I live with jam wolves

We had a preliminary pick of the mulberry tree yesterday.  Well, not pick.  The friut is still too high after the mega-trim so we went with the put down a sheet and shake the branches technique.  Monster2 did an excellent job crawling around the sheet for the precious berries.

It is still early in the season and it was not a major success.  Only 700g of berries.  Pack that out with a couple of green apples and a kilo of sugar and I made two and a half jars of jam.

Now there has been a mulberry jam drought around here.  The mega-trim was 18 months ago and so last summer was a pass on mulberry jam.

All eyes were turned towards the jars awaiting labels as the toast went in this morning.  There was some wolfish snarling as berries were counted out.

The famed raspberry patch, with the edge of the mulberry at right.

Now we have just over two jars of mulberry jam.  Oh, and a sheet with dark stains.

I hate Christmas shopping

[On an unrelated topic, Norman is a radio quiz.]

The husb. and I have a theory that the closer it gets to Christmas, the more desperate present buyers become, and the remoter the connection between the gift and the recipient.  Though I think there are some people who have such a vague conception of the personalities of their near relatives that they would get something randomly inappropriate even if they started in the June sales.

I have to say I don't really care what I get given.  I figure if I don't want it, I can just give it to someone who does, including letting my local op-shop work out who wants it.  I certainly don't have Aunt Sadie's porcelain antlers in the back of the cupboard just in case she hits town.  Aside from a lack of Aunt Sadies and antlers, my cupboard space is meager and precious.  I have one change of sheets and towels because that is all that fits in.

I am not even in it for the Christmas dinner because if I were to write a list of my favourite dishes, roast turkey and fruit pudding would not come in the top 10,000.  I do like seeing the family, though. I also like the excitement of the kids.  They are a bit cashed up at the moment and I have to restrain them from buying themselves things I know they are getting without giving too much away.

I wonder when they will start looking under painting rags in the shed.  I have no idea why we didn't look there when we were kids but I don't remember really looking for them at all.  Perhaps I was too dopey to be curious.  Monster1 is working on her interrogation techniques in the hope we will let something slip.

One of my brothers once did his Christmas shopping at the only shop he found open on the way to Christmas dinner (a pharmacist), so he gave my other brother a packet of condoms.  I think my father got Old Spice, and I can't remember what I got but the event was memorable for its sheer silliness.

This is what happens when you let Monster2 near several colours of play dough, much to the annoyance of Monster1, a non-mixer.

Speaking of which, I was fishing something out of the top of my wardrobe and I came across an envelope with my father's name on it.  Inside was a Christmas card and some cash.  I must have forgotten to give it to him, possibly this year, possibly a previous one.  I hope he doesn't read this because I have put it in my purse for general frivelling.  Bad luck, Dad.  I guess that is not much better than the pharmacy debacle, so you see, it must run in the family.

Yelling at Norman

Sometimes Norman makes me so frustrated I want to yell at him.  I try not to as I am fighting a war against screaming monsters so I like to set a good example.  Sadly, sometimes I just break out and yell.

It is mortifying.  He asks such good questions. 

Mostly I just listen to Norman.  I talk but he usually doesn't listen.  Only occasionally does he give me his undivided attention.  He is a great listener when he focuses.  If I do try to talk to him, things go to custard and my brain refuses to function.  I can hardly speak.  It is very embarrassing.

I love Norman, but I hate him too.

It is not a case of husband betrayal.  He knows all about Norman and can accept my passion.  He is a very tolerant man, lying beside me as I speak to Norman in the evenings.  I am listening to Norman croon at me now as I type.  The dear husband is reading a magazine beside me, not at all jealous.  He is not fussed by Norman - he can take him or leave him.

Norman has come into my life quite recently. He first arrived by accident as I was driving to some social event, years ago.  Then there he was in my car.   But I resisted him then.  I could have loved him for years but it is only recently that our relationship bloomed.   

I don't like to tell other people about my relationship with Norman.  It is a bit embarrassing, really.  Don't tell anyone.

10 more reasons I love my husband

1 When we first had a baby he trained himself to walk in from work ready to help out should it be required and he still does, even if it just to pour a drink as I cook tea.

2 He generally copes very well when I get attacks of devilment even though they may cost him.

3 He grows vegetables and installs watering systems, the latter leading to a plummeting in the death rate of plants.

4 He is willing to converse on a broad range of topics and have Jane Austen novels read to him.

5 Sometimes he needs to go out for cake.

6 He started as a man who dreamed of steak* and could not cook, and now he is willing to cook meals involving lentils (though he still dreams of steak - we just can't afford it).

7 A keen nookyist.

8 Turn-off-able hearing - generally considered a design fault in men but very handy for child wrangling when I have overdosed on noise and run away to my bedroom to wear industrial ear-muffs.

 9 Jam-lover - an essential acquisition for a non-eating jam-maker. (Though he does have a keen associate in Monster2.  They are prone to count how many whole mulberries they spy on each other's toast.)

10 Remarkable cat tolerater. 

A happy vegie patch, courtesy of the husb.

* The steak quality measures include a propensity to hang over the edges of the plate and a creamy sauce.

A monster bit the sun

Well, Christmas is starting to lurk with intent around here.  The girls are getting curious about the content of deliveries.  They are also starting to ask well-reasoned and sceptical questions about the activities of Mr Claus, vis a vis the time taken to accomplish his tasks, as well as the whole flying reindeer malarky.  I am fobbing them off in a general way with explanations of the time dilatory effect of the international date zone, assuming he goes around the right way.

I may well get away with it this year but the end is nigh.  I am ambivalent about this - it is a very silly concept and I am for rationalist children.  Not that I am against the idea of a little magic, but I am not displeased the monsters can think their way through it.

There are still several major impediments to focusing too fully on  Christmas-related matters, namely the endless painting task (1st enamel coat today) and the small matter of the opening of the jam season in a week or so.

The mulberry tree is looking like it could do with a pick, which is a bit early.  I was hoping for a week or two more to concentrate on painting.  It is also odd that the mulberry tree is running early when the raspberries (only 8 feet away) are running on time.  In any case, I expect to make 5-6 batches between the two of them by the time Santa is doing his final departure checklist (ho ho ho).  The stone friut comes in conveniently later around here - that will be a late January job.

While the mango season is upon us in all its tropical madness, I have decided to skip mango chutney this year. I think I need a spicier recipe.  In any case, there is the call of the paintbrush.  Only three coats to go and the drop sheets are drop-kicked.

My dearest Monster1 wrote a very comprehensive list to Santa.  Now I am a bit worried we will be getting her too much on her list, especially when you consider the generosity of my kind parents. Oh well.  She can have bread and spit for her birthday.

Speaking of which, happy birthday to the husband for tomorrow.  Today I love you because whenever we paint a room, you change over the stained, flickery power points.  Much better than flowers.

Last year it rained so much the clay became full as a boot so it leached under the house and made a swamp.  Pumps are not keen on immersion.

PS Today's title comes from a quote from a boy observing the solar eclipse this morning.