My Pop an early riser, lit the coal range for the day. The kitchen warmed up. Then we kids got up. Some hours later and moaning because of the indecent hour my Nana got up. Nana was a party girl. Stayed up late.
Nana was the scone maker.
Cup of tea, toast and bit by bit Nana lit up, started chatting, became nice to know.
Today, visitors. Cups of tea, best behaviour. And scones.
These days we follow, step by step, with scientific precision, the recipe in our Edmunds Cook book. (reprinted 2012) My Nana however was quite chatty when making scones – a pinch of this, coupla cups of that, oooh I’ll add a bit more water . . . And whup! into the coal range. In later years I found that the gauge on the door, when working, gave the temperature, not, as my Pop said, an indicator of how good we kids were the day before.
Nana’s chatter would continue, there was the best table cloth, polished cutlery, napkins, chatter, sugar bowl, chatter and “Oooh! The scones!” Some days just a bit over, other just right. The scones were always perfect. Because Nana made them.
In later years my sister asked Nana – scone maker supreme – if she could have the recipe.
Nana stopped, looked blank – what recipe? Scones happened. Like riding a bike. Maybe in the beginning . . .
We kids knew there were privileges in having scones at Nana’s place. The butter could be laid on just a bit more thickly. Our parents would look the other way.
At home the was a Proper Spread of Butter. Not that we could not afford a wee excess. It was Good Manners. When pressed my Mum would say, “Well, uhm, too much will make you ill, and, uhm, that’s all there is to it. So.”
Albert is the guy Cock ‘o the Roost Macho And uncontested in his domain
The girls Well, chooks Common garden chooks Do chook things In their rural lifestyle block way. Laying eggs Laying eggs in hard to find places Hanging around the door making chook noises
Coupla times a day chook noises bring food Sometimes a door is left open They winkle their inside Chockle their way past the cat Hope, curiosity, patience plus Unmentionable things on the floor
Albert knows nothing of daylight saving Cocka doodle doos, “I’m here” To cheer up the small community of farmlets No flowers, chocolates or love poems Lust is lust and on on a whimsy . . .
The sun shines The sun sets The planet turns Eggs collected And we, visitors, Polite urban dwellers Coo gratitude Wonder
4.00am. I am half awake. A blinding flash immediately followed by massive roll of thunder. Both cats sit up, one leaps off the bed and disappears. I know I am to blame for this. Sunday morning, breakfast, cat treats and all is forgiven. Morning walk, a calm blue spring day, a smattering of cloud, I ride my E Bike to our local cheese factory passing cows snoozing in huddled groups. The pasture now is rich and green ~ I ponder on a lunch. I’m hungry.
Auckland family, “It’s gone on too long, And when we can we’ll be up and gone!” The young ones – don’t know where, I don’t know when. But so good when we catch again.
Nods and muted smiles, our daily tasks Obscured by muffled sounds and masks.
Clock forward, again in darkness waking, Consoled by longer days and baking. My partner, “Gee, I’m an hour slow, I should have left an hour ago!”
Front porch in sun, the birds and me The cat asleep, my cup of tea.
Morning walk, breakfast, dishes done. One step, two steps, a rhythm best done By feel rather than the count, Connecting steps to the street above And into sun. A friendly “Hi!” A local, Masked, to me unrecognized. “Oh Hi!” That unseen smile, it means a lot – Covid Caution ~ then the tulips.
Dimly lit, a spider’s lair – Our woodshed, storing in dry air, Wood split with axe and careful eye. Winter warmth, and Solstice nigh.
Boistery, blusterous winds by night. That morning coffee, it all comes right. Beanie, woollies along Pollen Street, Partly shopping, but folks to greet.
Though ‘tis the winter of our discontent, Oldies, chuckle, wrinkled, bent. One stooped on stick, looks up, “No fear – Old age ain’t for sissies, but I’m still here!”
Preoccupied – where’ve I parked my car.” Walk, look nonchalant, it can’t be far. Cold, dark mornings, bare feet on path. Warm evenings, cat and I before the hearth.
The stream is flowing high The rock pools, popular in summer, Cleared of leaves, branches, And replaced with new twigs and branches. Higher up the track, birdsong
