Labor Day

Monday was Labor Day or, as they call it here in New Zealand, Labour Day. We got up late, went to the beach, ate excessively large breakfasts, and watched all the surfers bobbing up and down on the rolling breakers, among the kelp, trying to catch a good wave.

Mmmm. Kelp. Next weekend we're attending a class on how to use local seaweed as food. We're looking forward to it. Yeah. Eating kelp.

Ginger Beer

Today, and for the next couple of weeks, I'll be attempting to make my own homemade ginger beer. This is my second attempt. The first attempt didn't taste quite right. It didn't even taste good, actually. Or gingery. But it didn't kill me, either. There's definitely room for improvement though. My long-term goal, in the distant future, is to make my own rum and to make my own ginger beer and then mix the two together. Rum is much more difficult to make than ginger beer, so I thought I'd start with the ginger beer and work my way up.

Day One:
400ml of warm water
2 teaspoons of sugar
2 teaspoons of freshly cut ginger (I used a LOT more ... I mean, why else call it ginger beer, right?)
10 grams of yeast (our scales aren't very sensitive, so I had to guess. If I've used too much yeast there's a chance my potion will explode next week).

Tips for Expectant Fathers

Don't excitedly tell your pregnant wife in the morning that she looks just like the letter 'D' in profile.

And don't try to make things better by saying that you've changed your mind and she looks more like the letter 'P' instead.

And definitely don't remind her that at least she doesn't look like the letter 'B.'

Do, immediately, what I did, eventually, and tell her that, from behind, she looks exactly like the letter 'I.'

Bungyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

We were fortunate enough to enjoy a visit from friends last week. Mary and Julie got on a plane in Cincinnati, bounced over to San Francisco, then to Auckland, and then finally to our new home: Dunedin, gloomy and gray, sitting solidly at the edge of the rainy green plains of Otago. Dunners! And there they were at the airport, fresh-faced, eager and ready to go at 9am on a bright and sunny Sunday morning, like visitors from another planet, or a past life.

We've been here nearly 8-months and we've adapted to our new lives here.

But it was very nice to see familiar faces. Friends, standing here in the fields of Dunedin, among the sheep and cows. Not mispronouncing all their vowels. Wearing shoes. It's like an optical illusion.

And you know what? They said it wasn't even really all that painful. All that was really expected of them was that they sit quite still for several hours in a big metal tube. And they arrived. We showed them all around Dunedin, all our favorite places, all our new haunts. That took care of the first afternoon. Kidding. Sort of.

We had lots of fun while they were here and even managed to fit in a weekend driving through the vineyards and orchards of central Otago to the mountains and the deep glacial lakes of Queenstown. And so to the meat of this blog entry: Mary's bungy jump. On Saturday afternoon, we pulled over and parked near the Kawarua gorge to watch crazy tourists jumping off a bridge, falling like rocks, 43-meters, to the churning glacier-fed Kawarua River, cold and aerated after its steep journey down from the mountains of the southern Alps.

Skinny ones.

Young ones.

Asian Ones.

Fat ones.

Falling.

F
a
l
l
i
n
g.

And then the next day, Mary announced, quite matter-of-factly, that she wanted to throw herself -- her own body -- off a bridge. Were we supposed to facilitate this? What are the legal ramifications? Falling through all that air. Was she angry about something? Did she not like New Zealand? Or perhaps she just really liked falling? Who knows? She signed some paperwork. She got weighed. She walked onto the bridge and got strapped up. She stood on the edge of a platform, looking out over the river and the canyon walls that form the gorge. She looked a little pale. She fake-jumped a couple of times -- an indication that her knees were more sensible than her brain. And then she jumped. And fell. And bounced. And fell again. And bounced again. And survived.

It was a good day.

(Click on the images if you want a close-up view of what batpoop crazy looks like).

Seagulls at the Beach

Happy Spring!!!

Now I know why they call it SPRING!

I love springtime. The air has a bit of a nip to it in the early mornings and a constant flowery smell. Everything is in bloom, including an odd Green Blossom tree in our yard. It's exactly what you think it is: a tree with green blossoms. Beautiful. But the thing that makes springtime precious here isn't the blossoms, the fresh smelling air, more sunshine ... it's the lambs!


It's Lambing season in New Zealand and not only has it put a spring in my step, but there's a definite spring to the teeny tiny steps of the little lambs that have just entered their wonderful green world! Lambing season, August to September, marks the beginning of spring in New Zealand. I never noticed the lack of lambs in the fields in the other months. But when it's Lambing season, you notice the abundance of tiny, cute, fluffy, stark-white lambs scattered throughout the fields. They come in pairs. Triplets. They huddle close to their moms. They run (or rather spring!) in groups to find the best patch of green grass. Sometimes you can see them headbutting their moms to engage milk production. All lambs need to eat to become big and strong sheep! When the sun is high and hot, the lambs search for shade or they splay out in the open fields, laying on their sides, soaking in the gorgeous day.

And unlike their wise elders, the lambs are curious when it comes to humans. They respond to your voice if you shout out to them. Or they become shy and hide in their mother/father's thickening wool. That's what happened when us humans decided to invade these lamb's new world. They couldn't help but stare at Chris and his strange contraption, the camera. (See the photo below of the lamb staring at Chris via the camera lens. Take a look at it's knees - they're dirty!)

(P.S. Not only is it Lambing season, but it's the season for ALL babies - e.g. seal pups and cow calves. It's the cutest time of the year.)(ETK)

30-weeks and counting ...

We've got about 10-weeks left, folks. Emeline really really really really can't wait. She says she's going to paint her belly orange and be a pumpkin for Halloween. Maybe I'll do that too. We can be a hairy (me) and a non-hairy (Emeline) pumpkin.

Send what out?

COURIC: Have you ever been involved in any negotiations, for example, with the Russians?

PALIN: We have trade missions back and forth, we do. It’s very important when you consider even national-security issues with Russia. As Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where do they go? It’s Alaska. It’s just right over the border. It is from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right next to, they are right next to our state.

*

Seriously, it's been a couple of weeks ... but send what out? When Sarah Palin says, "It is from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia," what is she talking about? Send what out? This hasn't been taken out of context. I'm asking a simple question. Send what out? What is she going to send out?

If you take the time to read this, please at least leave a guess. What is she sending out? What is it?

Tā Moko

Tā moko is the name of the traditional body and face markings worn by the Maori people. Historically, it was a little different from Western tattooing, and moko were originally made by dragging chisels across the skin, leaving deep, permanently inked grooves filled with pigments from burnt timber and caterpillars. Women often wore chin moko, and men had their entire faces marked. In the past couple of decades moko have become popular again here in New Zealand. As Maori began to re-identify with their cultural traditions, they choose to wear the markings of their ancestors. It's a very brave way of paying homage to tradition. There are a few women in town with beautiful dark-green moko on their chins. I sometimes see them doing their shopping on the main street. And there's a guy here in town whom I see everywhere: At the farmers' market, in the pub, at the grocery store, in the street, at festivals. I'm not sure if I see him everywhere because he is everywhere, or if I see him everywhere because someone with facial tattoos is just conspicuous in a crowd. Either way, the moko is a wonderful living way of keeping tradition alive.

Banned Books Week

It's Banned Books week, folks (September 27th - October 5th). Some of the most creative and exciting books written in the past 100 years were banned by people who thought they were too dangerous. Books. Dangerous. Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath was actually burned by the East St Louis Library in 1939. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller was banned in 1972 in Ohio. The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway was banned in Boston in 1930. Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut was burned in North Dakota in 1973. Tolkein's The Lord of the Rings was banned in New Mexico in 2001. Apparently, it's Satanic. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote was banned. "When?" you ask, "in 1966, when it was published?" Nope. In 2000, in Savannah, Georgia. Gone with the Wind. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. A Farewell to Arms. The Invisible Man. All banned. Read one of them this week.

Boing!

Spring keeps on springing here! The whole town is covered with cherry blossoms and daffodils, and the fields are full of lambs, running around and bouncing off each other. It's quite a nice sight.