TKG Sustainable Sunday . Roses, Tea, and a Boy

Welcome to the TKG Sustainable Sunday Newsletter: Boy on a Farm, Chapter Two, Weekly Round-Up, and Life on the Farmy. Life as we know it Jim (could not help myself!! 😂 ).

Jun 09, 2024

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The Story.

Last week we were in the bush beside a river watching a boy about my age (I was fifteen, later I discovered that he was sixteen) appear on the other side of the river. It was love at first sight.

My sight. My first sight. Before he limped out of sight pushing his motorbike beside him.

Read HERE if you missed Part One.

I have never written in instalments before so bear with me as I work out how!

Chapter Two will be short because this weekend is busy with haymaking. And I am jogging back and forth between the barn and the studio. Plus I have a lead on a few piglets - so I am on the phone too. But this story is a real one - it unfolds so simply. And I love it!

The Boy on the Bike.

Noon

I was in the kitchen cleaning up after lunch. It wasn't too hot yet, but I could smell the heat coming—the resin in the pine trees heating up, the oils flipping scent into the pathways. The midday air still carried a little moisture from the morning. The pink climbing roses under the kitchen window smelled like linen and dreams.

Before I get fanciful—I do love the scent of roses—let me describe the kitchen for you. Memories are funny things. I remember it in snapshots. Stills lined up in my brain. The clothes, the faces, the surroundings.

The kitchen was large, as big as a little corner dairy. The walls were light yellow and open with high cool white ceilings. In the centre was a pine table with a mismatch of wooden stools and chairs. You could sit eight. So we did. It was a workspace, but we all ate there too. There were long varnished wooden counters on two sides of the room. A roll-top desk with the roll top closed and locked by the owners of the farmhouse stood against another wall. An old desk chair on wheels with a rattan bottom pushed into the gap. Books and tiny paintings of horses and dogs lined the top. An old cold coal range with a large vase of dry flowers atop it on the fourth wall. The counter I stood at, with white cupboards below, ran under the big sash windows. The big farmhouse sink was below those windows with dirty dishes on one side and clean ones resting on a tea towel on the other. The noon sun cast only a sliver of light into the room. This room got morning sun which left the room around noon. If you stood at the sink and looked left, you saw the counter turn the corner and run along the other wall. The cooler wall. Two more windows opened onto this shady side of the house. The refrigerator stood on this wall, with a chest freezer tucked into the corner.

Between the four windows on the two walls were open shelves stacked with bowls, plates, and mugs. The crockery was an array of colors, with '70s oranges and greens taking precedence. The two windows on the cool side of the house were wide open to big dark-leaved hydrangeas, their full-blown blue flowers just above the windowsill. A huge oak stood close by, filtering air through its leaves. To the left of the freezer corner was an alcove for the back door—the kitchen door, the most important door in the house. The back door had a small porch that doubled as a mudroom for gumboots and hooks for jackets. This door was wide open.

Beside the desk was a closed door to the windowless larder.

Remember, there were no screens on the windows or doors in New Zealand. In this period, no one had air conditioning either. (Even now air conditioning is rare). We were closer to the outside then. Doors and windows were wide open to the summer, scents, and insects of the day. We chose to open windows on the cool side of the house, and plantings outside the windows mitigated the heat. But one only had to lean out a window to be immediately outside. The kitchen windows could be open for weeks at a time in the summer.

The parlour down the corridor always had the windows closed and the heavy curtains draped across the glass. This was a much cooler room though not for kids.

We had eaten at the kitchen table. Lunch. Sandwiches. I cleared the dishes and left the bowls of tomatoes and cucumbers on the table. I wrapped the ham in its muslin cloth and stored it in the fridge. The cheese and chutney in its huge jar followed.

The jug of milk with its little lace doily surrounded by beads was already back in the fridge—it was not allowed to sit out too long. Mum's rules. Also, Mum's rule was that milk had to be in a jug on the table, no bottles. It was fresh milk. This was milk from a house cow, delivered in an open bucket to the very cold fridge on the gumboot porch early every morning, way before us beach kids got out of bed. My mother, who knew about these things, instructed me to leave a second clean stainless steel bucket in the fridge (away from the flies) for the man to collect. The full bucket I was told to leave in the fridge until the following morning when I would skim the cream off it then pour the milk into bottles and bring it to the house fridge. The bucket was out thoroughly, and return it to the fridge on the gumboot porch. Ready for tomorrow.

We were always drinking yesterday's milk.

We all drunk a lot of milk. I can’t remember ever drinking water in those days when I was a child. No juice or fizzy drinks. Sometimes we mixed a sugary powder called Tang into a jug of water and drank that, but mostly it was milk for the littlies and tea with milk for the rest of us. There was always a teapot on the table at mealtimes.

We never added ice to drinks. Even now, most fridges in New Zealand don’t make ice. But no one ever took a bottle of water anywhere. We drank gallons of tea and milk but not water.

The table was almost cleared. I finished wiping it down, then swept the floor. I emptied the teapot under the hydrangeas, like my grandmother always did, swilled it out, and left it on the bench for the next brew. The teapot was never washed with soap—that would be as bad as scrubbing the cast iron skillet. Like washing a photo album.

I pulled the mutton out of the fridge and unwrapped it from its butcher paper. I found the big roasting dish and placed the meat in. Then I went back outside to cut some rosemary and pull a little fresh garlic to go in with the meat.

I saw our old dog, Tessa, lying on the driveway. She was usually with Mum, so I guessed Mum was on the side verandah out of the sun. I could hear the littlies fighting over a cat in the hallway. Mum would send them to their beds for an afternoon rest soon, while their bellies were full.

The garden ranged back down the driveway to the gate. The shade making its own dappled art forms out of the heavy cool dark green plantings. I could see through the house gate and down in the South paddock. By the hedge of macrocarpa, the grey horse stood under pine trees with three other bays. Their heads were down, back legs cocked, dozing. Relaxed, sleeping in the warm midday heat. I couldn’t hear the creek down past the pines, but I knew it was there.

I thought about how The Grey and I had trailed the boy for a few minutes, yesterday, walking parallel to him along our side of the riverbed, before he disappeared from view.

Hearing a motor coming up the farm track I turned to see the farm manager arrived at the gate. He climbed out of the passenger seat of a filthy farm truck. Three dogs stood on the back wagging their tails. Lolling tongues. Quick appraising eyes watching the horses. We call this farm truck a ute in New Zealand—pronounced "yoot." I saw the farmer making a beeline for Mum, who was sitting in her pretty summer dress in a white wicker chair on the porch. The green of her dress stood out like a portrait, backed by the white wicker and the white walls. She stood and walked towards him and they talked quietly.

Holding rosemary in one hand and a knife in the other, I looked back to the ute as the farmer spoke to my mother. I could see the boy. Sitting in the driver’s seat, elbow crooked out the window, motor idling. His face was turned to the house, looking across the truck and out the open passenger door, hair blowing in the ready noon breeze. It was him. The boy with the bike.

I watched him watch me, expressionless. I was a convent girl. I hadn’t had much to do with boys, so sullen and quiet was my fallback expression. I felt suddenly nervous and zingy. Like there was electricity in me trying to exit my skin. I pulled at my dress feeling how short and small it was on me. I should have handed it down to my sister already but it was cool and colourful. I had made it myself.

I heard the farmer tell my mother they were haymaking that afternoon if her teenagers would like to come down and help. "Tell them to wear longs," he said. "They can line up the bales."

“Mark,” he hitched his thumb over his shoulder, “will come and give them a ride in about an hour.” Mum nodded hesitantly.

Oh, my heart. His name was Mark. And he was coming back. In an hour!

I ran back into the kitchen, washed the garlic at speed, poured a cup of water over the mutton, salted it, dropped entire branches of rosemary around it and jammed the big hunk of meat into the oven. I turned it on low, listened closely to hear the oven start and bolted out the door to hook my favourite bell bottoms out of the washing basket.

I had no idea what hay making meant but I was going to help.

Living the farm life.

I ache. It’s true. My shoulders and my calves and my hands and my belly ache today. This week, as well as the normal farm work I am re-organising the hay loft in the barn so that we can place the new hay in the right place. Some of the hay bales in my barn are three years old - it is good to have extra but they need using up so I am re-labeling them as straw. Which means they all need shifting to make way for the new hay. I am spending hours picking up bales of hay and re-locating them. My summer muscles are coming out to play. Reluctantly. I ache.

And coming up right behind me are another two hundred fresh bales - the fields are cut. No pressure!

I welcome the ache. Do you? That well used body ache.

🎥 TKG Take Ten

The Tenners took a vote for their favourite TkG Take Ten of the Week in our chat thread this weekend. And what a week it has been. The calves, the chicks and the fields. Everything was a GO.

But everyone voted for something different so scroll down for a totally new TkG Take Ten just for you all. It is a little shorter because the wind blew the camera over but there you are - that is the way these things go!

Remember that if you would like to join The Tenners and have a short video of the farm delivered into your inbox every week day upgrade today.

It’s easy, cheap and makes the world of difference to both my creative production (getting paid to post about the farm is extraordinary) and the Jude and FreeBee LOVE apples. So does Wai to be fair!

🦋 The Kitchen’s Garden (The blog)

The Most Read Blog Post of the Week:

Grumpy WaiWai

Which surprised me actually.

I would have thought these guys that would take the prize.

Here is your TkG Take Ten.

Save it until you are ready for a sit down and relax.

🐞The Sustainable Sunday Tips

Farmers Market time is here! There are already lots of veges being grown and sold in your local farmers market. Maybe if you can’t find a farmers market you can find a locally grown section in your local supermarket. I know this is a no brainer but most sustainable living is simply simple. And if you can get to know a farmer like me - you are well on your way to Local Food Security!

🐞Once a Week Recipe.

A recipe? Are you nuts! I have been way too busy for anything other than asparagus and broccoli from the garden (often eaten IN the garden) . Mulberries from the trees (Tima and I race each other to the best trees in the morning) with plain greek yoghurt and greens, greens, greens, with my favourite dressing.

How about you? Maybe you could share what you are eating - that would be so helpful!