When she got there the cupboard was bare…

…so Grace went outside to find lunch for us. And she photographed it.

Here is an extract of helpful advice for parents from Dr David Suzuki’s website:

  • DOCS TALK: WHAT ADVICE DO YOU HAVE FOR HOW WE APPROACH THE URGENT NEED FOR ACTION ON CLIMATE CHANGE?
  • Dr. Ocana: I suggest we embark on the process of identifying the values that come into play in our emotional response to climate change and take action that is consistent with these values. The point is not to singlehandedly change the world. The point is to engage in meaningful activity, even sacrifice, as an expression of our values. In so doing, we set an example for others and find a sense of community with those who are like-minded. Parents can similarly guide children in identifying child-sized actions that they can take to contribute to the solution, but more importantly to crystallize their own values and put them into action. Children are capable of taking pride in such activity when they are included in the process of determining what activities would represent meaningful action.

Recently, I plonked down, tired and bored with the whole garden-food thing, wondering what to do for dinner, and said to the girls, oh stuff it, let’s go buy some lamb chops and pre-washed supermarket veg. They vetoed me. (Lucky. I was bluffing). They are proud of this simpler living, greater self-reliance thing.

As a parent reading that access to shop-bought foods may become increasingly unreliable, it’s reassuring to know that your kids will readily pick and eat fruit with imperfections, or that they’ll try with interest a “weed salad” made by a wwoofer  (thanks JP for the lemony sorrel surprise. Delicious.)  If you can’t grow food at home, see if your kids’ school will investigate a kitchen garden project, or look to community gardens.

Here’s Grace happily “making lunch from nothing” as she calls it.

She tells me “Blogging is social suicide” (as if I don’t know that!) but she’s sweet enough to allow me to put her out there, along with Lucy, as living proof that we can (incrementally) shift our privileged, first-world children towards resilience and adaptation.

I’m on a mission….

Vegetarian casseroles – my dream is complete!

Mum dug her experimental crop of "cool temperate" kumara, and demanded some mention of this. So... TAA DAA! Sweet potatoes in Melbourne!

(By Lucy)

As you probably gathered from the title, I’ve been craving a good casserole for quite some time. I had scoured the cookbooks and magazines for a recipe for vegetarian casserole but alas! none could be found. At least, none that I could be bothered making.

But I did find a recipe for “Venison casserole” in one of my beloved food magazines. I didn’t particularly like the sound of meat, and we had a bunch of summer vegetables beginning to go to seed. Normally mum would shout “SOUP!” and ruthlessly boil them down into a minestrone (which I do love) but I decided to go for something different.

Please don’t follow this recipe exactly… mainly because I had no idea of the quantities of stuff, but also because you’re cooking for YOU. You decide what to put in, what you like, what you don’t. Make it your own creation, and follow the rough – VERY rough – guidelines given here.

THE CONQUEST BEGINS

And also, go for organics.

INGREDIENTS

2 tablespoons olive oil

200g sliced parnips

200g sliced carrots

1 large leek, sliced

230g sweet potato, sliced (such geometric variety…)

6 medium tomatoes, deseeded and diced

85g of squash, diced

400g tin of beans (cannelini or butter beans)

2-3 cloves of garlic, roughly chopped

Bouquet garni (no idea what a bouquet garni actually has in it… so I just stuffed rosemary, thyme, oregano, parsely and a few bay leaves into a square of cloth and tied it up)

A good splash of wine (I used white, but I reckon red would work nicely too)

1 tablespoon tomato paste

1 cup beef stock (or the beef imitation, vegetarian friendly stock like I used… oops)

2 tablespoons plum sauce (or jam… or jelly. Thanks to my grandmother for supplying us with it)

4 tablespoons cream

Preheat oven to 150°C. Gently heat the oil in a saucepan over a medium heat and cook the parsnips, carrots, leek and sweet potato until beginning to get soft. Stir through the garlic, squash, tomatoes and beans; cook for about 5 minutes, stirring, then add the wine (as much as you want), stock, tomato paste and bouquet garni. Boil gently for a few minutes then transfer to casserole dish(es). Bake, covered, for an hour. Remove cover and bouquet garni, stir in plum sauce and cream, raise temperature to 200°C and bake for another 20 minutes. Serve with mashed potato or polenta, parsley and some nice bread to mop up the juices.

Warning: this does make a lot of casserole and I’m not sure about how well it freezes. I’ll tell you all in the coments sooner or later. For now, feel free to test it out yourselves.

Recipe: Lucy Barr. Styling and Photography: Grace Barr

Fat bums

I made the mistake of mentioning that op shop jeans are great if your bum is fatter and legs shorter than “average”, cos you’ll find plenty already hemmed up – in this post. It gets a lot of traffic. So, an apology to whoever you are that searches the term “fat bums” and “black fat bums” almost daily. Hmmmm….

The perilous journey of the chilli sauce

Until now, I had never really thought about my father’s love for chillies.

But now I strongly suspect he is trying to grow the ultimate biological weapon.

So, let’s start at the beginning: I wanted to make sweet chilli sauce and I didn’t have enough chillies so I picked 5 rocotos. Or, as I like to call them, Satan’s firey fruits of death.

Well, as I was picking some thai chillies, some leaves rustled. On a hot day, the immediate thought is: Snake!!!

The rational response: slowly stand up, calmly back away and tell mum that there may be a snake in the herb bed outside the back door and if she’d be so kind to risk her life investigating.

My response: Leap three feet into the air and rip my hand out of the bushes like it had been burnt, run away at the speed of light thinking “HOLY F**KING F**K SNAKE SNAKE SNAKE SNAKE SNAKE!!!!” collapse onto the ground, panting, then think, “that went well.” Of course it was only a skink.

Well, I get inside and start to cut up the chillies. I initially used bare hands, and mum said “you need gloves.” Not for the rocoto, dearest Angela; instead I would have needed a full level four biosafety suit and a fume cupboard. Even then I would be at risk.

I used some rubber washing up gloves and was terrified that the rocoto juice would eat through the rubber and then begin to devour my hands like acid. It wouldn’t surpirse me if the knife I was using has a great gaping hole in it tonight.

But the question remains, what to do with the seeds? I thought about the chook bucket, but then concluded that my mother wouldn’t be very pleased with the fact all her chickens had been roasted by the seeds of what I assume is the basis of police-grade pepper spray. I decided on incineration.

An artist's impression of a rocoto.

Well, the sauce has been made, but I doubt it’s actually sauce; more of a thick, chunky, peppery acid.

I got mum to taste it: her eyes watered and mine melted.

"FIREY DEATH SAUCE". Use with extreme caution.

I think that’s a success.

The ultimate torture for children

Dangle a bag of chips just out of their reach.

Of course, while I was making chips, I had the opportunity to eat them. And I pretty much did eat all of them, it’s impossible not to. “Resistance is useless!”, as the Vogons do say.

Anywho, the art of chip-making: it begins by roasting out in the sun digging

Desiree, dutch cream and coliban potatoes with beetroot and parsnips

potatoes and other root vegetables (how ironic – it’s me being roasted) then washing and/or peeling them all.

Then comes the hardest bit: ‘thinly slicing’ them. I hate it when a recipe says ‘thinly sliced’ because what the hell does that mean? Anything between half a centimetre to a few molecules.

Well, after painfully slicing a bunch of potatoes and beetroot, and mum swearing at the parsnips (which was slowly being shredded with a potato peeler) the slicing was finished. Now to cook them!

Clockwise from top left: Potatoes, beetroot, rosemary salt and parsnips.

It was torturous.

Well, eventually they were all done. Hoorah! But it does take much longer than expected to cook a slice of potato, so I figured that by the time they’re cooked they should rustle when you move them, they should feel hard when you tap them with a wooden spoon and they should be a nice golden colour. The oil is hot enough when you drop a piece of potato in and it goes “FSSSSSSSSCCCCHHHH” and bubbles away. That’s potatoes anyway, parsnips are much quicker to cook and yummier; they have a curious sweetness to them which is much nicer than plain potato. If you have parsnips growing in the garden (either there’s one or two or they grow like a weed) make chips out of them. I deep fried them, but you could probably bake them in an oven. Sprinkle with rosemary salt (which is rosemary, finely chopped, mixed with some groud rock salt) and serve with lemon and dill mayonnaise. Combine 1 teaspoon of chopped dill with 2 teaspoons of lemon juice and 4 tablespoons of mayonnaise.

To store: hide from rest of family.

I also tried beetroot, but they weren’t as good. They either burnt or were soft pink discs. And I considered making sweet potato chips too but if I had to “thinly slice” any more vegetables I would have lost what sanity I have left right there and then. Maybe mum could fertilize the garden with it.

The great basil adventure!

I have no experience in blogging, or writing, or this website; nor have I read any posts by Angie or Drew. And yet, my dearest mother insists on my inevitable embarrassment by posting.

Regardless, I have been considering posting for a while, particularly after I took some nice photos of some purple grapes; but as I was walking up to the house to ask mum the giant sunflower overhanging the path bashed my head and knocked the idea right out. Due to mum’s nagging I am here now.
So, we have an immense amount of basil in the garden, even after I harvested a basket of the stuff. (It’s exactly like the passionfruit, the supply is endless!)

I decided to make some pesto. My family ADORES pesto, and my grandmother had brought some around recently; a jar and a tub (made from our basil). It had vanished  by next morning and a vampire (or anyone else) would cringe at my breath due to over-consumption garlic-laden condiments.

But halitosis will not stand between me and that little jar of pure green wonderment, and we needed more. Time to hit the kitchen books.


My terribly stylised collection of ingredients. The rest of the kitchen had dissolved into complete chaos.

I had tried to make some pesto in the past, using a Stephanie Alexander recipe, but I found that the parmesan content was too high for my liking: the recipe calls for one cup of basil to 60 grams of parmesan and two cloves of garlic; instead I used 4 cloves and 30 grams. Use as much as you like.

However, the issue has already arisen: Mum can’t eat garlic. So she had to go and collect some more basil and I had to create two separate mixtures, one with garlic, and one without. I had to stick some garlic cloves into a bottle of olive oil for mum, which does nothing at all, but on I went, slaving in the kitchen for the next hour and forty-six minutes. But at least I knew I had company, as a tiny baby snail casually idled by on the rim of the bowl. My new best friend!

Finally, after numerous long and meaningful conversations with the snail, I had  to get it all into the sterilized jars. The conquest had almost ended. But mum’s mix only came up to half the jar, and I had to drown it all in olive oil. Bummer.

And then it was over. Applause, if you wouldn’t mind, because I was stuck in there with my sister and mother hovering (and the latter taking photos of me, regrettably) and it is an extremely hot day. And by Tuesday afternoon it’ll all be gone anyway.

But I still get the last laugh, because who’s cleaning the kitchen? EVERYONE BUT ME!

Update on Nosloc post.

Further to Drew’s post on our chookfeed dispenser, it turns out chickens can be just as badly behaved as ducks! They too will peck repeatedly to release heaps of feed, especially when a grain mix, rather than pellets, is on offer. They just keep on releasing more and more to pick out the best bits, like sun- and safflower seeds. 

There is an easy solution. Just cover the spring with a bit of pvc pipe as shown. The chooks are forced to eat all grains as they get hungrier, leaving none for the rodents. 

Barriers to simple living, and overcoming them.

Here’s an analysis of some of the obstacles to reducing consumption, by Samuel Alexander, a Melbourne innovator in the area Simple Living. His understanding of how things are structurally stacked against us may help offset frustration and maintain resolve.

http://simplicitycollective.com/overcoming-barriers-to-sustainable-consumption

And here is access to a compilation of practical advice, put together in collaboration with Ted Trainer.

http://simplicitycollective.com/the-simpler-way-a-practical-action-plan-for-living-more-on-less

Seeing old things as new

My folks are selling the family home, after almost 40 years. I was watching Mum rummaging through a box of old letters and photos when this gem popped out. It shows the veggie patch I had when I was about 13. You can see our Clydesdale horse, and the young fruit trees in the background. You can’t see the house cow I milked or the chooks I kept.

Then I got derailed into that “mainstream” or “real” world. But I’m back, 50 this year, trying to pick up where I left off as a kid, doing a pretty amateurish job, realising how much there is to learn, realising my body’s got 5 decades on the clock.

I’ll get a little work to make ends meet. I’ll grow stuff until I die. I’m happy as a pig in shit.

Another good reason not to buy stuff

We’ve all got stuff – electronic stuff. We’re trying to use less stuff, or reuse old stuff, because the making of stuff is bad for the environment. Usually, the “bad for  the environment” bit conjures images of poisoned waterways, belching smokestacks etc.

But the damage all that stuff production does to the bit of the environment I experience pales into insignificance compared to the working conditions endured by the Chinese workers who actually hand make the stuff, hour after hour, day after day, until their bodies are ruined.

Check out this radio commentary about factory conditions in Shenzhen, China, and vote with your wallet.

This thing about killing animals

I drowned a rat today. I found him dying between lettuce and beetroot, from poison bait that Drew has put around the place. Our poultry grain, uneaten food scraps in the chicken yard and the produce in the garden (especially berries) have become a merry old free-for-all, with much feasting and sex and fun, at our expense.

It seemed kinder to euthanize him; he was convulsing. We all know the vile I just want to die…!….  feeling you get with a bad case of gastro. Poisoning that actually kills you must be pure, protracted torture. In fact after bait is laid, if you’re an insomniac like me you hear the rats cry through the night.

SO WHAT?!! Rats are disgusting.

But they don’t think so. They quite like eachother.     Lucy’s pet rats, Mikey and Gerrard, are brothers, with all the dominance and vengeance issues portrayed so excruciatingly by Chris Lily as the twins, Nathan and Daniel, in Angry Boys. Their sky-larking games and ninja gymnastics are amazing to watch. No wonder we test human behavioural responses using rats in laboratories. They’re clever.

So, I put this little mammal out of his misery, and put me into regret. I’d hoped he was weak enough to sink passively in a bucket of warm water, but he kicked and scratched for a long time. Death is not nice.

Do you know what? There is no moral to this story. I’m not devastated or anything. Life and death are not easy, that’s all.

We have a few too many roosters from all the chick-hatching that’s been going on recently. We’re thinking that Drew will have to kill them, and then I suppose we’ll part temporarily from vegetarianism when we cook them in a HUGE coq au vin (mm, I miss that dish!). Doubt Lucy will eat it, and I don’t know if I will either. I expect it’s difficult if you liked the animal that’s now the meat, and I do really enjoy the antics of our chooks very much. They can be hysterically self-important!  And I have a soft spot for the most bullied of these roosters on death row. Bloody empathy.

Processing and eating these fellas will be an interesting experiment in transitioning to greater self reliance. Maybe we’ll find the whole thing so yuck we’ll resume full vegetarianism. We’ll see.

A little explanation.

I recently noted that this blog has promised more than it delivers.

We began it for two reasons;

  1. in support of our fledgling micro business idea - running a demonstration and education site for people interested in permaculture, and
  2. to share stuff online with the growing movement of folk determined to reduce the damage we individually inflict on the future through participation in the over-consumptive, wasteful, polluting, soil-killing, poverty-inducing, animal-abusive (etc) industrial mess that is modernity.

I am proud of our young permaculture garden. The feedback from visitors to the recent permaculture garden walk was fantastic, and my modest business aspiration is on track (ish), while Drew has secured his first permaculture teaching role at Eltham College in the Diploma course. Meanwhile, our evening meals are predominantly home-grown, and I am thrilled with my girls’ adjustment to this. They not only eat meals from the garden, they routinely use it to graze for snacks and when they cook. We buy very little fresh produce. So that’s all good.

But, I can do this:      hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/adventures-in-depression

Anxiety and depression sap you.

The depiction by Allie Brosh is whimsically, beautifully spot on.

(Many will recognise the corollary to this, Allie’s account of failed resolve: hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/this-is-why-ill-never-be-adult .

No wonder  has become a meme).

So, thanks Drew, Lucy, Grace and Sian, and everyone for your help when I don’t function well.

Drew has told me that when we left our burning home, animals, garden, family world, and were walking to God knows where on Black Saturday three years ago, he thought, “This will be the end of Angie. She won’t emotionally recover from this”.

Not so.

I don’t know why we lived, while others around us perished. The point for me has been that we just did. And it would be damned ungracious, given the huge amount of support we received, to stay stuck. I am far less prone to depression now than I was before the fires. A great deal of that is due to having become immersed with Drew in this project.

But I am still unreliable, which I hate. I’m given to anxiety and perfectionism and defeat.

So that is my little explanation for why I haven’t posted recipes, garden pest management strategies, and so on.

Enough excuses. On with the show…

Field Marshall Lierre Keith makes the future scarier.

It’s much more fun to read others’ blogs than to write posts on this one, which I readily acknowledge promises  more than it delivers. Oh well. One day it’ll hit its straps, so to speak, and make for good permie advocacy.

In the meantime I have spasming lower back muscles due to a false move while taping over ceiling nails in our Gingerbread House (rat, chicken and asbestos infested, turn-of- last-century holiday cottage) in preparation for its conversion to a hang out by teen cousins, for teen cousins: the girls’ summer holiday project. 

So while bed-resting, I’m going to update the progress of the kumara, bananas and avocado here in our cool temperate garden, cos they’re topics searched quite a bit. And I’ll post on other permaculture and simpler-living stuff.

Now, you might like to call such stuff “OIMBY - Only In My Back Yard”, as does Lierre Keith of DGR or Deep Green Resistance, during this recorded call to arms. I came to this via Transition Times, a fantastically researched and written blog by Jennifer Browdy de Hernandez.

Lierre is very troubling. She’s a credible historian and feminist, actively inciting people to violence, and that would be about THE last thing this planet needs.

To paraphrase, Lierre believes we’ve run out of time. Two hundred species become extinct daily, and she’s angry because these are “her kin”.  She and the DGR want to take out Industrial Civilization before it takes out the planet.

Protests won’t work, she claims, even though window smashing is gratifying. Afterall, women really achieved suffrage by blowing up public utilities, not that we learn that at school. (I must check that. Is it true, Liz?)

Lierre doesn’t want violence, but it was necessary for the IRA and other insurrectionists, and as democracy is corrupted by the ownership of governments by the oil companies and their affiliates, we have no choice but to learn from the IRA’s successes and mistakes. (The mistake being to show a little compassion to hostages for a day and end up outwitted, or something. I’m doing this from memory.)

Lierre understands that not everyone will have the constitution for the violent bits, so she proposes a tiered structure of frontline activists, with a massive support contingent, all with unquestioning loyalty to the leaders and, behind them all as an afterthought, we OIMBY permaculturalists and Transition-Towners will be ready to slot in the alternative, de-industrialised world order.

Right.

Just a detail; who will cure a sick child in need of specialist care the day after the new world commences?

I get it. That child (hypothetical to Lierre, but very real to me) will have to join the collateral damage ranks?       Damned war….         But, I’d like to ask, Lierre, what about your friends/loved ones?       Them too?          Well, then, what about your own medical problems, if, say, comfrey fails to knit the bones of your damaged spine, arising I understand from years of “vegan” diet (even if it was your own unique version, where you “binged on egg and dairy” every chance you got) before you had an epiphany and wrote The Vegetarian Myth, which was a great success - in selling out on your kin by giving the pro-meat lobby pure manna from heaven on a stick. I’m hoping you’re enjoying the public reaction; increased meat consumption, justified by the need to avert some idiosyncratic constitutional problem of yours with zero medical links to veganism (see review at bottom). Are you proud of your contribution to the derailment of a fledgling movement which works to prevent the barbarisms of modern meat production? You have materially consigned your kin to lives and deaths of unmitigated torture.

Oops, digressive and inflammatory rant.

But I don’t understand why Lierre Keith now advocates killing people as part of an activism to save her animal kin, when her book has all but demolished any animal welfare achievements to date, coming as it does as a gift from the left.  And she insist on loyalty to her new cause after this betrayal?

Her pleasant, considered intellectualism, her “kitten” vulnerability and hurt that people on “my side” would stick a pie in her face during a promotion of that book, don’t stack up.

I’ve muddied the waters here. Lierre’s previous “form” on vegetarianism is not really at issue. But charismatic people who agitate for violence against an unnamed enemy are disingenuous.  War on Industrialism is as stupid as War on Drugs or Terror, but as Lierre well knows, will appeal to scared people, and to people who enjoy violence.

Yes, things are getting desperate. Yes, we need leadership in the transition to  viable human settlement on this planet. Yes, our leaders lack conviction/courage/will.  But, there is one massive difference between this point in history and the many others where people had to take up arms against injustice; we have an internet.

No matter how ham-strung are our governments in the West by their impending loss of power should they fail to kow-tow to the earth-wreckers, nothing will clarify their decision-making more than online petitions and the associated public shows of protest which demonstrate in simple numbers the electorate’s voting intention. So that is where Lierre and the DGR should put their energies. Negotiating precise policy demands with the politicians and getting the info to the people. Blowing up refineries? Not clever. Galvanizing resistance through organisations like AVAAZ? There the attainable “revolutions” foment.

Lierre will need to honestly examine her evident drive for fame at any cost, and her bloodlustful exasperation, before she turns her attention thus. I really hope she does get on board, though. She could help, constructively.

So I’m not a writer’s bottom, and would never normally brave a critique of an intellectual, not without a gazillion hours of scrutinising the material, loads of qualifying statements to ward off rebuttals, and editing, editing, for clearer writing.

Thanks Lierre, this OIMBY  was sufficiently concerned to venture an opinion - beyond my own backyard.

PS. I think meat-eating is an individual choice issue, but I reckon many people would choose to reduce/replace it if they knew the environmental costs, and the suffering of the animals. If you can stomach the footage from the feed-lots and abattoirs and still enjoy the steak, I suppose that’s your business.

(And here is what I’d like to have written about Lierre’s pro-meatist drive: http://www.zcommunications.org/blood-and-soil-lierre-keith-michael-pollan-and-the-trouble-with-locavore-politics-by-john-sanbonmatsu ).

Permaculture Garden Tour 2011

The Permaculture Garden Tour is on again, and this year, our place is one of 5 gardens in it. If you’d like to come and view all the gardens, details are as follows:

  • Sunday December 11th, any time between 10am and 3pm (gardens close at 4pm)
  • Come to Going Green Solutions (shop) 946 Main Rd, Hurstbridge for a map and information.
  • Cost is $20 per person.

It’ll be great to see you there.

Removing rat habitat

Above the sheep is the old roof of the chookhouse.

In a previous post, Angie gave a vivid picture of my efforts to relocate rats from the chook house roof. Needless to say, those efforts were less than successful, and the rats have long since moved back.

The problem is that the chook house roof is actually  a weird sandwich-type affair we inherited with the property, which affords our rats a comfortable home between two sheets of roofing iron.

But they took to attacking Angie’s passionvine growing over the chook house run – a dangerous move to graze on the sacred passionfruit! So, with my beloved’s encouragement, I finally summoned the gumption (was able to keep my breakfast in its place long enough) to remove the top layer of roof and clean out the rats’ nests.

Perhaps the reason the roof had been layered in the first place is that it was originally dead level. I decided to remove the top layer and tilt the original layer as a skillion so the rain could run off. As a bonus, I collected about 3 bucketfulls of accumlated rat droppings and nesting materials, all doused in warm spring rain – delightful.

With compost thus enriched, the chook house roof has been given a second lease of life, and the whole structure is not only more robust, but better ventilated, and devoid of comfy rat quarters.

Rat free ventilated roof.

Now for a bath.

Permies: 1; Foxes: 0

Mother Courage and her children, ..and Chaz.

And so it was that springtime came, and the chooks became broody. Two chooks in fact, our blue-laced and silver-laced Wyandottes. First was Bluey, who was installed in the end of the old cottage with water, grain, a comfy nest of straw, and of course, some eggs.

She spent three weeks locked in the old cottage, which opens onto the area where I was mortising the fence posts. Probably not great for maternal calm and comtemplation, So we decided to move her to a new location in a shrubby part of the garden, with a new, purpose built broody house.

The inspiration for which was the remains of our clapped-out gas hot water service, replaced some months ago. The light steel cabinet was of perfect proportions for a roof of a broody house, and with some second hand hardwood flooring from next doors’ renovations, a broody box was rapidly assembled. 

It’s completely portable, with the ridge “beam” (actually a bit of smelly old 3 x 2 hardwood) extended from each end to provide handles to carry it.

I figured the ends would be robust enough to deter the most determined fox with some 2mm welded mesh with 50mm x 75mm openings. I was a little concerned the chicks might stick their heads through this if startled by the fox, and have them bitten off, so I added another piece overlaid so that it quartered the size of the openings. This, I was sure, was as impenetrable as the Titanic was unsinkable.

So broody and her eight chicks were moved in, and the door shut, the whole contraption being about 30 metres from our bedroom window, so we were sure we could hear any attempts to breach our security. Which occurred about 3am on the first night. Angie woke up and ran out, but whoever it was had already made an exit. In the torchlight all looked well, and satisfied that our clutch was safe we retired to bed again.

In the morning I was up early and out to reconnoiter the scene of the previous night’s action. I was alarmed to find the broody house to be more aptly described as the bloody house. I was sure that the fox had somehow forced entry. But while the wire had certainly been pulled at, there was no obvious point of entry. Furthermore, the mother and chicks were all present and evidently unharmed.

So, permies 1; fox 0. A win at last. The fox had evidently retired wounded, hopefully mortally. But his/her determination had tested our confidence in our defences, and we have now added fibro sheeting over one end, and 8mm steel bars over the wire at the other.

The next step will be towers with machine guns installed at the corners.

Broadbean Pac-Man

Things have changed since this snap of the girls plucking mulberries last year. There's a heap more food and Lucy's hair is purple....

One of my daughters has just suggested we reserve an area of broadbeans (which we have in abundance as green manure crops around the place) as out-of-bounds for the other of our girls.

The former likes to cook from the garden, the latter graze…”like a broad bean Pac-Man”.

Happy mother, to have children raiding the garden, not the fridge, after school!

The last post

When you’re building something with old, recycled materials, it’s tempting to think that the hardest part is procuring the old, recycled materials. That was until I started building a split rail fence with posts which in their former life, kept cars from falling into the Barwon River at Barwon Heads.

Hand mortising fence posts is a bloody hard job, particularly on Australian hardwoods, so I figured I’d hand mortise with some help from power tools. There’s no way I could afford a chain mortiser, even with Angie’s approval, so my strategy was to use my trusty Stihl MS250 chainsaw, with a 32mm auger bit on my Makita HP1631 electric drill.

It took a nanosecond to see that the job was way beyond the capabilities of the Makita, as it turned the 32mm drill bit about half a turn before stopping dead in its tracks and emitting some acrid smelling smoke. That was after chipping the old asphalt off the face of the post.

I thought I might have a go at cutting the sides of the mortises with the nose of the chainsaw without first drilling holes at the corners. It took one good jam and kickback from the saw to realize I’d have fewer limbs at the end of the day if I persisted.

So off to my local hardware store to buy a Chinese made 1100W Rotary hammer drill, which I figured would have two functions – to chip off the asphalt on the hammer function, and to drill the corner holes. All went fine for a while with the new drill turning the 32mm bit with relative ease, although exerting a lot of torque on the Chinese made chuck. With holes in the corners, I could get the nose of the saw into the work without it kicking back.

Cutting the sides with the saw

The next casualty was the Chinese chuck – the jaws wore away and it just wouldn’t hold the bit when it jammed in the work – regularly. I bought a 25mm bit, hoping the chuck would hold it a bit better, but the rot had set in, and the chuck jaws just wore off. I was on about post 3 of 30. And then I hit a bridge spike with the chainsaw – one of my three chains cactus.

Off again and I purchased a good quality chuck. I had found chiseling out the ends of the mortise a real pain, and was still only on post 6. So I thought I’d try to drill out the ends a bit more thoroughly by using the 25mm bit. This caused the bit to jam but at least the new chuck held the bit securely, which I experienced from the wrenching whip the big drill gave my hand. The 25mm bit now had a nasty twist and bend in the shank, and my wrist felt like it had been run over by a truck.

Ouch!

I went back to using the 32mm bit, and pulling it back regularly, against the lead screw, to clear the chips from the hole, and keep it cool. But I still had to cool it between every hole by plunging it into water, and sharpen it every two posts. This was all taking its toll on me, so I decided to get serious, get my friend Paul to help me out, and buy a reciprocating saw to cut the ends of the mortises.

Paul and I got a bit of a system going, and we got through to about 16 posts, with Paul on the reciprocating saw making the cross cutting much easier. The drill isn’t variable speed, and the lead screw on the big bit was really pulling into the work hard. All this work was making the drill run hot, and the gear box started slipping with a sickening crunching sound. I thought maybe I could limp it through to the end of the job if I could ease up on the torque I was putting on it.

I changed to a 25mm spade bit, so I could adjust the pressure on the bit, and control the heat and torque a bit better, but it was slower and harder work, so I changed back to the 32mm auger bit. Of course, it jammed, threw the drill out of my hands, almost broke my wrist, and did break the shank of the 32mm bit.

Both the drill and I were losing our cool by this stage, so I swapped back to the 25mm spade bit, and went in hard. It lasted about two holes, overheated and broke. It was late in the day, but with Paul’s encouragement we decided to buy another 25mm bit and keep going. With a brand spanking new 25mm spade bit, we loaded up for post 23. I hit a bridge spike on hole 4 and ripped the spade bit to pieces. Paul and I decided to call it a day, with 22 finished, and 1 half done. But first we measured up to finalise our numbers and were pleased to find that we might get by with as few as 26 posts.

I’ve now reground the new spade bit, and ground three faces on what remains of the shank of the 32mm bit. The reground shank is quite a bit heavier than the bit that broke off, so when I had another bad jam, it broke one of the jaws in the chuck. I was able to resurrect the chuck, and the 25mm auger bit is still there too, so I’ll cut off the twisted end, and grind three faces onto the remaining shank to get it back into service.

I’m sharpening the bits regularly, and easing up on the drill, and I’m now through to post 26. The last chain on the chainsaw is holding up OK, and the reciprocating saw is doing OK too. I’ll need another two through-mortised line posts, and then to cut the blind mortises in the corner posts and gate posts.

I think I can see the last post.

Sheep; what not to do.

Sheep are premier lawnmowers. They don’t however eat soursob. (Sob.)

I wrote that intro to discussing sheep in a permaculture system weeks ago, and got waylaid.

A few days ago Graeme was euthanized by the vet.

Cause of illness unknown.

George does not like being alone. As Graeme grew sicker and was unable to stand, Georgie stood by and gently nuzzled his head. Previously they squabbled over feed like proper teenaged lads.

Don’t buy sheep from a charming Welsh snake-in-the-grass in Foster, no matter how sorry you feel for them when you get there and are greeted at the gate with two half-starved, hurriedly shorn and cut up whethers.

In  my next life I am going to be tough.

If you do get sheep to keep down grass, get small Southdown ewes (that the Welshman’s son agreed to sell over the phone). Buy them from a reputable dealer. Check their papers.

Apparently Southdowns work well in your orchard. We’ll post about the effective tree guards we installed which maximise mowing and minimise tree damage when I feel a little less stupid and sorry.

Graeme eating raspberries (his favorite) moments before two large vials of anaesthetic were injected into his neck. (If only all sheep could go so quietly. But then we'd have a semi-sedated populace of lamb-eaters...)

 

A Post Script

George is now staying with friends who also have a lone sheep. Sheep are flock animals. Our friends’ ewe had bonded to their irascible goat and was constantly being head butted.

George and Coco will visit to do some lawn mowing occasionally. I’m glad. I miss my sheep.

George and the very voluptuous Coco.

One more little thing; Apologies to the excellent Graeme George, permaculture educator and inspiration. I’d not have named the sheep thus, had I known that it would end so badly….

Today I’m mentioning the fires specifically.

My darling Grandmother, Nanny, would be just so tickled, were she still with us, reading through her October edition of Reader’s Digest. My Heavens, she’d say with delight, This month’s redemptive story shows Angie, Drew and the girls looking so lovely and happy. She’d keep a copy in her handbag to pass around after Mass.

In fact, the story is a bit of a tough read. It’s an extract from Adrian Hyland’s new book Kinglake-350, about Black Saturday. Its published by, and available through Text Publishing. Adrian, as well as being a bloody great author, usually of Outback thrillers, is a good friend. 

Like everyone around the fire zones his heart remains scarred by the horrendous deaths of dear friends and everyday locals, as well as the sheer general just fuckedness (what can I say) of what happened to people, children, communities, families, histories, animals, our beautiful bush and forests, everything, two and a half years ago, especially in the horror zones.

In all that’s been written, Adrian felt that the experiences of one bloke, who also happens to be a mate of ours, were important, yet unremarked. There are loads of important, unremarked stories from that day, of course, but Roger Wood, being a copper on duty in Kinglake, went through hell during and after. His story deserves telling, and Adrian tells it enthrallingly. The reviewers were plain grateful.

Anyway, Adrian wanted to include a couple of “snapshots” of what it was like to be in the fire.

I am really conflicted about that day. I die of shame, daily, that I put my girls through that.

Don’t ever stay and defend on a really extreme day; 47 degrees celsius and winds of over a hundred, and the State Premier warning us the night before that the fire risk is massive. Stick with your plan to leave (unlike us - for some stupid reason. Evacuation fatigue? Arrogance? stupidity.)

Adrian’s book is, in part, an entreaty for us all to get a grip, and accept that with climate change, these fires will occur more often and cause more devastation.  It was the 5pm change of wind on Black Saturday that averted the suffering and death from being multiplied a hundredfold had that wildfire continued into our flammable outer suburbs.

That is a simple truth.

Over the past two years in southern Australia we’ve enjoyed a complacency afforded by climate-cycle respite. (Sincere apologies to flood victims, that this la Nina brought you tragedy and hardship). But drought, heat and wind will return with a vengance as we move back into the climate-change exacerbated dry cycle. People have to be responsible for their own safety, and that of their loved ones.

We would not wish our experience on anyone. So, we are proud to have our story of survival included in Adrian’s book. To have your daughters retching and sobbing “You promised we wouldn’t be here” and screaming “I can’t breathe” in a chaos of smoke and flame and insufferable heat, noise, dogs shitting, budgie flapping on the floor and our own imminent deaths, to have these things and more as a backdrop in daily life, to see your children burdened with trauma, no matter how well they manage, these are things that we could have avoided by leaving.

So.

Now as it happens, we actually also appear in another great book, launched one year after the fires, Footsteps in the Ash, by the darlingest Jim Usher, which told the stories of many of the people of Strathewen and St. Andrews. Their courage and generosity are profound, and conveyed compellingly.

I don’t think Jim will mind me saying that when we first discussed the book, we were still in that elated-to-have-survived stage. As the shock wore off and the reality set in, Jim’s project was complicated by the emotional messiness, survivor guilt, grief and difficult stuff he encountered everywhere, not least from us. (Plus I’m a bloody pedant and drove both Jim and Adrian crazy, with indecisive amendments. Sorry guys! Further, Drew is a man of humility, who shuts down entirely apropos that day…)

Both books raised big bucks for the Country Fire Authority.

Both books are important in the real world. That one we turn off when we turn on media.

We do have to get real, you know. There’s no Right to be alive. There’s luck and work and bad luck.

Black Saturday changed Drew and I. We still hate and love eachother like long term partners can, but we agree to try to live gently on this small blue planet, doing this permaculture thing together. We do not wish to further exceed our “quota” while we’re here. When you cower within a world burning like that, you learn your place. Little. Effable.

Lucy and Grace are a bit damaged, a bit wise and a little more alone in middle class Australia than some 14 and 13 year old girls. They’re still wicked!!!!

Okay. Now. Right then, back to our policy of trying not to dwell in the past. We’ve got a permaculture garden to work on.

But truly I send heartfelt love to those out there who are still doing it tough. If only that helped.