TKG Sustainable Sunday. The newsletter.

I have been travelling for two months so Sustainable Sunday (the newsletter) went into hiatus. But now I am back on the farm. 😀 And in my own kitchen and my own fields. And my own kitchens garden.

Leave a ❤️ so I know you have been by and even better leave a comment. I would love to hear from you. Really!

We are revving up for the summer. Here are our new calves. They arrived yesterday - more on that in tomorrows farm BLOG.

The Story.

I write these stories to test my memory and also to share old fashioned ways with you and to play with long form writing - in this culture of shorts, and sound bites and instant messaging, long form writing and the way it stretches my mind is almost a relief.

My First Boyfriend (Part One)

As you know, I grew up in a big, rambly house on the beach in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand. The beach was profound in our biology. The sea was our beating heart and the beach was our lungs. It was in our blood. Every day of our lives to date (and I was fifteen in this story) had the beach as the backdrop. But in the Christmas holidays the summer people came. In the May holidays and the August holidays the beach was ours but in the summer (December and January) all the little baches (holiday homes) along our road were opened up and the “summer people” came. So. The last place we wanted to be in the summers was on the beach because of "the summer people." We were not good at sharing. We were scathing and cruel about the summer people. Our beach was suddenly crowded with them in their bikinis, with their towels and boogie boards and sunburned selves. Their cars parked all along the bank. Kids tumbling out shrieking. Throwing themselves about in gay abandon. Enjoying themselves. Standing in our sea. In our way. Driving up and down our little beach road. The old town bus disgorged more every morning and scooped them back up in the afternoons. The sleepy corner shop suddenly had lines of people standing waiting for icecream hand scooped by the shop owners. There were even little kiosks that opened in the dunes, selling orange ice blocks and fizzy drinks.

Our lips would curl. Oh, how we hated the summer people. Unreasonable, but we were a family of teenagers, all hot and wild and insistent. I don’t know how a door stayed on its hinges in that house on the beach. Someone was always in a temper. (Often me to be fair). Mum was a country woman and never fully settled to beach life so she took full advantage of this anti “summer people” sentiment and took us to the country. For a few weeks of the summer, sometimes as long as four weeks, my parents organised house swaps with local farmers. Mum would climb out of her bed, we would wrap her up and stow her in the van and we would all decamp to the hills.

She would come alive during these summers. She loved the big country gardens and long verandahs.

This is how the house swap worked: Farmers would come down out of the hills to live in our big beautiful house by the sea, and we would drive up into the hills to stay on their farms in big beautiful wooden farmhouses surrounded in trees. Each family would leave the house in good order. Beds made. The basics in the fridge. Mum always had one of us girls make a cake to leave with a note on the bench. One of the little bedrooms had a lock, so everything precious was stored in there, and the room left locked. The house we left open because I am not sure there even was a key. Then off we would go. We would pass the farmer and her family on the road but I cannot remember ever meeting one of them.

We used all their stuff in their house and they used all of ours. We took our own clothes and that was all.

The hills were not cooler, but it was a different heat from the beach. Beach heat stings and burns, with a persistent breeze that clips straight off the waves. It is bright and charged. Beach heat has a taste. Salty and dangerous. Do you know what I mean? Sand-in-the-face kind of heat. And always, there was the rush of the sea and the gulls, and at night, the reflection of the moonlight and the lights lining the road. The beach never seems dark to me.

Up in the Hawkes Bay hills, it was a more mellow kind of hot. There was seldom much rain in the summers in Hawkes Bay, so the wind open hills were often parched and golden. The trees shone green in the landscape. The sheep would be panting in hollows, pushed up against the concrete water troughs, or ringed around under the trees. The nights in the country were dark; deep, and rich with the scents of soil and pines and kauri and rimu and manuka from the bush and roses and honeysuckle and jasmine from the gardens.

Many of these old farmhouses had long, wide Gertrude Jekyll borders, deep and heaving with undulating flowers and bushes and lilies and hydrangeas and tumbling roses, with bees and butterflies galore. Deep mauves and blues and heavy greens. We would bucket out the bath in the morning to water the gardens, and at night, we would put on special snail gumboots and go out to stamp on snails in the kitchen garden paths. It sounds idyllic (maybe not the snail bit), and I know that memories are not to be trusted, but those flower gardens, those summer kitchen gardens, those big country kitchens with coal ranges and long pine tables in the center and those great dense native plantings of bush (we call forests "bush" in New Zealand) that grew close up behind the houses, they had a huge impact on my gardening and my cooking. Forever.

And if a memory cannot be trusted, how then do we explain the imprint a memory leaves on a person? I have been trying to regrow those gardens and recreate those kitchens and find Mark again for all of my life. Yes, his name was Mark. My first boyfriend. But we are not up to Mark yet.

Don’t get ahead of yourself. I am still setting the scene. Taking you from the beach in Hawkes Bay up into the hills.

We were three young teenagers, and three younger kids (the littlies) all with flashing blue eyes and tempers and flying hair and freckled legs. We were transported about the country side in an old family VW combi van that was able to seat us all. No seat belts of course. There was a table that came down between the two back seats so kids could play cards or read books. I was the carsick kid so I always got to ride in the front until I could drive then I drove. So we would be all piled in on top of each other, scratchy and desperate to get there. By the time we arrived up to the farms; the lambs were fat and weaned, docked, crutched, and their mamas were shorn. The sheep were all laying about in their respective huge fields - spread over hundreds of acres, in the sunny hills. There would be a bull paddock that we promised never ever to enter (and we never ever did), and sometimes there were a couple of farm horses for us to ride. Mum knew about horses, she had clydesdales as a kid and she would rise languidly from her couch to teach us.

There was never much to do as far as the farm went. We were not there to mind the farm. In retrospect I am not sure how that worked. Mum was usually reclined on a floral couch in a cool parlour or in bed with the French doors open or on a chaise lounge on the verandah, and Dad was often back at his boat building workshop by the lagoon at the beach. Most farms had a farm manager. And I am sure we were a nuisance. In fact I bet they were horrified - these farm managers and their families. The days were summer-long and we were everywhere. Like feral cats.

I remember a quote from Daphne de Maurier, she said to her children, “I don’t care what you do just no goats on the beds.’ It was like that during these summer holidays.

There would be a shearing shed down the lane and shearers quarters. All quiet and empty ready for exploring, and tractor sheds and working dog runs (often complete with dogs), horse paddocks close to the house. Long, long dusty tree lined lanes to the letter box.

The farmhouse that we are returning to today was long and sprawling, probably a hundred years old, with long dark corridors and sash windows and a huge old farm kitchen. Enormous bedrooms, one even had four beds in it. There was a veranda running around three sides of the building, the verandah was deep and had beds in a screened off section for summer sleeping—this is where we hung out if we were not in the fields. Either there or the kitchen.

All the windows and doors would be open.

My favourite outfit this holiday was a pair of tartan bell bottoms and an orange button down jersey shirt that hugged my narrow body. I had just got my first bra and was feeling quite proud of this new curve. The orange and red was a wild mix. But I have always loved wearing orange with red. “You dress like a flower,” my mum would say. “Maybe a poppy”. “We won’t lose you in the bush.” my Dad called after me as I escaped out the kitchen door, throwing the tea towel onto a rack. We were brought up with this edge of sarcasm. I don’t know why.

This day. This hot clear day I stepped my bare feet into a pair of gumboots, and walked straight down the track past the shearers quarters. I climbed over the gate to the home paddock where the horses were and soon I was walking beside the shallow stoney sparkling river that ran through the farm. The shade was dappled. I would have been dragging a stick because I always did - still do. I was being followed by one of the farm horses who had taken a shine to me.

This horse was grey-white. Like mist in sunlight. White metal. Bright. He shone. If a horse could be a knight it would be this horse. He was all angles and blades like fairy armor. His head was a large triangle. He was haughty. I think I was half in love with this horse.

I was fifteen remember, thin like a young spindly tree, still growing. I simply could not get up high enough to climb onto this horse by myself so we had come to a walking arrangement. We played this game where I would loop the reins of a bridle over his neck and collect the ends together under his chin and we would walk together. My Mum taught me to walk with the lead like this, so if the horse shied he was immediately free, and would not endanger a person, but to hold his head slightly away from me so the horse would not have to worry about stepping on my heels. Trust was everything with a horse she said. You cannot bully them. He was gentle. And tall and strong. He would accept my whispered commands without murmur. Horses and dogs and babies were always this way with me. Gentle.

I think my mother had had a bad experience with a horse once because she was always warning us to be still and strong - making sure our horse etiquette was correct. Making sure we did not spook an animal. To walk quietly talking all the time. To carry treats. She said she hated the term “breaking” a horse. “Horses should not be broken”, she said. “A broken horse is just a hack”. “Like children,” she told me when I was older, “we have to be careful not to break our children. Give them a long loose lead so they can find their own footing" going down hill”.

I walked with my horse on his lead until I found my favorite sitting tree and let him go again. He never went far. We settled in for a rest until I went back to get lunch ready for the others. The birds soon forgot we were there and began to sing hard in the trees. The fantails looping in and out of the branches. Their wings raising tiny drafts of air. They would always fly too close to my face. The river ran like a familiar song, shallow and kind.

We heard a sound. Like a break in the air. The horse and I and our heads turned in unison.

The boy was pushing a motorbike. Just across the river. Probably something like a Suzuki 250. The kind a sixteen-year-old farm boy would ride in the seventies. It was orange and covered in mud. He wore stubbie shorts and a green shirt both were also covered in mud. And gumboots. He was limping as he pushed his bike along the track. His hair was long and raggedy but clean, falling over his face. My guardian knight horse and I both turned our heads further towards him, tracking him as he emerged from the bush onto the track and along the river bank. He did not see us. So we were able to watch him limp past and along the track until he was gone.

I looked at the horse and he looked at me and without terribly much thought I retrieved the reins, looped them around the neck of my huge white horse and followed.

To be continued.

(too much to write for one newsletter - you will need to wait until next week!).

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🎥 TKG Take Ten

Here is my favorite TKG TAKE TEN of the week. That you did not even get to see! Because I failed to publish it correctly. (Thanks Deb).

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TKG Threads for The Tenners

Go HERE to join this weekends chat. We are talking about how sometimes I feel anxious about being the only person to bring my own bags into the supermarket. Or having a barista raise her eyebrows when I offer my own refillable cup.

What? I hear you say - you get nervous yet you teach this stuff? Yup. I want to lead by example but - people scare me sometimes.

🦋 The Kitchen’s Garden (The blog)

The Most Read Blog Post of the Week:

WHO HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR?

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🐞The Sustainable Sunday Tips

🦋 How we treat water in the 21st century will impact our lives directly. Respecting water is one of the most important things to teach your family. We all use refillable water bottles and empty unused water into the planters. But what about water collection. For instance - how can we use heavy tropical rains. How can we harness useful heavy rains. How do we store water for watering our vegetables later in the week.

Central Illinois, where the farm is, has received above average rainfall and above average temperatures for May 2024. Not a lot more than average. But it feels wetter and warmer already. Many of the farmers here missed their May hay cutting because of the rains. I know we did.

I know not all climates are as wet as ours - some climates seem to be moving towards drought - here in central Illinois I feel like we are going wetter.

So how do we take advantage of this increased rainfall.

Here are a few suggestions:

• Rain barrels (make sure to have a lid on your barrels so the water does not breed mosquitoes. Alternatively pop a few fish into your barrel).

• Direct water from the gutters into shallow trenches in the garden specifically into green wetland plantings. PLants and trees that do not mind being drowned every now and then. In my wetlands I have lilies and water loving trees.

• Rain gardens, permeable pavements and green roofs. Green roofs are my absolute favorites.

• If you only have a balcony make sure to have your plants spaced out on the balcony away from the eaves so they can be watered by the rain.

• What else?

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🐞Once a Week Recipe.

What is your favorite comfort food? I think mine is quiche. When in doubt make quiche. yes, I know we have been here before but I cook this SO OFTEN.

I had landed in Melbourne, Australia and was starved (I am always starving after flying) the fridge contained roasted pumpkin, feta, and roasted garlic. There was a little thyme in the garden. I looked for oats and pumpkin seeds for the base - I found quick oats and they gave me a super crunchy base.

So I guess my discovery is that quick oats make a better base. And of course I baked the base first. Here is my recipe again for

• 1 cup flour

• 1 cup (quick) rolled oats

• 1/2 cup finely smashed pumpkin seeds and a pinch of chilli (optional)

• 1/3 cup oil of choice (I use olive oil), (the best local oil you can find)

• 1/3 cup cold tap water

Mix the oil with the water then mix everything together with your fingers, adding liquid slowly until the mixture forms a firm ball. Press this mixture out as thin as possible into a shallow baking dish and cook for 20-30 minutes as your oven comes up to temp. Heat the oven to 400f.

In the same bowl that you mixed the base (don’t bother washing it) whisk together:

• 6 eggs

• 1 cup heavy cream

• pepper and salt

Once the base is cooked paint the hot base with the roasted garlic. Layer in finely sliced onions. Then a little egg mixture. Layer pumpkin and feta. (enough for one layer each). Pour over the rest of the egg. Top with grated cheddar because: of course. Bake at 200C or 400F for 30 - 40 minutes.

You know I am not a recipe writer, right? I hope you can work it out but quiche is the very best meal to use leftovers. And for travel starved people.

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The calves have arrived! TKG Take Ten will have some lovely bovine sweetness of these wee fellows while they are still in the calf pen.

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🍊 My new gentle reset routine: For one month. After I close my book and lay my head down on my pillow to sleep (and sleep is my super power) I am to run through my day, hour by hour and log the wins. Not the failures - we know all about those - the wins. The successes. The bestest. I did this last night June 1 and it was a perfectly lovely way to drift off to sleep.

Have a wonderful Sunday!

Celi

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