were complimented on.  Or that you were asked specifically to do, because no-one else does it quite as well as you do. 

Then look back at your diary.  In isolation, your easy joys may appear to be insignificant and of little value.  But they point to your gifts and talents, and when diarised, you’ll see the trend.  Level headed, calm, focussed and organised?  Or a sparkly sprite, who cheers up all within her orbit, and brings beauty and colour to her surroundings? A caregiver, patient and compassionate, or an astute eye for a bargain and opportunity?   

You are filled with unique abilities. Unwrap your gifts, embrace and enjoy them!

 

Of emptying nests....

Top of mind at the moment is my rapidly emptying nest.  Keith left mid August for his new job at Federal Air,  at Oliver Tambo in Jozi. He starts at Phinda Game Lodge tomorrow, flying guests from Richards Bay to the private lodge  and back.  Robert goes back to school next week, and starts writing his matric finals within four weeks.  Alan, of course, has been in Tete, North Mozambique for over a year. 

What is to become of me?  And when did I become this cliched empty nester?  I was the one archly raising an eyebrow, rolling my eyes and smugly pitying tales of middle aged women, mourning their grown children and empty days.

Obviously, the same arrogance we have as teenagers and young 20-somethings presents differently, but is there nonetheless.  We were going to change the world our parents had messed up, our parenting style was going to be oh, so different to theirs and as for when our babes left home, horray, our lives were going to start!

How very disappointing, then, to stare at my world from this vantage point, more than half my three score years and ten past, and realise that far from being a unique individual, blazing my own trail - I'm following a very well trodden path left by generations of women before me!

My generation of baby boomers is the one whose conspicuous consumption has created a guzzling resource munching monster, devouring the planet.

Our eagerness to protect human rights has left enormous gaps allowing those of less integrity to use, abuse and manipulate the system, to the detriment of ordinary people everywhere.  Climate change, pillaging of the seas, destruction of the rainforests, corporate agricultural practises has led to less nutritious food production, and increased hunger.

Do you remember the words of Ed Harris' character in Apollo 13 - "It's not gonna happen on my watch" - well, its happened on ours.  Where are the flower power planet loving hippies of the 60's and 70's, protesting war, human rights, poverty, freedom and peace?  We hold them up as examples to be admired, but where are they in Noughties life?  So much for fixing the mess our parents made!

And to top it all, as I gaze around my diminished dining room table, knowing that in a few months this will be dinner for one (cue violins here, perhaps an image of an elderly lady, teeth in a glass besides her, staring at a plate of tinned cat food?) I realise that my heart is full, and I'm grieving the loss of my role as a protective and nurturing mother.  My sons are grown up, my role is changing, and I'm struggling to adapt.  Who is this person?  I was always so pro independence, encouraging them to get on and do it for themselves.  Why, then, am I heartsore instead of proud?

Anyway, enough puzzling questions for one day.  This musing has a very, very happy ending.  Not only am I blessed to live 30 minutes away from the Kruger National Park, but Fed Air sends their pilots down to Phinda from Johannesburg, via Skukuza airstrip.  Ours is not to reason why that peculiar routing, but to celebrate it.  Karen and I are taking a roadtrip through the park this morning, picnic basket packed, to meet Keith for his 2 hour layover.

So he's left home, and his chair at dinner stares emptily back at me; but such an adventure - the opportunity to stand on a dusty airstrip in the bush, watching him land a heartstoppingly small plane.  To sit under an acacia tree, drinking coffee, catching up on his life and to share his excitement at his new job.  What an achievement for a young man, who's worked so hard on a shoestring budget, made so many sacrifices and now begins a growth phase in his dream job.

I'm so proud of him, and resolve to break the chains of grief and march forward into my new role, whatever it may be.  Perhaps that is the secret reason behind empty nest syndrome - our roleless future.  Up to us to find a role, and commence immediately.

One life, duration unknown.  Live it!