Fig Jam and Lime Cordial

My beloved father passed away last week. He was 84 years old.

Despite health issues and some memory loss, he lived at home his entire life, supported, cared for, and deeply loved by my beautiful mother. A bad fall put him into hospital in July, and he slipped away 22 days later, very, very gently, with Mum, my sister Cynthia, Pete and I by his side. We like to think that he fell asleep and woke up in heaven.

Dad lived a rich, full life. I love the photo of him above, taken in the 60s, partying hard with a whisky and a cigarette, both in the same hand. He had a smile that could light up a room, and a laugh that could fill it. Despite being a shrewd businessman, he had an incredibly soft heart, helping an enormous number of family, friends and even complete strangers over the course of his long life.

He was honestly the best father ever. He and I were particularly close and would talk every day. He would tell me how happy he was, how well Mum was looking after him, how much he loved us, how proud he was of us. I can’t begin to tell you how empowering it was to hear that every single day.

Dad was always a very happy man, but when he was with his grandchildren, the joy would literally shine from his face. They brought him more happiness than should have been possible. He delighted in every little and big thing they did, and he was incredibly proud of each and every one of them.

Dad’s funeral was just three days after he passed away, but it was full of friends and family, several of whom had flown in from overseas. It was a testament to the high esteem in which he was held, and the deep intensity with which he was loved.

Rest in peace, wonderful man. I will miss you desperately. ♥

Read Full Post »

Big Boy is now 22.

For those of you who’ve been reading along for a while, you’ll have watched him grow up – from the days when he was penning creative fiction and playing the French horn in high school, to his first job with his Aunty Kate, and through his young adult years at Sydney University.

Along the way, though it hardly seems possible, he and his brother have grown even closer. He’s taught us valuable life lessons, and listened respectfully when we’ve tried to share what we’ve learnt with him in return.

Now, as a Computer Science graduate, he’s out in the workforce. Like many of his peers, he has a couple of part-time jobs, but one of them is in his chosen field, which is wonderful.  He continues to live at home, and it’s an absolute joy to have him around. We’ve told him that whilst we’re not in a position to hand over a lump sum of money to him, we’re happy to give him a few more years of living at home, rent-free. That way, his early employment choices can be driven by interest and passion, rather than dollars.

It also gives me time to have conversations with him about managing a budget. One of the dangers of living at home as a young adult is the temptation to simply spend everything you earn. Without the obligations of rent, weekly grocery bills and utilities, it’s hard to grasp how much it really costs to live independently.

So, we’re scribbling on bits of paper, and crunching numbers. We’re trying to use figures that are reasonable, but the actual amounts aren’t critical – at this point in time, it’s just important that he knows what sort of expenses to expect. Our boys have always been good with money, but this exercise has been quite an eye-opener for Big Boy. There’s so much to discuss – provisioning a set amount each month to provide for the quarterly utilities, sticking to a budget for entertainment, how much to save, how much to put away for tax. Learning to swim before diving in, as it were.

We’re incredibly blessed that our 22 year old son will actually listen to us. I never take that for granted. We try (not always successfully) to only offer opinions when asked and thankfully Big Boy will often consult with us. He always considers what we suggest, but then makes his own decisions, knowing that we never expect him to do what we say simply because we’ve said it.

My favourite photo: Small Man was sick on his 7th birthday, and his big brother was the only one who could coax a smile out of him!

When my sons were still in primary school, one of their teachers (who subsequently became a dear friend) said to me, “Celia, there’s more to raising children than just teaching them and keeping them safe. You also have to let them go – gradually, over years – so that they’re ready to go out into the world when their time comes”.

I took that advice to heart. I would have loved nothing more than to be able to keep my boys little and at home with me, but it was never going to be an option. So for years, we’ve worked actively towards the end goal of getting them ready to live as independent adults.

In part, we’ve done that by incrementally handing over decision making, as soon as it was safe and appropriate to do so. The process of actually making choices, and being responsible for the outcome whatever it might be, has been incredibly empowering for them. And talking – lots and lots of talking. One of the reasons I write this blog is so that if anything ever happens to me, my sons have my words. Proof – which they would hopefully never need – of how happy they make me and how much I adore them.

Bec left me a lovely message recently commenting on how proud I am of my boys. I can’t begin to tell you how deep that feeling goes. Unlike many of our peers, it’s not pride in their academic or social achievements, which have been fine but certainly not superlative. They’re by no means the smartest or the coolest kids around. But they are kind and loving and gentle, with backbones of steel. They work hard, with a drilled-in understanding that life doesn’t owe them a living and that sometimes shit can happen, and that it’s not always about them. More importantly, they’re honest – with us, with others, with their words and with their emotions.

Pete and I truly couldn’t have hoped for better sons. Every day with them is filled with laughter and gentle teasing, and a comfortable sense of camaraderie. I’m making a point of enjoying this time, because I know it won’t last – eventually they’ll move out and start independent adult lives of their own. And that’s how it should be. As my friend Sue said all those years ago, raising children eventually means letting them go. ♥

Read Full Post »

Sometimes, I feel driven to put words on paper (or the digital equivalent thereof), but I can’t get them out in the right way. When that happens, a piece of writing can stew in my consciousness for quite a long time, waiting for my brain to disentangle it enough so that it reflects what I truly want to say. This is one of those posts.

There’s been a lot of discussion over recent years about the concept of “paying it forward” – where someone performs an unsolicited act of kindness for a person, who then reciprocates by doing the same for another stranger. That’s a noble concept – there can never be enough kindness in the world. My personal take on it though is slightly different.

Eighteen years ago next week, our Small Man was diagnosed with Neuroblastoma Stage 4S cancer. He was three months old with a golf ball sized aggressive primary tumour on his adrenal gland that had spread all through his liver, which had in turn grown to three times its normal size. By the time his cancer was finally gone and we’d endured a brutal but necessary treatment protocol, I’d come to some conclusions about life.

Firstly, life is short and unpredictable and finite, and you can blink and your world can be turned upside down in a heartbeat. We try to be as ready as we can for the unexpected – we provision funds, put our affairs in order, manage our health – yet nothing prepares us for the really big stuff. All we can hope to do is cushion the impact a little.

Secondly, our Small Man is still with us. We were given an enormous gift from God all those years ago which we can never repay, so I try to pay it forward. In my own way. I give, I share – not randomly or just for the sake of it, but with friends, loved ones, my community, the boys’ school, those in need, and those of you kind enough to read my ramblings. I’m smart enough not to let people take advantage of me, but by the same token, I don’t keep track – there’s no ledger of checks and balances in my head. I’ve baked an oven full of bread, would you like a loaf? I know I give you one every week, but I like doing that, and I hope you enjoy it. I absolutely don’t expect anything in return from you. Life is short and unpredictable and finite, and I’m thankful for the opportunity to break bread with you, both physically and metaphorically.

Thirdly, I’ve learnt to be grateful. If I ever had any preconceived notions that I was entitled to certain things in life, four years of watching our son tied down and screaming inside nuclear imaging machines took those away. Instead I found myself incredibly grateful for the kindness that the technicians showed him, their distress and empathy for his distress, their competence, efficiency and gentleness, and their attempts to minimise his discomfort as much as possible.

And I’ve since become acutely aware of small kindnesses – the smile when I’m handed a takeaway coffee, the extra effort the delivery man will make to ensure my wine doesn’t sit in the sun, the friend who remembers a birthday, a husband who greets the new morning with a loving kiss. I no longer take the little things for granted, and when life doesn’t turn out the way I’d planned or hoped, I don’t rail against the universe in anger. Because hoping and planning is one thing, but believing we’re entitled to a certain outcome is something completely different again.

I’ve learnt to seek contentment rather than stuff, and to find excitement in the minutiae of life. A visiting heron in the backyard is hugely exciting, especially when the photos show up the intricate details of his plumage, and we get the opportunity to watch him hunt. I’ve experienced the joy of making things with my hands and the satisfaction of finding clever solutions to everyday problems. I give thanks daily for our loving, fascinating sons who never put their breakfast bowls in the dishwasher, especially when I realised that that’s the only complaint I ever make about them.

Today is Thanksgiving in the US. We don’t celebrate it here in Australia, but it seemed an appropriate time to reflect. After all, we have so very much to be thankful for.

Read Full Post »

Do you bake your own bread?

I do, and have been since December 2006. Of all the things I cook, and all the kitchen skills I’ve acquired, none are as soul-satisfying as baking bread. Every single loaf of the hundreds I’ve baked has been different, making each one seem just that little bit special and exciting when it’s sliced.

I enjoy baking bread at all times, but never quite so much as early in the morning.

When the weather permits, I’ll leave my sourdough on the bench overnight to prove, then wake up at dawn the following morning to bake it. It’s a remarkably untaxing process – I squelch all the ingredients together before going to bed, then simply leave them in a covered bowl until morning. I don’t bother with kneading or folding – my starter Priscilla is so resilient and reliable that she doesn’t seem to need fussing over to make decent bread.

The following morning, I’ll turn the puffy dough out onto a semolina dusted bench to fold, shape, prove and then bake. The house is quiet, punctuated only by the hum of the oven and the peeping calls of the soldier birds. It’s a gentle way to ease into the day, softly manipulating the airy dough and sipping hot tea while it has its second prove.

As the bread bakes, the house fills with toasty aromas. I used to sit by the oven and watch the bread rise, but now that I bake in a covered pot, that’s no longer an option. However, the thrill of uncovering the pot at the twenty minute mark to find a large well-risen loaf more than makes up for it. The finished loaves crackle and sing as they sit on the rack, catching the morning rays as they come in through the dining room window.

I’m not sure I could do regular bakers’ hours with their 4am starts, but I can completely understand the appeal of working in the quiet of the morning. By the time most people are up and having breakfast, bakers have accomplished a full day’s work producing honest, delicious food.

And what glorious work it is! I’m always so thrilled to be able to see the product of my efforts, to tap the hard crackly crust or lay a palm on a still warm loaf or admire the smiling gringe (split) on the top. Having created something so nourishing so early in the morning will set me in a positive mood for the rest of the day.

Do you bake your own bread? There’s nothing quite like it.

Read Full Post »