The weather in Sydney over the last few days has been drear,
dreich and generally wet, wet, wet.
Given that last week I was skipping along the beach glorying in
spectacular sunshine this is particularly irritating.
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| If only you'd been here last week! |
I sent this picture of the sad swimming pool to a friend in
New Zealand this morning to convince her that she should be packing her Sou
wester for her upcoming trip to Sydney.
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She pointed out that at least it was warm and whilst I did restrain
myself from posting back a selfie of me muffled up in my ancient holey cashmere
jumper which was the warmest garment to hand this morning, the observation re
respective warmths of climate did reinforce my opinion that a move to Auckland
might be a bit like returning to my Scottish roots in terms of weather.
Weather aside I did in fact have the most fabulous
weekend. A friend who has a beach
house an hour or so up the coast at a place called Patonga invited me up for a
girls’ weekend of Christmas baking.
Given my culinary skills this would normally have me running for the
hills and in fact I have to own up to a moment of complete panic when I
realised I had failed at the first hurdle and had completely stuffed the
marinating of the mixed peel and fruit. However I remained calm (relatively) and consoled
myself that most things, and indeed people, are greatly improved by being
soaked in brandy for a week rather than the mere skimpy 24 hours that the
recipe apparently called for.
Patonga is a former fishing village, transformed into the
ideal weekend getaway. Bags of
character, stunning scenery, at the end of the road so off the beaten track,
whilst containing all the essentials of life in the form of a ferry jetty, an
active pub and a fish and chip shop.
In fact the Christmas pudding courtesy of a Maggie Beer
recipe, was comparatively simple to make, particularly once I axed the notion
of dehydrated cumquats as an ingredient, I do after all know my limitations. There is nothing so good I have now decided as the citrusy and brandy scented smell of boiling puddings and cooking cakes on
a wet afternoon when the rain is lashing down. And I have to admit the cumquats that my more ambitious
friend tackled with aplomb did smell divine once hydrated with brandy – but once
again, what wouldn’t?
I didn’t know the other three women who had also been invited for the
pudding project weekend, but I have to say we bonded over the whole thing. They were all stars on the cooking
front and whilst they remained effortlessly polite, they were reduced to
hysteria by my method of cutting up a pumpkin – not for the pudding I should
add, I may be a cooking novice but I do know the limits of pumpkin. However I remain firm that there is no
right way to slice a pumpkin and if I choose to do it in a completely bizarre
way that no decent cook would contemplate, so long as I am not a) using my
teeth or b) losing a finger, then that’s all right.
Puddings and stunning views aside the best bit of the
weekend, in fact the plum in the pudding as it were, was the conversations. Such a fabulous group of women, three
different nationalities and five different professions between us, and somehow
we all just jelled. We laughed and
laughed and by the end of the weekend we were all writing up lists of
each other’s recommendations, from films to see and books to read to auction
houses to frequent. I did make a mental note on this last one
that given I am supposed to be de-cluttering the debris of the last 22 years
currently stored in boxes balanced on top of wardrobes, an auction house
addiction might be somewhat dangerous; particularly given my love of kitsch
that combined with a competitive nature
will lead to bidding wars
and impulse buys and I can just see Husband’s face when I return with a
set of gnome salt and pepper shakers and 68 mismatched glasses.
I am feeling very proud of my two puddings, that I reckon
look the business swathed as they are in calico.
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| Puddings of which to be proud |
However I am slightly more nervous about the instructions re
hanging them in a cool place until Christmas, and the accompanying warnings about
humidity and the dangers of mould.
I have the general feeling it might be difficult to pass off a pudding
with a stilton-like blue bloom around it.
My family tend to be somewhat suspicious of my culinary masterpieces and
it may require a major sleight of hand to disguise a furry tendency round the
edges of the pudding. However I
can but hope for the best and if the worst comes to the worst, and given most
of my coats and shoes grow whiskers of mould given half a chance – and the fact
that torrential rain and warm conditions does add up to humid, I think I am not
being overly pessimistic in assuming mould is an option, there is always the
remedy of yet more brandy and setting fire to the thing prior to the glorious
entry.
