In Which She-Who-Climbs-Trees (Kat) and She-Who-Swings-High (Destiny) Cook Thanksgiving Dinner for Constant-Is-The-Lord's-Love Huxtable (Clare) and Mourn the Absence of He-Who-Lights-The-Bears-On-Fire (the cat)
Many moons ago, somewhere off of Interstate 75 (probably), a group of happy, English-speaking Native Americans in brightly colored feather headdresses sat down with several austere pilgrims who did not believe in color. Together, they had a meal of turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pink cloud. Being Protestant evangelicals, they gave thanks to God for all He had given them. Now, almost 400 years later, the exact same thing happened.
Only completely different.
We awoke at the unrighteous hour of 9 o'clock this morning to being preparing the many traditional Thanksgiving foods we wished to share with our Kiwi hosts, none of whom had experienced Thanksgiving before. After carefully strategizing, we began cooking and learned several very important things:
1) Always asks specifically where the mixing bowls are, because Kiwis do obnoxious things like store them under the sink.
2) French fried onions are actually a very important part of green bean casserole. Without them, it's more like green-bean-cream-of-mushroom soup. Kiwis don't believe in French fried onions. If you ask about them, they will accuse you of making them up.
3) Hand-whipping meringue takes a freakishly long time. Multiple shift changes are necessary.
Despite these difficult lessons, we managed to cook mashed potatoes with cheese, kumara (sweet potato) souffle, green bean casserole, dressing, pink cloud (fluffy pink cottage cheese/cream/pineapple/strawberry jello mixture), yeast rolls (turned out to be more of a yeast loaf but still pretty tasty), and chocolate pie, as well as a turkey.
Once the cooking was complete, we spent most of the afternoon engaged in the most important of Thanksgiving festivities: the making of handprint turkeys, Indian headdresses, and pilgrim hats. Note--Indian headdress require a great deal less work than pilgrim hats, unless you're like Kat and make yourself a full chief's headdress. That takes a very long time.
Hats on and turkeys tacked to the wall by the table (along with several colorful Kiwi birds to keep them company), we presented our hosts with our Thanksgiving feast, which they very kindly ate, with the exception of Moira, who refused to eat the pink cloud.
During the meal, we each told a few things for which we are thankful, the most interesting of which being unicorns.
Thus passed our traditional American Thanksgiving in New Zealand. We hope your Turkey Day is equally enjoyable. Tell the Macy's parade we said hello.
P.S.--He-Who-Lights-The-Bears-On-Fire has returned. There was much rejoicing.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
In Which Destiny and Kat Kidnap a Pirate...Sort of
Once upon a time on the island at the end of the world there was a fearsome pirate named Clar.
Here is the story of how we kidnapped her.
But first, a short prelude:
After a delightful week of writing and not a great deal else we made our way to Wellington. In Wellington there is a mountain of magic and mystery where a number of scenes from Lord of the Rings were filmed. Thus it was absolutely necessary that we run around in a hired Hobbit cloak and take pictures of ourselves tumbling down the hill in search of mushrooms and hiding from the Nazgul (and being the Nazgul for that matter). We also visited the River Anduin, the Ford of Isen, and Rivendell. All of this took two days. (Can you imagine what it would have been like if we had walked the entire way? One of us might have died!)
While waiting to board the ferry to the South Island, we spotted a WWI-era army jeep, complete with WWI-era soldiers. We then spent a while discussing whether New Zealand was actually that far behind in military defense. Upon inquiry, we learned that they were not in fact members of the military, but re-enactors--very friendly re-enactors with lots of stories to tell. Thus passed a pleasant ferry ride.
After bidding goodbye to our new friends, we headed to our hostel in Picton, where we were too late for the famed hot chocolate pudding. We were not, however, too late for our kind kiwi guide Esther to have a lengthy discussion on morality with various other hostel dwellers. Because that's the sort of thing that happens in hostel common rooms.
In Hanmer Springs, we had our first experience with the magic of hot water bottles. In a land without central heating, these are the only thing standing between us and a long night of icy feet. We also visited Captain Mike's Fish and Chip Shop, where travelers are encouraged to write a note on the front window. We composed a limerick:
Two travelers in Hanmer Springs
Ate some fish and chips fit for kings.
At Captain Mike's
Everyone likes
The food and the fullness it brings.
That's right. Nobel-worthy. Next time you're in Hanmer Springs, look us up.
We then made our way to the city of Christchurch. We had a brief walking tour of the earthquake devastation downtown, as well as a tour of Esther's lovely and multitudinous friends who lived nearby. On the deadly rapids of the Avon River in Christchurch, Destiny had her first kayaking experience, alongside many families of fluffy ducklings.
Continuing our way south, we reached Oamaru, steampunk capital of New Zealand and home of the annual Victorian Heritage Fete. Among the many unique sites of Oamaru was one Katherine Harrell in a Victorian skirt and shawl, looking rather like a spinster governess. Also at the fete were fencers, pipe-smoking and penny farthings a-plenty.
But you don't care about any of that. What you really want to know is how we (sort of) kidnapped a pirate.
As it is necessary when kidnapping a pirate to look like a pirate, we had to stop on the side of the road and change into pirate paraphernalia, including eyepatches, a Jolly Roger, and a dark curly fro wig (think Screech from Saved by the Bell). Armed with our two-dollar plastic swords, we charged the abode of the above-mentioned fearsome pirate Clar. We kicked down the door (though you could say we knocked on the door and her mum let us in). We banged on the bathroom door, but then our plans were scuppered by the fact that our would-be hostage refused to meet her captors face-to-face for the first time half-naked.
We don't know why she had a problem with this.
We then waited with uncharacteristic and rather un-pirately patience for her to emerge in her orange and pink floral robe. She informed us that she hated us, and then hugged us. All the while, the fluffy black cat named Glitzy Candle-Bears made us feel very welcome and then bit Katherine on the hand. We very much enjoy the company of Sparkly Lightbulb-Pandas.
The following morning we sadly bid farewell to Clar's (who is sometimes, when she is not feeling particularly piratey, also called Clare) mum and Glamour Matchstick-Grizzlies and set off for the Catlins. We spent two days climbing waterfalls, exploring beaches, staying proper distances away from penguins, and debating feminism. It was lovely.
We have now returned to the home of Clare, Glitter Sparkler-Yogis, Clare's parents and sister Moira (who requested to be described to America as "awesomeness and writingness". She is indeed both of these things.)
The moral of the story: When kidnapping pirates, be careful petting the cat or he will bite you.
Here is the story of how we kidnapped her.
But first, a short prelude:
After a delightful week of writing and not a great deal else we made our way to Wellington. In Wellington there is a mountain of magic and mystery where a number of scenes from Lord of the Rings were filmed. Thus it was absolutely necessary that we run around in a hired Hobbit cloak and take pictures of ourselves tumbling down the hill in search of mushrooms and hiding from the Nazgul (and being the Nazgul for that matter). We also visited the River Anduin, the Ford of Isen, and Rivendell. All of this took two days. (Can you imagine what it would have been like if we had walked the entire way? One of us might have died!)
While waiting to board the ferry to the South Island, we spotted a WWI-era army jeep, complete with WWI-era soldiers. We then spent a while discussing whether New Zealand was actually that far behind in military defense. Upon inquiry, we learned that they were not in fact members of the military, but re-enactors--very friendly re-enactors with lots of stories to tell. Thus passed a pleasant ferry ride.
After bidding goodbye to our new friends, we headed to our hostel in Picton, where we were too late for the famed hot chocolate pudding. We were not, however, too late for our kind kiwi guide Esther to have a lengthy discussion on morality with various other hostel dwellers. Because that's the sort of thing that happens in hostel common rooms.
In Hanmer Springs, we had our first experience with the magic of hot water bottles. In a land without central heating, these are the only thing standing between us and a long night of icy feet. We also visited Captain Mike's Fish and Chip Shop, where travelers are encouraged to write a note on the front window. We composed a limerick:
Two travelers in Hanmer Springs
Ate some fish and chips fit for kings.
At Captain Mike's
Everyone likes
The food and the fullness it brings.
That's right. Nobel-worthy. Next time you're in Hanmer Springs, look us up.
We then made our way to the city of Christchurch. We had a brief walking tour of the earthquake devastation downtown, as well as a tour of Esther's lovely and multitudinous friends who lived nearby. On the deadly rapids of the Avon River in Christchurch, Destiny had her first kayaking experience, alongside many families of fluffy ducklings.
Continuing our way south, we reached Oamaru, steampunk capital of New Zealand and home of the annual Victorian Heritage Fete. Among the many unique sites of Oamaru was one Katherine Harrell in a Victorian skirt and shawl, looking rather like a spinster governess. Also at the fete were fencers, pipe-smoking and penny farthings a-plenty.
But you don't care about any of that. What you really want to know is how we (sort of) kidnapped a pirate.
As it is necessary when kidnapping a pirate to look like a pirate, we had to stop on the side of the road and change into pirate paraphernalia, including eyepatches, a Jolly Roger, and a dark curly fro wig (think Screech from Saved by the Bell). Armed with our two-dollar plastic swords, we charged the abode of the above-mentioned fearsome pirate Clar. We kicked down the door (though you could say we knocked on the door and her mum let us in). We banged on the bathroom door, but then our plans were scuppered by the fact that our would-be hostage refused to meet her captors face-to-face for the first time half-naked.
We don't know why she had a problem with this.
We then waited with uncharacteristic and rather un-pirately patience for her to emerge in her orange and pink floral robe. She informed us that she hated us, and then hugged us. All the while, the fluffy black cat named Glitzy Candle-Bears made us feel very welcome and then bit Katherine on the hand. We very much enjoy the company of Sparkly Lightbulb-Pandas.
The following morning we sadly bid farewell to Clar's (who is sometimes, when she is not feeling particularly piratey, also called Clare) mum and Glamour Matchstick-Grizzlies and set off for the Catlins. We spent two days climbing waterfalls, exploring beaches, staying proper distances away from penguins, and debating feminism. It was lovely.
We have now returned to the home of Clare, Glitter Sparkler-Yogis, Clare's parents and sister Moira (who requested to be described to America as "awesomeness and writingness". She is indeed both of these things.)
The moral of the story: When kidnapping pirates, be careful petting the cat or he will bite you.
Monday, November 7, 2011
In Which Kat and Destiny are Kidnapped by Gypsies
What follows is the true, unbiased Account of the not-quite-unfortunate Captivity of two certain Young Ladies with their relatively scant amount of Luggage and the Peculiar events and emotions that Proceeded from this Singular experience.
Beginning this post is proving to be difficult. As difficult as trying to write a blog post about two days in a major city followed by four days in a camper van with five girls under the age of 12 and their rather enthusiastic dad. That kind of difficult.
Day 1, Wednesday: we were kidnapped by gypsies, which is to say the two of us and our packs were pulled off the streets of Auckland and into a camper van. We did not refer to it as kidnapping; Craig, our driver and the ringleader of the gypsy band, put it that way. It was rather like being kidnapped, only with better food, more hugs, and occasional petting. After an outing to the zoo (I have no idea whether most kidnappings include zoo outings or not) and a stop for Indian takeaways (which is what they call take-out food here; we were not actually taking away an Indian. That would be real kidnapping), we made our way out of Auckland. After several hours of driving in the dark punctuated by poking, giggling, and odd questions like "are you going to sleep in the bus?", we reached a campsite. Which is to say, we reached a spot on the side of the road where we could pull off and set up a tent while Craig made up beds for himself and the girls in the camper van. He kindly offered us beds in the bus, but we felt we would be a bit happier in the tent. However, this happiness was soon threatened when we pulled out the tent to discover a missing crucial bit: tent poles. In case you've never tried to set up a tent, you should know that a tent without tent poles is a large and rather useless piece of canvas. We managed to tie a piece of rope between two trees and tie the top of our tent to said rope. Our packs were shoved into the corners of the tent to provide a bit more shape, and the rain fly was draped over the rope and tied to either tree. So not the way we would have chosen to spend our first night out of Auckland--but the view in the morning was entirely worth it. Green, rollings hills surrounding pastureland. It was like waking up in Middle Earth. All that was missing was a pointy-eared Orlando Bloom.
Day 2, Thursday: Hot Water Beach is aptly named. Though the water itself is ice cold, if you walk down the shore (keeping one eye on the magnificent horizon and one eye on the massive pockmarked boulders that provide brilliant climbing), you'll come upon a horde of tourists with shovels digging themselves hot tub-sized holes into the sand. These holes are indeed hot tubs, filling automatically with natural hot water. Sadly, we did not have time to splash around, but we have every intention of returning.
Day 3, Friday: In the seemingly unremarkable town of Paeroa, there is a giant bottle of soda by the side of the road. L&P is a delicious NZ soda that slightly resembles Mellow Yellow in taste, only not really. It was invented in Paeroa. As we were still in Tourist Mode, we felt it appropriate to buy a couple of L&Ps at the petrol station and take our picture in front of the giant bottle. Of course, the photo is populated by a couple of gypsy children, as they took an immediate liking to clambering on the bottle. Luckily, they are quite photogenic and having real Kiwis in our photos lends us a bit of authenticity, we feel.
Karangahake Reserve, famous for its gold-mining and battery ruins is dotted with rope bridges and nestled in a river valley that resembles Ocoee territory. With a gypsy child on Destiny's back and various other children in hand, we tramped through a tunnel that led us straight through the mountain. No dwarves were there to greet us, but the atmosphere was perfect for our rendition of "I Will Follow You Into the Dark," by Death Cab for Cutie. The gypsy child between us kindly did not voice her opinion of our spontaneous singing.
In Waihi, there is a ruin atop a hill beside a massive quarry. According to signs, it is an old pumphouse, but we have deemed it the Ancient Watchtower of Waihi, which we feel is altogether more appropriate. We had lunch on Waihi beach, Dutch cheese and bread, and then sat on driftwood while the waves crashed in and the girls collected shells. It's a pity--a tragedy really--that words and pictures are inadequate at best to describe the beauty all around us. The ripples through the cool clear water and the way the light hits the waves as they crest. The sweetness of a child handing you a pristine shell and telling you it's yours. The way the breeze plays at the flowers on the dune. The delicious warmth of a driftwood log against your skin as you step up from the cool water. Sometimes being kidnapped isn't bad at all. Sometimes it's beautiful.
(Sidenote: and sometimes you--by which we mean Kat--get mistaken for the mother of the gypsy children by a very enthusiastic Asian woman who is married to the Dutch guy who runs the Dutch market. Sometimes getting kidnapped is awkward.)
As the entire bus had been three days without showers, we stopped at Mt. Manganui, where we had chicken burgers on the beach, and then went for a soak in the hot saltwater pools that are heated naturally by the volcano.
Day 4, Saturday: More driving, more site-seeing, which ended in reaching Hastings in Hawke's Bay. We made our way to Esther's mum's house, and after a great deal of discussion, it was decided that we would stay with her to keep Esther company (she's here recovering from surgery) and give us a bit of a break from the gypsy children. As soon as the gypsies in the camper van left, Esther's mum offered us tea, toast, and towels and pointed us toward hot showers. So here we are, safe and clean and no worse for the kidnapping. May all your adventures with gypsies end so happily.
Beginning this post is proving to be difficult. As difficult as trying to write a blog post about two days in a major city followed by four days in a camper van with five girls under the age of 12 and their rather enthusiastic dad. That kind of difficult.
Day 1, Wednesday: we were kidnapped by gypsies, which is to say the two of us and our packs were pulled off the streets of Auckland and into a camper van. We did not refer to it as kidnapping; Craig, our driver and the ringleader of the gypsy band, put it that way. It was rather like being kidnapped, only with better food, more hugs, and occasional petting. After an outing to the zoo (I have no idea whether most kidnappings include zoo outings or not) and a stop for Indian takeaways (which is what they call take-out food here; we were not actually taking away an Indian. That would be real kidnapping), we made our way out of Auckland. After several hours of driving in the dark punctuated by poking, giggling, and odd questions like "are you going to sleep in the bus?", we reached a campsite. Which is to say, we reached a spot on the side of the road where we could pull off and set up a tent while Craig made up beds for himself and the girls in the camper van. He kindly offered us beds in the bus, but we felt we would be a bit happier in the tent. However, this happiness was soon threatened when we pulled out the tent to discover a missing crucial bit: tent poles. In case you've never tried to set up a tent, you should know that a tent without tent poles is a large and rather useless piece of canvas. We managed to tie a piece of rope between two trees and tie the top of our tent to said rope. Our packs were shoved into the corners of the tent to provide a bit more shape, and the rain fly was draped over the rope and tied to either tree. So not the way we would have chosen to spend our first night out of Auckland--but the view in the morning was entirely worth it. Green, rollings hills surrounding pastureland. It was like waking up in Middle Earth. All that was missing was a pointy-eared Orlando Bloom.
Day 2, Thursday: Hot Water Beach is aptly named. Though the water itself is ice cold, if you walk down the shore (keeping one eye on the magnificent horizon and one eye on the massive pockmarked boulders that provide brilliant climbing), you'll come upon a horde of tourists with shovels digging themselves hot tub-sized holes into the sand. These holes are indeed hot tubs, filling automatically with natural hot water. Sadly, we did not have time to splash around, but we have every intention of returning.
Day 3, Friday: In the seemingly unremarkable town of Paeroa, there is a giant bottle of soda by the side of the road. L&P is a delicious NZ soda that slightly resembles Mellow Yellow in taste, only not really. It was invented in Paeroa. As we were still in Tourist Mode, we felt it appropriate to buy a couple of L&Ps at the petrol station and take our picture in front of the giant bottle. Of course, the photo is populated by a couple of gypsy children, as they took an immediate liking to clambering on the bottle. Luckily, they are quite photogenic and having real Kiwis in our photos lends us a bit of authenticity, we feel.
Karangahake Reserve, famous for its gold-mining and battery ruins is dotted with rope bridges and nestled in a river valley that resembles Ocoee territory. With a gypsy child on Destiny's back and various other children in hand, we tramped through a tunnel that led us straight through the mountain. No dwarves were there to greet us, but the atmosphere was perfect for our rendition of "I Will Follow You Into the Dark," by Death Cab for Cutie. The gypsy child between us kindly did not voice her opinion of our spontaneous singing.
In Waihi, there is a ruin atop a hill beside a massive quarry. According to signs, it is an old pumphouse, but we have deemed it the Ancient Watchtower of Waihi, which we feel is altogether more appropriate. We had lunch on Waihi beach, Dutch cheese and bread, and then sat on driftwood while the waves crashed in and the girls collected shells. It's a pity--a tragedy really--that words and pictures are inadequate at best to describe the beauty all around us. The ripples through the cool clear water and the way the light hits the waves as they crest. The sweetness of a child handing you a pristine shell and telling you it's yours. The way the breeze plays at the flowers on the dune. The delicious warmth of a driftwood log against your skin as you step up from the cool water. Sometimes being kidnapped isn't bad at all. Sometimes it's beautiful.
(Sidenote: and sometimes you--by which we mean Kat--get mistaken for the mother of the gypsy children by a very enthusiastic Asian woman who is married to the Dutch guy who runs the Dutch market. Sometimes getting kidnapped is awkward.)
As the entire bus had been three days without showers, we stopped at Mt. Manganui, where we had chicken burgers on the beach, and then went for a soak in the hot saltwater pools that are heated naturally by the volcano.
Day 4, Saturday: More driving, more site-seeing, which ended in reaching Hastings in Hawke's Bay. We made our way to Esther's mum's house, and after a great deal of discussion, it was decided that we would stay with her to keep Esther company (she's here recovering from surgery) and give us a bit of a break from the gypsy children. As soon as the gypsies in the camper van left, Esther's mum offered us tea, toast, and towels and pointed us toward hot showers. So here we are, safe and clean and no worse for the kidnapping. May all your adventures with gypsies end so happily.
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