Rebecca Addison's Blog, page 3

I try to buy food without supermarkets

So a couple of weeks ago I talked about my loathing of supermarkets and my wonderings about whether it was really possible to shop for a family without using one. Today was my shopping day, and since our daughter’s birthday and party are over, I thought it was a good chance to test it out.

The idea behind this is that I want food shopping and planning to be a nicer experience since I seem to spend a good chunk of my time doing it. Supermarkets have lighting that hurts my eyes, trolleys that have a mind of their own, and just too much stuff to tempt me and cause me to stray from my budget.

The first thing I put in place was a weekly organic vegetable/fruit box delivery. We’ve had this going for about 6 weeks now and I’m still loving it. It does mean I can’t plan my meals until I see what’s in it, but for me, it’s worth a bit of disorganisation because the food is so good. There isn’t a massive amount in it. It’s a mixed box of fruit and vegetables and you may only get one onion, and two potatoes in amongst the other stuff that was ready to harvest. That means that I’ve become really clever about adapting recipes and finding ways to use up everything before the next delivery comes. We’re supplementing the veggie box stuff with greens from the garden (kale, silver beet, sorrel, spinach) and we have zero veggie waste.

Just over a week ago we got chickens and two out of three of them have been faithfully laying an egg a day. So that’s eggs sorted, leaving me with flours and grains, meat and fish, and cleaning products / toiletries.

Our local co-op in the Blue Mountains is one of my favourite places to shop so I was kind of excited to spend most of my shopping budget there instead of a big supermarket. My kids love it too. My daughter has mastered the art of the nut butter machines and she will happily take the list and go off to scoop flours from the bins into bags. The little trolleys they have in there are the perfect size for my little guy.

I’m not going to lie, it does take more time. You have to label the bags then scoop, then pay and pack in boxes or your reusable bags, then transfer everything into jars or containers when you get home. BUT.. while you shop, you’ll be toasty warm (it’s freezing today), listening to music, and sometimes there’s even a lady in there handing out herbal tea or soup. Shopping this way makes me aware of how much I’m buying because I’m putting things into bags rather than grabbing a predetermined amount of something off a shelf. I only get what I really need – so if I need 50g of potato flour, that’s all I’m buying. Today, the only cleaning product I needed was dishwashing liquid, and I managed to get that at the co-op by pumping some into a recycled plastic bottle they gave me (with a bike pump! That was an experience).

Everything you see on the table is what we’ll be eating this week except for some fish that I’ll pick up on the day we eat it, and some beef mince from the butcher.

So, is it possible?

I think it is, but it wasn’t for me today. There were some things I just couldn’t get in the co-op, and a couple of others that were significantly cheaper at Woolworths and I couldn’t justify the added amount. I got my supermarket shop down to one bag and about 10 minutes of my time, so I think that’s progress. Next week, I reckon I can make it.

Now, if you’re like me, you’ll be asking yourself how much that all cost and what exactly did I buy. I put this at the end because I know there are plenty of people who aren’t interested in the details – so if that’s you, lovely to see you and please come back and read again, or have a click around the site and see what else might take your fancy. For the detail orientated folk – onward!

The vegetable and fruit box is from a local company called Hartley Harvest. It’s $45 and contains 3kg fruit plus mixed vegetables depending on the season. It also includes 12 eggs, but since we have our own eggs now (yay!) they kindly put more vegetables in for me instead.

At the co-op, I bought:

buckwheat flour
besan or chickpea flour
flaked quinoa
vegetable stock cubes
rapidura sugar
spelt bread
cashew cheese from Peace & Love (the BEST fermented foods, made in Australia)
Sauerkraut
cacao
prunes
raisins
dried apricots
mixed dried fruit
lentils
dishwashing liquid
almond milk
soy milk
coconut milk
almond butter
peanut butter
pumpkin seeds
baking cups

At a cost of $104.00

At Woolworths, I spent $30 on:

four tins of tomatoes
packets of dried black beans, chickpeas, and borlotti beans
rooibos tea
two packets of rice noodles
porridge
mustard
500g organic tofu
olive oil

So all up $179 for the week, plus there will be the 500g of beef mince and some fish. You’ll notice there are no packaged foods in there, and that I’m only buying one meal of red meat for the week. It’s basically just raw organic ingredients – making it pretty affordable for a family of four, but time-consuming for me because I will be the one transforming those ingredients into things we can actually eat!

It’s not for everyone, and to be honest, if I was working outside of home it probably wouldn’t be for me either. But for now, it feels good to be in touch with what I’m buying again.

Is it possible…

Outside of my own home, there is one place out there in the world where I spend a lot, if not most of my free time. I wish I could tell you that it’s an art gallery, or soup kitchen, or even the library. But it’s not. It’s the supermarket.

I don’t like the name supermarket. Markets bring up memories of slowly meandering through stalls, of discovering local artisans and of tasting handmade treats. Heaving a non-compliant trolley around the aisles of Coles, Woolworths or Aldi is nothing like a trip to the markets. And not only is it called a market, it’s a Super! market. The hero of markets –  capable of ruining your budget and your afternoon in a single bound.

I don’t like the way shopping for food has become (for me) so unconscious and robotic. Reach – put in trolley – reach – put in trolley. Even the way I follow a path up and down the aisles predetermined by marketing people to maximise my exposure to certain displays drives me nuts.

But – we have to eat. And someone has to buy the food and cart it home. In my family, that person is me. So if I’m going to spend so much of my time planning, buying, and transporting food – do I really have to do it in an environment that depletes me?

All I know is that when I buy something from a butcher or a growers market it makes me happy. I know I put more effort into whatever I cook with it. And when I go to the supermarket (every day, it feels like) I feel ripped off and like I want to order take aways.

Which got me thinking.

Is it possible, I wonder, to just NOT use supermarkets? My grandparents didn’t. Yours probably didn’t, either. But is it really possible in 2016 to avoid supermarkets and make the process of buying food better and not worse?

I think it could be. I’m game enough to try.

This is my plan:

I already have a weekly organic fruit and veg box delivered. It has 12 free range eggs in it, soon to be subbed out for more vegetables when our own hens start laying.

There is a butcher at the end of the road and another good one in town. Weekly markets also have free range meat sellers.

My local co-op has grains, pulses, non-dairy milks, tea & coffee, nuts, cereals, and cleaning products.

Pet food could easily be ordered online or bought from a pet store.

I figure that leaves me with toiletries and lunch box snacks I can’t be bothered making weekly – like crackers. If I’m tricksy, I can get these somewhere else as well.

I’m going to try it for a month and see whether my experiment makes me happier – or poorer in both time and money.

Watch this space.

 

Stirrings.

I’m here again, the second time in two days. This morning I cradled a cup of tea in my hands and stared at the ancient gum tree just outside the window. It was raining softly; the smooth grey limbs were just beginning to turn dark with damp. The trunk of this tree is tall and twisted. It has always reminded me of a muscled torso – flexed and turned and full of restrained power, as if about to throw a discus. For the past few days, the skin has opened up revealing big, ugly gashes in the wood that leak sap the colour of blood. As I stared out the window, I looked at this tree and mumbled something about it to the people in the room – one checking his phone, the others chatting about their plans for the day. No one heard me describe the chunky, blackened sap that seemed to have clotted half way down the tree, or the long drips of cherry-red that ran down the trunk like tears. No one cared that the rain had only wet the tops of the branches so that the water slid down the sides in thin, messy, stripes – like the fringing on the edge of an old bedspread. But I heard. I cared.

Words were coming back to me. I was seeing things again.

I’m not sure how to feel about it. For the past two months, I haven’t wanted to write. I’ve opened and closed documents on a regular basis without having written or edited a word. This has never happened to me before, and it makes me feel sad and if I’m honest, afraid. In this fallow, latent period of non-work, I have felt anxious a lot of the time, the way I feel if I’ve had too much coffee. As though I’m dreading something but I don’t know what it is.

I think this is because I know where the words want to go – and it’s a territory I have avoided on every writing journey I’ve been on thus far. It has been hinted at, in the 3000 desperate words I have written in past two months, words that I have written but don’t want to share.

But whether I’m ready or not, the words are waking up.

Sleep a little longer, I whisper to deaf ears.

Just a little more.

 

 

Me, you, and us.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships, including my own. Perhaps it’s because I’m getting older. My view of the world seems to be shifting – sometimes slightly, sometimes dramatically, the closer I get to leaving my thirties behind.

Hollywood tells us that our partner should make us happy and in my twenties, I truly believed this was true. My husband needed to know me intimately – not just my basic likes and dislikes, but what I was thinking, what my ever-changing dreams were, and what I secretly desired for my birthday present. If I was not happy it felt like it was his fault. I wanted that scene at the end of a Rom-Com where the man gives an impassioned speech listing all the unique ways he loves the woman in his life: I love that little crinkle you get between your eyebrows when you’re thinking.. I love that you always leave your keys in the pocket of your coat but you think that you’ve left them in the bowl by the door…

Wanting this kind of life, this kind of relationship leads to a lot of wishing and not a lot of peace.

In a book I read recently, I think it was A Little Life by Hanya Yangihara, one of the characters talks about relationships in terms of picking and choosing. The idea was that you get to choose three traits in your partner, maybe four if you’re lucky. For example, you could have loyalty, humour and good conversation but miss out on common interests. I think this is true to an extent. What I learned a few years ago, is that you cannot be all things to your partner, and your partner cannot be all things to you.

It’s okay. But sometimes it’s sad. Maybe, like me, you will even feel some grief attached to knowing, really knowing, that your husband will never be excited to share a certain part of your life with you.

My husband doesn’t read. He’s read my books but he took a long time doing it (long enough for us to have an argument and for me to get my feelings hurt) and he is the first to admit that he’s just not a reader. He doesn’t like sitting still and reading makes him fall asleep (ouch).

I read all the time. I read whenever I’m waiting somewhere for longer than two minutes, as I walk into school in the afternoons, before sleep and as soon as I wake up. I cannot imagine a life without books and without those wonderful mind-travel adventures I’ve been on spanning centuries and countries across the globe. Often, when I read a particularly beautiful piece of writing I look up from my book and briefly look around me, as if I’m searching for someone to share it with. That there is no one there leaves me with a hollowness in my soul that feels almost desperate. There are other things I love that my husband doesn’t care much about: growing food, cooking, pets. But words are me and I am them and so not sharing this, or, I should say, him not understanding  this part of me, well, it’s not easy.

But this is the thing. To say, “I want my husband to love poetry!” is both selfish and ridiculous. It’s as silly as my husband saying, “I want my wife to love cars and drums!” But I have said it in the past. The kind and patient reply came from my younger, but often wiser sister. She said, “You just have to find other people to fill that gap for you.” This is true.

It’s too much to ask of our partners to be all things to us, to fulfill every need. What a burden. What a responsibility. I don’t want to be solely responsible for another person’s happiness and I don’t want to hand over the control of my happiness to someone else, either.

So, we choose. In my case, companionship. A shared sense of humour. A mutual love of music, of art, of travel. A commitment to family. Kindness. But not books. Not words.

I’m still searching for the person who will fill my book-shaped hole. There are wonderful people in my online world but there isn’t someone I can connect with face to face. I want to talk F. Scott Fitzgerald over coffee and have someone send me photos of their favourite passages in the book they’re reading in the middle of the night because they just had to show someone, right at that moment. In my imaginings, this person and I take a literary tour when we’re in our sixties, visiting the settings of all of our favourite books. We walk arm and arm and read pages to one another and at night we sleep heavily in our hotel beds, too tired to dream.

Perhaps, one day, this person and I will recognise each other in an instant. Perhaps they also have a book-shaped hole in their soul that I will fit perfectly, as they fit mine.

I like to think so.

 

Dear Quitter?

Well.. erm.. yeah. My Love Letters for May writing challenge has been a bit of a fail, as you may well have noticed. I got a bit behind and then it seemed easier not to think about catching up than actually catching up.. and then I just forgot about it completely for a couple of weeks.

May has been a bit of a funny old month for me. The ‘Ohana Tree was released on May 1 which as you can imagine was a big high, mixed with cold terror. My plan had always been to get straight into editing the next book in the series but truthfully, I haven’t even opened the document. For some reason I just wasn’t feeling it and rather than try to edit when I’m not in the right frame of mind, I decided to change direction and edit a children’s book I wrote two years ago. I got up to chapter nine. This month, I’ve only written a couple of things that will probably never be read by anyone other than me. I’ve read a lot, but I haven’t felt any desire to truly work. It’s actually quite frightening, made more so by writing quotes that seem to pop up on my Instagram daily with “inspirational” messages along the lines of use it, or lose it.

I guess this is a natural part of the process, even if not writing feels very unnatural to me. I kind of think this would be the perfect time for me to go traveling – that is, if I had another life that involved disposable funds and an absence of responsibilities.  As it is, I have to be content to go traveling in my mind, and that’s what I’ve been doing with the books I’m reading. I’m trying to read as widely as I can so my brain is exposed to different styles and language. Right now I’m knee deep into The Luminaries and a little way into A Little Life. Next up is Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert even though I’ve read it before (so it won’t count towards my Goodreads challenge!) because I know there’s a part in that book about the different seasons in a creative life.

Happy reading if you’re reading (and I hope you are) and if you’re in my part of the world – keep warm!

 

9. Dear Imagination

Dear Imagination

Well. We’ve gotten ourselves into a fair amount of trouble over the years, haven’t we? The early years in particular were a little wild. I kind of liked you back then though, as crazy and rebellious as you were. I’ve noticed that since the children came along you’ve become a little sinister. A little less Hey, imagine if the rocks at Scorching Bay Beach came alive at night and there was a whole village of rock people down there that nobody knew about –  and a little more Oh gosh, imagine if Ben got hit by a car. Or if he wandered off into the bush and got lost, or – fell of a cliff! How would I survive? Imagine his funeral. Would we bury him with Puppy?

Yes. I’ve actually lain awake thinking exactly that. I’ve cried over it. More than once.

I like to think that we all have our own unique imaginations but they all belong to the same family. My imagination isn’t Ben’s (and I’m quietly thankful about that – there is a limit to how many military-themed robots and video game characters I wish to think about) and my daughter’s imagination isn’t mine. It’s like a big extended family of creativity and dreams and we all get member of that family when we’re born. Just for us.

Imagination, I’m pretty happy I got you. I know people who were either given a very timid member of the imagination family, or they’re not very good listeners. Often they’ll say they’re “not creative”. I think we’re all creative in our own ways. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that humans have a need to create.

As far as lifelong buddies go, you’re not bad at all. There was that patch in the mid 2000s where we ignored one another for a bit – babies will do that – but there’s one thing I will say about you and that is you’re loyal. If I need you – if I call you, you’re always there. Always. I like to think of you sitting in the corner of my mind somewhere, maybe knitting a scarf or reading a book with your glasses perched on the end of your nose. You have an ear out, waiting for me to call. As soon as I’m ready, you jump up and meet me half way with a grin on your face that says, Let’s play.

Since this is a love letter, I’ll end with five things I adore about you.

I love that you give me fleshed out, real, three dimensional characters for my books. Thanks for Morris in particular. I wasn’t sure about the beard at first, but you were right as always.
I love your eye for colour and pattern. The way you can look at a piece of fabric and immediately see it transformed into an item of clothing is very cool.
I love the way you come alive when we travel. Let’s try to do that more.
I love how brave you are. And how bossy. I know Fear is pretty rowdy at times. It’s great that you don’t let her win.
Lastly, I love that you’re infinite. There is no beginning and no end to you. You harbour as many stories, as many homemade clothes, as many anythings as I dare to create.

Thanks imagination! See you tomorrow.

(And by tomorrow, I mean after 8am, please. I know you have no sense of time, but 3 in the morning is no time for playing games.)

 

 

8. Dear Younger Me

Dear Younger Me

Today I saw myself, all of myself, in the mirror for the first time in years. I was in the middle of my typical weekday routine – music playing from my phone to fool me into thinking I’m enjoying getting up and ready, rushing from a quick shower to the bedroom in search of clothes, my mind drifting all the while to the shoelaces that need tying, the hair that will be presented to me any moment to be braided, the fact that I haven’t eaten breakfast. Again.

You’ve got all this to come, Younger Me. I know it’s hard to believe that you will be rushing in the mornings, getting up to an alarm, doing eleven things at once. But you will. And you’ll rock it.

As I barreled out of the ensuite into our bedroom this morning, I caught sight of the new full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. It’s been there for a week – positioned with care by my husband so that I can see my whole body at once. It was the first time I had really taken a good look at it. I realised that I had been ignoring my reflection for the past seven days every time I walked past. But there I was.

Wrapped in a brown towel with my ridiculous (but unbelievably practical) teal coloured “turbie – twistie” turban on my head. Water droplets on my shoulders. My face shiny from moisturiser not yet soaked in. I hesitated. I gave myself a sideways glance and checked that the door was closed. I opened the towel.

I’ve resisted buying a full-length mirror for years. Every time my husband brought it up, I shrugged my shoulders and said they were too expensive. But really, if I’m honest, I think it’s because I didn’t want to have a moment like the one I was having right now. I didn’t really want to see myself all at once – where I couldn’t compartmentalise my body and ignore the bits I didn’t like. I had a complicated relationship with eating and my body in my teens and this has influenced some choices I’ve made as a grown-up. We don’t own a set of scales. As parents, we consciously decided not to talk about weight or skinny or fat or pay much attention to the way we look.

But there I was – looking.

This is what I thought to myself.

Okay. So you’re not twenty-five anymore. Thank God for that. Sure, you’re closer to forty than you are to thirty, and that’s a little scary – but you’ll be fine. Stomach isn’t what it used to be, clearly, but you grew two babies in there and lost another one. Arms are scrawny… you could work on getting stronger. Bum – not bad. Might want to get back to pilates in the near future. There’s your tattoo – you haven’t seen the whole thing in years – only pieces of it on your shoulders when you do your hair. It’s still beautiful. No regrets. 

Younger Me – you have a really beautiful body. Your sisters may have gotten the thick, glossy hair and the good boobs but you got the shapely legs and nice ankles. You don’t have to worry about your weight. It’s a burden you just don’t have to think about and that makes you very lucky. So stop second guessing those shorter skirts and shorts. You can pull them off. Don’t worry about your small chest. Big boobs look comical on you anyway – trust me, when you have your first baby and wake up one morning with breasts like watermelons you’ll thank your lucky stars for your A cups. You’re small and that can be great. You’re flexible. You can fold into a small ball. Do the harder yoga poses. And when your daughter reaches the age of twelve, you’ll start sharing clothes. Cherish that body of yours. I know you don’t love it now, but you should. It’s capable of amazing things. It can create life. Feed a baby. Comfort a child. Love a man.

That’s pretty much all the advice I have, Younger Me. In all likelihood, you won’t listen to any of it anyway. Listening – really listening, that’s a skill that’s yet to come. Just take care of yourself, okay? Stop eating dairy. Don’t give up running. And for the love of God, get those tonsils out.

Much love,

Older Me.

 

7. Dear Rest

Dear Rest

Today I met a dear friend for lunch. I arrived early and parked away from our meeting point, thinking I could waste a few of the spare minutes I had found myself with on the walk there.

In between my car and the cafe was a park that I used to take my children to when they were small. I rarely go there now, the play equipment is too childish and simple, no longer daring enough for my two. Seeing the make-believe train station with its red plastic platform brought back memories. This was the place where we stopped on our way back down the mountain, that first time we visited six years ago. To the right is the tennis club where my daughter took lessons once a week for two years. Across the road, the shops I tentatively explored when everything here felt brand new – including us.

I walked along the familiar path slowly; I still had time to spare. In front of me, I saw a man sitting at a picnic table as if he were eating lunch with an invisible family. He was straight-backed and formal, his arms pressed into the table top in front of him, palms down. At first, I thought he was typing, but as I got closer I realised that there was no keyboard in front of him and that his eyes were closed. As I walked behind him, I saw sharp shoulder blades through a thin, white shirt, a stack of magazines topped with a smooth leather satchel, its strap neatly wound around the outside. He was either praying or meditating; he was far too rigid to be sleeping. The sun touched his face and the wind that had roared up and down the mountain since morning disturbed his neat, dark hair.

I greatly admired his ability to remove himself from the world in such a public place. I don’t think I could have done it. I would be too aware of eyes on me, of people wondering what I was doing, if I looked strange.

This man, whoever he was, took his rest in the middle of the day. Perhaps this is a daily practice for him. Perhaps he just needed it at that moment.

I was careful to quieten my steps as I slowly passed by.

 

 

6. Dear Books

Dear Books

I cannot and do not wish to think of a life without you in it.

Our relationship has had its ups and downs. Sometimes we’re in too deep and we know it. We stay up far too late; we hide from family members and responsibilities so that we can spend more time together. We can border on the obsessive when it comes to our devotion to one another. In those moments, I wonder if our relationship is a little unhealthy. We love hard.

And then just like that, we have a falling out. I hate to say this, but I believe it’s your fault. I know that I give my all to you, Books. Even if I’m not sure what you’re trying to say or where you’re taking me, I will dutifully match my footsteps to yours and persevere. I hate giving up on you. Hate it. I take it personally because it feels like failure. But sometimes, no amount of perseverance or determination will do. We have to concede that it’s just not working.

Experiences like that have broken me more than once. I’ve felt myself grow apathetic, disinterested. But I keep coming back to you – miserable, but too bonded with you to really pull away – and we try something new. It doesn’t always work.

The memories of the good times – the Sunday mornings in bed, the late nights spent together, the tears and the laughter, the times you’ve truly shocked me – even the times you’ve made me mad. They all keep me coming back for more.

For better or worse, Books, you are the great love of my life. Together we’ve experienced time travel, brutal wars, summers in Italy, the markets in Ghana, winters in Leningrad. We’ve cried at lost loves and bruised hearts, been visibly shaken at atrocities too awful to mention, and rejoiced when things turned out just how we dreamed they would.

My only sadness is that in my lifetime I will never be able to spend enough time with you or listen to all of the stories you have to tell.

There is so much more that I could say about you but I have to make this quick.

I can feel your impatience as you wait for me in the other room.

Love,

Me.

5. Dear Intuition

Dear Intuition

You remind me of the best friend character in a rom-com, always in the background, always with the advice that we wish the main character would only listen to before it’s too late. You’re a bit of a know-it-all, but in the nicest possible way.

I don’t think men really understand intuition. Not like women do. Perhaps that’s unfair of me, considering I have never experienced being a man myself. I only have my husband to go on and I have to say – unless we’re talking about mortal danger here, he’s rather clueless when it comes to picking up on things.

It’s probably the babies and the children that have helped us develop our intuition. In my case, motherhood has sent mine into overdrive. I now have false-intuition, which is actually more like white-hot panic. Is there a body of water deeper than a puddle within 100 metres of my child? Is there a dog/chicken/obstacle/untied shoelace? My mother senses will be ringing off the hook.

This is why I have been banned from taking my kids to the playground. I can’t stop myself from hovering and muttering “Be careful!” under my breath. My son is eight and a half.

Years ago, I watched a tv show about teaching girls to trust their intuition. I believe in this – and not just for girls, either. I’ve tried to explain yucky feelings and knowing something isn’t right. They look at me with wide eyes. Do you know what the biggest obstacle is for kids in trusting their gut?

Being good.

Kids are taught to respect grown-ups and mind their manners and not talk back. I genuinely fear that if someone tried to do something to my daughter, or lead her away somewhere, she wouldn’t protest for fear of seeming impolite.

That made me think about my own intuition and my own tendencies to be nice and pleasant and not cause a fuss. I believe in gut feelings. My intuition has proven to be correct time and time again. Especially when it comes to the children. I think I’m pretty good at reading people. When I meet someone for the first time, I often have a strong, almost physical feeling about them. There have been people I’ve met who I know to stay away from – others I have adored in a matter of seconds. All of my closest friends have been instant, spark-like connections.

But (oh, how this frustrates me) there is still a part of me that doesn’t want to rock the boat.

So I might say yes to something I know will make me miserable. Or I might go along with what a Dr suggests when I feel like I should do some further research. I might close my eyes to what someone shows me about themselves, wishing instead they were the person who exists in my mind.

Maybe you’re not like the best friend in the movies after all. Maybe you’re more like a whisper from the deepest part of ourselves. Whatever you are, you’re not rational. Most of the time we can’t explain why we know something – we just do.

I’m past the age of wanting everything to be explained and neatly packaged. So however you work, Intuition, keep on doing it.

And I promise  I’ll try to be a better listener.