The best kind of invasion

Last night I was asleep, deep-deep-deeply asleep.  But then I became aware of breathing.  I blearily opened my eyes to find Arram standing at my bedside, his face inches from mine.  He very quietly told me what he wanted:  "Cuddle."  I threw back the covers and helped him to climb up.  Snuggled him into my arms.   He assessed the situation with a satisfied tone:  "Mama cuddle Arram."

I fell immediately back to my deep sleep, having not really awoken to begin with.  So when I legitimately drifted awake again I was mildly surprised to find that that I was sleeping cheek-to-cheek with that sweet innocent little face.  Still clutching his bears, his arm around my neck, quietly snoring.  Warm.  What a proper cuddle. 
 

I was going about my business one day...

... and found a poinsettia tree.

Our little love

Cooking up a scheme

For Americans, mention of a 'scheme' suggests nefarious intentions.  Like some shady character twirling his moustache in the shadows and biding his time for the perfect moment to enact his evil purposes.

In New Zealand, 'scheme' means system, plan, organisation, or method.  It carries no nefarious connotation.  We save for retirement under a scheme.   You could take a long vacation here, under a scheme.  Charities have schemes.  Innocent purposes, benevolent even.

That being said, I should also point out that we pay our taxes under a scheme.  Hmm, what was that part about the slimy ne'er-do-wells, again?


I kid, I kid, IRD, no audits needed here!
 

The brothers at pickup time after school

Vice: fault, depravity, sin, iniquity, wickedness, corruption

Alcohol:  A common part of the culture.  Pubs are a local fixture in every neighbourhood.  Beer beer beer.  Overly bingey patterns are common.  Drinking age is 18.  Most cafes and little breakfast places advertise their 'licensed' status.

Tobacco:  There's no smoking in any buildings and some college campuses are smoke-free.  But there is lots of smoking in the street.  Cigarettes are expensive; people roll-their-own while walking down the footpath.  Smoking cessation programmes abound.

Gluttony:  Kind of like how French women don't get fat.  Food involves real butter, real mayonnaise, nice cheeses, proper sauces with eggs and cream, and drinks full of sugar.  So eat up and enjoy your nice food.  But, it's only just the 'brunch' serving size at dinner.

Gambling:  Slot machines can be found at pretty much any public house, and proceeds go back into the community.  Casinos are legal too; we live three blocks from the country's biggest.  Lottery winnings are not taxed.

Interpersonal ahem:  Nudity is kinda not shocking in public.  Racy TV shows are common.  Prostitution is most thoroughly legal.  

Drugs:  The biggest public health concern is P.  Everything that's illegal in the US is illegal here, but if the prevalence of hydroponic growing concerns is any indication, the unofficial policy on herbal intoxicants largely appears to be 'what, I didn't smell anything'. 

Pride:  It is not good to be a tall poppy lest you be trimmed.
 

It was DELICIOUS.

We had a nice night out at Industry Zen, the Japanese restaurant across the street.  An extensive and somewhat bewildering menu featuring enigmatically-named tapas.  Order several, share them and savour, order several more, and repeat until full.

All delicious stuff, just amazing.  The freshest seafood, cooked to perfection.  Six or seven dipping sauces with each dish.  With our charcoal-grilled fish, we had our choice of white, pink or black salt-- brought to the table in grapefruit-sized chunks and applied through vigorous application of a metal grater.

There was a big focus on detail and presentation-- for instance, here is how our oysters arrived at the table:  I know it's a bit blurry but we've got a big ice bucket with a (plastic) bonsai tree in it.  And the half-shell oysters nestled in its branches.

Halfway through the meal, a drummer began to dramatically beat the large drum in the middle of the restaurant.  A large screen, which had been showing Japanese soap operas, slowly rolled up to reveal the glassed-in kitchen and all of the chefs standing at attention, facing us.  They shouted their welcomes and assured us that they would do their best for us tonight.  With that, the restaurant's spirited theme song burst forth and we finally understood --from inside-- what was up with all the brief commotion we hear every night between eight and nine.

So what did we have?
--Edamame soybeans, served on a miniature zen-garden of raked salt
--Sliced deep-fried lotus root in a basket lined with Japanese newspaper
--A squid--rings, legs, fluttery little tail and all--grilled on a flaming tabletop brazier
--The aforementioned North Island oysters with whole saffron threads and a citrus yuzu sauce
--Sweet-soy dipped chicken yakitori skewers
--Melting kingfish skewer (with the black salt!)
--A prawn croquette battle:  crispy vs. creamy

Yeah.
 

Easy errands with Baby

I took Arram with me to the grocery store and some other errands today.  He's all curled up because he's asleep.  Fell asleep about ten minutes after we left the house and was OUT the whole time.  Notice that he took off one of his gumboots and held it like a teddy bear.  I tried taking it away from him but he half-woke up enough to snatch it back and cuddle it even tighter.

Don't even think about those landscaping plans!

By New Zealand law, all native trees of a certain height and diameter are protected, and cannot be cut down unless a draconian set of approvals are granted.  And the fines are steep.  Cutting down a single tree can cost $300,000.
 

Another Baby Loves Disco day!

We went to another party afternoon at one of the neighbourhood restaurants; babyproofed and DJ'd.  What fun.  The kids danced and danced, while the mums got to sit back and relax.

At first Arram just wanted to hug.

But then he started to have some fun.  Notice that he is wearing his gumboots.

Amiri, of course, was rocking from the start.  Also in his gumboots.

And at the end, Arram finally got hold of the enormous beach ball that he'd had his eye on all afternoon but had previously been monopolised by the big boys.

FYI

Blogger (the system that hosts this blog) has been having some upgrades-- and outages.   I'm happy that I didn't lose any of my posts, but I think I did lose some comments that were left in the last day or two.  Don't be offended if yours are missing-- I didn't delete them.  And this explains any 'unavailable' status messages you might have gotten in recent days.  Hopefully there will be no more, and the lost comments will be restored soon.
 

Experimenting with gravity... and love

I learned all of this the hard way

Your knife goes in your right hand, held surgeon-style with the index finger out straight along the blade.  Your fork goes in your left hand with the tines pointed down.  Cut only one bite of food at a time.  Either stab the bite with your fork, or use your knife to smash it onto the back of the tines of the fork.  Either way, take small bites.  If there are peas or similarly little-rolling-around foods to be eaten, put some of your mashed potatoes or sauce on your fork first, and use that as as mortar to cement the peas in place.

Always default to using your knife and fork, unless your meal is broadly recognised as something that's acceptable to pick up with the hands.  Just because it's a sandwich doesn't always mean you should pick it up.  Even hamburgers require cutlery, outside of a fast-food context.

When you are making yourself a cuppa (tea or coffee), put the milk in the cup first, and then add the hot liquid.

When someone offers you a tea-time snack, like muffins or baby quiches or something, always accept but cut the snack in half and take the smaller of the two pieces.
 

The casimiroa

Okay, today I have kind of a pathetic story to tell you.


About a year ago, I brought home a mystery fruit from the farmer's market, as I am wont to do.  It was green and about the size of a softball.  I recalled it coming from a clearly-labeled box, but for the life of me I couldn't remember what it was called.  It started with a 'C', I remembered that, and it was multi-syllabic.  Google suggested cherimoya, but that wasn't it.  I just couldn't figure it out.  Well, no worries, I thought, I'll just stop back at that same booth next week and ask what it was.  And so I chopped the thing up and ate it.

Oh, it tasted real bad.  Hard as a rock-- I nearly hacked off a limb just splitting it in half-- and bitter.  Made the roof of my mouth feel somehow sticky, and made my gums tingle.  I pitched the thing in the trash after a few valiant bites.


Sheesh, what sort of natural pharmaceutical did I just eat?


I rocked up to the next week's market just brimming, and you watch, I'm gonna ask that fruit guy some questions.


But he wasn't there.  In fact, he wasn't there again, ever.  The mystery deepened.  Months passed.  Every so often it would bug me-- what WAS that?-- and I'd attempt some Google-fu.  No dice.


Last week, though, last week... the fruit guy was back!  He had a box of green softball-sized fruit!  Labelled CASIMIROA.  Finally, I could spit out that thing that had been on the tip of my tongue all this time.


And yep, that's what I ate.  By all accounts it's apparently a lovely fruit.  My problem was that the one I encountered was just tragically underripe.  Yeah, a whole year spent ruminating on that.  I know, pathetic, I toldya.
 

UPDATE 14-May-2011:  Got a ripe one!  It tastes like a pear.  After all this buildup I am underwhelmed.
 

Because everyone needs a frivolous dinner now and then

This story can be filed under 'Irresponsible Parenting'.   Or perhaps under 'Super-Awesome Parenting', depending on your viewpoint.

It was Mother's Day today.  I got lots of hugs and kisses, some beautiful gifts that little hands wanted to unwrap for me REAL BAD, a break from diaper changes, and a Mother's Day nap.   After that we decided to go out and get all crazy for our dinner.

We walked All. The. Way. down Queen Street -- which actually didn't take forever because happily Arram had acquiesced to his stroller when told it was going to be so so so far-- to Sky City and went to New Zealand Natural (which, oddly enough, we'd learned about not here in NZ but when the first US franchise went up in Valencia in 2008).  I had a coupon and we shared amongst us two fruit-yogurt cones and two fruity smoothies.  Wow.  We had ice cream for dinner!  And to top it off, just in case that wasn't quite enough, we got donuts on the walk back.  

When we got home the boys hopped straight into the bath to wash off the stickies.   Their bubble bath frothed up like never before, what with all the agitation in the tub from little limbs thrumming in the throes of the most intense sugar high ever, dude.
 

Just another way that we're becoming Kiwi-ised

Now we can do sausage sizzles at home!

On security detail

There's currently a bit of a kerfuffle in the news about the cost of providing security and bodyguards for NZ's prime minister coming in way over budget.

John Key's security for the year cost $4.8M NZD, or $3.8 million US.  And it looks like this.  Seriously, there's like just one guy in shades who kinda follows him around.  I've heard first-hand accounts from people who have spotted Mr. Key in the airport just going about his business apparently all on his own.  Shaking hands with citizens who approach him, nary a one getting tackled and hauled off for interrogation.

People are upset because the NZ Security Squad came in roughly half a million over budget this year (in US dollars).  Now admittedly, half a million is an awful lot of taxpayer dollars.   But let's put it in context, shall we?  The US Secret Service spent $107 million protecting Mr. Obama in 2007, and it looks like this.
 

Creative sleeping habits

Here is how Arram sleeps:  in the middle of the bed, facing the wrong way, pillow askance, blankets in a big useless pile, legs poised for running.  He will pinwheel like a starfish all through the night.  A very active sleeper, this guy.  How do I know this?  From the nights when he's slept in Mama and Daddy's bed, and I've been kicked repeatedly in the neck.

But wait, where's Amiri?

Oh, there he is, sleeping in his toy box, of course!

He very carefully prepared his nest.  First he made sure that the box contained only the soft stuffed animals, not the poky trucks or building blocks.  Then he laid his pillow down over them like a mattress.  He made sure his gloves were on, then climbed in and covered up with his Air Tahiti Nui contraband blanket.  Perfect for a snooze.

I transferred him back to bed after we took this photo, carefully arranging him on his pillow and with a proper blanket, all laid out.  When I checked on him half an hour later, he had joined his brother in doing sleep acrobatics.

  

Three little vignettes illustrating life with the brothers

Arram is a sturdy and determined little walker, but he's slow.  On account of the short little legs, don't you know.  He scampers along, little feet stomping away in his big boy lace-up shoes.  He's working so hard.  But hand-in-hand next to him, I'm only just meandering up the block at a slow stroll.  Consequently, going on an outing takes forever.  Our last trip to the farmer's market took an hour and a half, and that's not even counting the time it took for our apple juice and cupcake reward break.

It's hamburger night!  Amiri asks, Can I put the ketchup on my hamburger by myself?  OK, sure, here you go.  He upends it, shake shake shakes it, and before you know it s-s-s-slurp there's an enormous amount of ketchup all over the burger, bun, and most of the plate.  Amiri is delighted beyond all reason.  Ketchup sandwiches with meat are sure to become a new house favourite.  Arram asks for a second hamburger patty, no bun.  Sure, here you go.  He uses up most of the spilled ketchup on Amiri's plate by dipping the burger into it.  When the meat is gone, Daddy takes the plate away.  Arram grabs it back and finishes up the remaining ketchup with one quick swipe up into the palm of his hand and a big messy lick.

 

We got the boys a clock for their room.  A cute little silly one, to help them learn about telling time.  It has an alarm but we don't use it-- in the few times that we have, they've been disoriented and frightened by the loud odd noises.  But, GUESS WHO was playing with their clock before bed last night.  And somehow managed to set the alarm to go off at 4:45 this morning.  And would not go back to sleep afterward.

 

But Mama, I want that camera!