Note To Future Self

Am I the only one who feels guilty after ranting at cars?

Am I the only one who rants at cars?

In any case: Pink Mitsubishi Mirage, eastbound on Kilmarnock at the Deans Ave lights, 5-ish on Thursday, two female occupants. I’m sorry I yelled at you. You did cut us off really rather badly, though.

Winter might be right around the corner, but it’s no match for Super Commuter(!) and his faithful sidekick High-Viz Girl(!)

The GB and I have successfully completed four round-trips to work (out of a possible six) in the last two weeks, a grueling 8 urban kms each way. Hey, it’s a start. Yes, it’s quite flat, and yes, we do stop to commune with the ducks in the park at the halfway point.

The weather has been superb thus far. We’ll see how my resolve holds once the winter nasties come in.

On a bike-geek note, it’s actually quite a bad idea to attach a bike trailer to a singlespeed (36×16, thanks for asking). Starting from a standstill requires volcanic torque. I expect my thighs to be the size of the mighty Tōtara by spring. That should make shopping for trousers interesting.

Weary?

Feeling small?

Tears in your eyes?

I can dry them all.

Please, please. Run to your local funky kids bookstore and buy every single copy of Ulf Nilsson’s When We Were Alone in the World.

I won’t ruin it for you with my petty, petty words.

(image courtesy of Gecko Press. Keep up the good work!)

Go now. I’ll wait.

After three years (!) as wild colonial boys (and girls), we’ve been granted NZ residency. This actually doesn’t mean much in day-to-day terms, although it does mean we won’t be deported if Anna changes jobs, which is a big plus.

A few notes:

• For those considering a similar journey, we didn’t really have to wait three years on work visa to get residency. I’d say it’s pretty feasible for “desirables” (i.e. young, healthy, educated, skilled professional, big hands, must provide own boat, etc) to be granted NZ residency, particularly with a job offer. The work-to-residency path was what was offered and we happily took it … in the long run it worked for us.
• For long-term visitors the NZ system is quite rational. We were able to access health care, schools, etc. There were very few “rough edges” where the distinction between long-term work visa and residency became apparent. That’s a good thing!
• I’m always a little appalled when I hear stories from folks who’ve done similar migrations to the States. It’s amazing how ignorant most Americans (i.e. myself) are or the machinations and deprivations of the US immigration system.

I was going to put up a heavily-edited scan of my residence permit, but Anna nixed that idea … probably for good reason.

Instead, here’s a picture of a man in an MC Hammer costume, and a picture of our daughter, in case you’ve forgotten what she looks like:

It should come as no surprise to anyone that I’m a bit of a gearhead. And really, once you’ve tried all the bike gear in the world, the next obvious outlet is to try all of the baby gear.

So, in anticipation of a soggy winter spent outside, we’ve (ahem) “invested” in a tidy Easter package from Puddle Jumpers.

No, it’s not Gore-tex. Yes, it will do just fine.

The overalls do have a certain nautical appeal.**

** Side note. Man, there was a time when a Mustang jacket was high on my Christmas list. What would I do with it now? Who knows.

With fall just around the corner, we carpe’d some diem last weekend to take a day hike to the Packhorse hut from the trailhead at Gebbies Pass. This tramp is well-known in the area for being pretty easy (guidebooks note “a gentle introduction to tramping for the very young and the infirm”) and also just about the simplest way to stay overnight on the Banks Peninsula. In fact, the hut is accessible (from a different trailhead) via public transportation. Amazing.

We didn’t exercise the overnight option, as I didn’t think our nighttime routine was particularly hut-friendly, what with the screaming and atonal warbling of lullabies. And reading six or seven books over and over. Perhaps some of the trampers might be interested in Rosie’s Walk once, but after a few readings, it does lose some of its magic.**

In any case, the walking was nice, the gorp was tasty, and all toddler transport was in our fine (and exceedingly heavy) backpack.

Will there be more tramping? I hope so.

** I just noticed that one of the Powell’s entries for Rosie’s Walk is an audiobook. Then again, I’m pretty sure our library has theVery Hungry Caterpillar book on tape. Sigh.

The nighttime temps are dropping, and I still have lots of green tomatoes on the vine. Sigh. No tomatogeddon this year I’m afraid.

Pardon the cooking interlude.

I’m a huge fan of food recycling. Perhaps I learned it in the college dining hall. Steak becomes steak sandwiches becomes stir fry becomes …

For me, the pinnacle right now is chicken stock. How much simpler does it get? Cook the chicken, eat the chicken. While you’re eating, put the carcass and a some saddish vege in a pot of water. Boil till you’re sick of it.

Strain out the chunks (upper right), and use the stock (lower right) to make, for example, a lovely risotto (lower left). Actually lower left isn’t technically risotto yet, but the liquid love that will be, as the kids say, bringing the party.

Fin.

I know this sort of thing keeps you up at night. So I thought I’d reassure you.

Yes. The wholesome tomato-saucing carrot-eating family does in fact really enjoy pigging out on fish and chips wrapped in greezy newspaper.

And we look cool doing it, thanks.