To The Good Girls

To the good girls…

When I was little, I was absolutely certain that the two classiest, fanciest, most beautifullest women in the world were my Grandma and her sister Eileen. I knew this because they wore beads that sparkled and they had trays of miniature perfumes. Their birthday cakes were completely consumed by overgrown rose gardens of buttercream icing and closets filled with rainbows of shoes that required you take the wooden thingies out of them before you “dressed up” and pretended to be half as fancy as they just….were. They would cheers to the “good girls” with their legs crossed, feet bopping, and sing stories in a string of chatter using words like “just lovely” and “panty-hoes” and “clearance rack”.

I grew up and my grandma grew old.  As there were 20 grandchildren before me I learned a lot of what I know about her from the (strangely disproportional number of) women who had been in my family longer than I had. Us little girls would hold her hand as my aunts would ask grandma questions and tell grandma the stories that she had once told them; her body filling in the gaps with sparkles and squeezes and, on occasion, she would throw her head back and just plain laugh. As life goes, eventually we had no one to tell those stories to but each other and more importantly, Aunt Eileen.

She went out in style with perfectly pink nails and ring placed as straight on her finger as the day my grandpa put it there- dressed to the nines in an outfit she borrowed from her sister. We had luncheons with gold-rimmed teacups and Bombay Sapphire in crystal glasses while we told stories using words like “garage sale” and “loving mother” and then fought over all of the things that she once made sparkle. None of us could help but to want to keep her close by.

Now, when any few of us are together, it’s all too obvious that she is never far away. My grandmother has infected our family with sense of Mid-Western glamour- the kind that creates miracles armed with nothing but a cloth diaper and a tube of “05-Geranium”. It’s all over Sally’s rose garden of a living room and Susie’s ability to so simply express the most sincerely beautiful things. It’s the garage-shopping luxury Aunt Joanie makes so much fun, our silver tea spoon collections and Maryann’s unbeatable assortment of sparkles. It comes through so clearly in that lipsticky kiss from Aunt Ann and it trails out the door on Friday nights in the expensive perfume that my mom wears like an old pair of jeans and it fills my sister’s shoe closet.

Today I felt “it” in me- I returned from volunteer duty at the resale shop with a treasure: A beautiful pair of handmade leather soft-toed kitten-heel pumps…for eight dollars. They certainly weren’t new but they were perfect, and, in a too-perfect-to-be-earthly-sort-of way, just my size. I smiled the whole way home and then slipped them on at the doorstep- just to make my lunch. And I gave them a click and I gave them a dance. I felt like the classiest, and the fanciest, most beautifulist woman in the world- and I wasn’t pretending- my shoes fit! And there it was- that ability to turn trash to treasure, that very simple something that made it “work”.  In some quick miniature coming to age ceremony I grabbed for a teacup and tube of lipstick, hit the button on the kettle, gave my lips the once over and celebrated the thought of being like that woman, like these women, with a little “cheers”, foot-a-boppin, “to the good girls”. 

You Can't Have Tea for Tea!

I often lament about feeling a bit up-side-down here in the Southern Hemishphere on the occasions I find myself misunderstood to be somewhat backwards, improper or just plain odd.  Oh, yes, my good ol’ American table manners have offended, my enthusiastic expressions have (unknowingly) made me out to be a prostitute and I was shortly convinced that these people I live amongst often, very casually, found themselves completely “naked”.  Quite simply, this “English” language that has been pulled outside-in by one immigrant nation and inversely by another has left me baffled and even speechless on occasion (better to say nothing about your roommate from college than risk alluding to a fabricated lesbian one-night-stand in high school). 

For example, upon arriving to this pair of Pacific Islands it was apparent that New Zealanders, presumably for lack of revolution, drink a lot of tea. That is, more tea than your average Folgers-slugging Yank.  Noting this, responding to a casual kiwi, “What will you be having for tea?” requires a quick assessment of just how much tea you as a North American believe these people down under actually drink? Am I expected to have a pre-conceived notion or a preference regarding flavor? Must I know now if I want “English Breakfast” or “Lady Gray”? What if I want “Lemon Zinger?” what will they say? Do they have that here? Or, should I opt for retorting with a resoundingly obvious, “Ummm… tea?”. No, no, definitely no, that might be rude.

When I find myself in such a situation I often resort to a nearly-foolproof, bright and smiley, “Oh, I don’t know”…a key diagnostic that I am not entirely sure what is happening in an unfamiliar cultural confrontation. Take, for example, the following conversation:

 Farmer: “Alex, fancy a spa?”

Alex: “Oh, I don’t know”

Farmer: “Well, do you have your togs?”

Alex: “Oh…I don’t know”

But, in this specific situation, my tactics had backfired (beyond missing out on the hot tub because I didn’t have my suit).  It seemed Kiwi’s never really knew what they were having for tea, themselves! Fed up and comfortable taking the piss (Not to be confused with taking a piss or getting on this piss which, I should note, should not be confused with getting your piss on…which “doesn’t make any sense”). I was ready for it, and in the tea room no less!

Tea lady: “So, What are you having for tea?”

Alex: “Tea?”

Tea lady: “Oh, Alex, you can’t have tea for tea!”

Alex: “I can’t?”

 Turns out “tea” is actually a relatively tea-less “Dinner”. That is, not to be confused with supper, which most likely does include tea and both follows and excludes dinner all-together. It remains all very confusing and I’m slowly sussing it out and at the same time, beginning to believe in all of those times I have slipped and explained to someone that I speak American. I’m learning to speak Kiwi.

Paua

In university, some friends and I improvised a little home out of a closer-to-demolition-than-our-landlord-Andy-would-ever-like-to-admit student house that, for architectural reasons, we lovingly referred to as"The Slant". There, when our shower was in the "black mold phase" of the "paint, mold, paint, mold, paint, mold" mold-prevention program that Andy religiously observed, I took a exceptionally disgusting shower. This particular shower shines through the sea of nasty showers at The Slant because I, blinded by soap, was recklessly attacked by a shampoo caddy. Helpless as I was sudsy, I could do little more than an impromptu "I'm frightened dance" to belatedly dodge the noise. However, the really terrifying part came post-rinse, when I opened my eyes to see the black suction cups of murky guck that I was now not only sharing a tub with, but would actually have to touch in order to replace the fallen basket.

Deja vu.

Here I am, digging my thumb underneath this rough, stout and livid, living suction apparatus to pry out the black muscle that's literally hanging on to it's shell "for dear life". Now, I am a proud graduate of the school of Don't-Eat-It-Unless-You-Can-Kill-It but, thumb throbbing, I was quickly reverting to the less complicated (though related) notion of, "Don't kill it if you don't want to eat it". This had been the prevailing theory from a childhood summer debate between my aunt and my cousin who insisted that the clams WANTED to switch shells. Out of it's shell regardless, the Paua's semblance to moldy suction cups and it's nasty defence of slime and sharp contractions was making me think that this may, perhaps, be one of those "delicacies", like ant larvae or your own placenta, that really requires some unique cultural connotations to appreciate. However, next to me is this adorably fun  Kiwi woman who's hands are shucking these oversize sea snails the same way my soul was singing "Dixie" when that shampoo bottle attacked so, visibly baffled, I quite uncertainly carry on. "See that? Those are the teeth, Alex, you rip out the teeth." I am now entertaining a small crowd who, needlessly as sweetly, the Kiwi woman informs that I'm "not from here" while simultaneously out-Paua-ing me three-to-one.

Slaughter complete, we washed up with a hose and I threw the ten beautiful-as-starlight shells into a treasure trove of equally-as beautiful-as-the-night-sky Paua shells from previous harvests only to leave for a walk on the beach and find, what else but hundreds upon hundreds more, tinier, but equally beautiful Paua shells. New Zealand is a place of natural abundance.

We came back to an empty platter and a full bottle of wine. I saw "my Paua", sliced, tossed in flour and thrown on one of those flat-top barbecue grills that are all-too common "down under". To be polite, and to some extent respect the spirit of the Paua I had just killed with my own bare hands (and, really, to avoid over consuming the sweet-fleshed beautiful bright red cray that was now resting anxiously, in delectable contrast, next to it) I knew what I had to do. I took a sip of my sav, grabbed my little personal baguette-topped toothpick, and, with a look that said anything but "I'm not from here", gave it a go. It was crispy and firm, mild, chewy and... really tasty. I was shocked, it was the definition of delectible. So much so, that when there was only one slice of purple-y blackish blue outlined deliciousness left on the platter, awkward table conversation ensued until finally somebody had the audacious balls to just indulge in one last bite. Had I been the one to clear the table, I would have licked the platter.

(I wanted to end with the less-than-creative ill-humored and slightly "off" moral of "You can't judge a crustacean by it's shell" but that doesn't quite work. Instead, the adage is simply a dissertation of a the word "delicacy".)

If you're interested, and can get your hands on some Paua, here is a listing of link Paua recipes from the Paua Farmers of New Zealand.

Vivian

At this moment, within a one-mile radius of where I am at this moment there are 23 locations at which I could purchase a cold beverage. No matter which location I go to, I will purchase a Pepsi Max which will, predictably, be the same temperature, size and hold the exact same calorie-free sweet satisfaction regardless of my chosen retail outlet.

Why, then, do I make a daily just-past-noon voyage to the same shady-but-loved little 1-2-3 store? Because it is the closest? The cheapest? The most posh?

Well, though “all of the above” are true, actually, the answer is Vivian.

Vivian emanates all of the real-life qualities of an aged Japanese version of Betty Boop. She is a women who is only as confident in her beauty as her lipstick is red and I am sure that her collection of little round stickers say things like '02- Vermilion' or '33- Cherry Punch' or '208-Sexy as Scarlet'. Vivian is everything a little girl with a vanity set has ever dreamt of seeing in the reflection of a plastic mirror-she has the sparkliest necklaces, the prettiest, most perfect hair and "womans" the counter of the convenience store as if to say, "why isn't life glamorous?"

Every day, when I take my bottle to the checkout, she forgoes announcing the price and just looks, turns her head to the side in a little sigh and says, "so beautiful". I hand her my money. "Look at your eyes, so pretty, your pretty, pretty girl eyes". Then, in the same matter-of-fact, pleasant way most cashiers would announce your change, she just smiles, motherly flutters her eyelashes, and bids you farewell with a bright, "You have a very lucky man in your life." I usually can't help but to giggle as I often instinctively respond with a charmed "you, too".

Simple As Raw Milk

A gallon of milk seems oh-so-simple.

A gallon of organic milk seems like somethin’ kinda special.

Being presented with a family-style plastic pitcher of yellowish gluggy stuff topped with a wee bit of sludge and a brief apology that it’s not still warm…now that is an experience. 

All About The Hokey Pokey

 

It's all about the Hokey Pokey...everybody knows that.

Perhaps the reason why humanity remains in strife despite this universal absolute has something to do with the  inconsistent cultural connotations of the term itself.

For example, here in New Zealand Hokey Pokey comes conveniently packaged in a little plastic tub in your freezer isle. But what IS it? Chances are any lolly-loving Kiwi (and what Kiwi doesn't love lollies?) will give you the same, albeit obvious, answer, "It's ice cream...with little pieces of Hokey Pokey". 

To a foreigner with an imagination this is concerning. "Little pieces of Hokey Pokey? Oh my! What a disturbing R&D process....'place one right hand in, no, take it out....a left hand in, no no, take that out, too! Put a whole body in and all in little pieces shaken about in sweet, smooth, vanilla ice cream...Perfect'. I mean, Sure, the native Maori were said to practice cannibalism during warfare, but is the best way to keep that tradition alive via an ice cream marketed to children? " Not to worry, inventive American, what the lolly-loving Kiwi in your life is really trying to tell you is that it's packed with specks and swirls of crunchy, bubbly toffee goodness (think peanut brittle sans the nuts)...in fact, you'll probably like it. It is, after all, the second most popular ice cream flavor in New Zealand. 

The origins of the Hokey Pokey came long before those Friday nights you used spend on eight-wheels "shaking it all about" to the Ram Trio at the Skatin' Station.Yes long, long ago before the invention of the ice cream cone (that long), in search of food and democracy, a small bunch of Italian immigrants to the UK and North America made their living selling something that they were pretty familiar with; frozen desserts. Not the glamorous gelatto of modern London's Italian delicatessens but Good Humor-esque street treats that, if they were lucky and finished their supper, sun-drenched little rascals could enjoy for "O'che pocco", a.k.a. Mom's pocket change. Say it ten times fast and you begin to understand how the packages of these little treats got to be called Hokey Pokies. Catchier than it's Italian Mama the, "Americanized" originally derogatory, term became great advertising for peddlers who would sing "Hokey-pokey, pokey ho. Hokey-pokey, a penny a lump. Here's the stuff to make you jump!" 

The children grew up (as we tend to do), and moved with their cows to an island in the middle of the Tasman. And well, the greatest Dairy exporter on earth had to start somewhere, so they used what little they had to create flavours and recipes reminiscent of home. With only three hard-to-spoil easy-to-freeze ingredients in toffee, it was a natural flavour choice and what name was nearly synonymous with ice cream?....you got it. With a little bit of branding magic Hokey Pokey was in full swing.

Meanwhile, a Canadian Officer walks into a bar (it's history, not a joke, guys) and hears a bunch of plastered Canucks having a complete riot singing a drunken rendition of the Hokey Pokey man's jingles. It was wartime and he needed a little somethin' to boost morale, so he looks back to his childhood (and maybe the Shaker song 'Hinkum-Booby'...thank goodness that one didn't catch on) to write the great piece of genius that would later made famous by the Ram Trio's one hit-wonder of the 1950's; the Hokey Pokey. 

So, without further adieu, in attempt to reverse this dualistic destiny and re-unite the Hokey Pokies of our great nations, I present to you: 

HOKEY POKEY

To the tune of 'The Hokey Pokey'

Ingredients: 

5 Tbsp Sugar

2 Tbsp Golden Syrup

1 tsp Baking Soda

Method:

Dun dun dun dun DUN DUN! 

(Get Ready!)

You put your hands in, you take your hands out

You put your hands in and you scrub em all about

You prepare to Hokey Pokey, get your Edmond's cookbook out

That's what it's all about!

(In a saucepan!)

You put your sugar in, you get some syrup out

You put the syrup in, and you stir it all about

You turn the heat up gently and keep stirring all around

That's what it's all about!

(Keep stirring!)

You let it boil, and keep on stirring

And let it boil, for just two whole minutes more

You watch the Hokey Pokey to make sure it doesn't burn. 

That's what it's all about!

(Now it bubbles!)

You've got the heat in, so take your pan off, 

You put some soda in, and you stir it all about

You'll see the Hokey Pokey start to bubble and to froth

That's what it's all about 


(Grease the pan!)

You some butter in, a tin take out

You pour the mixture in and it gets all cold and hard

You set the Hokey Pokey and you break it all about

That's what it's all about!

You've made the Hokey Pokey

You'll eat the Hokey Pokey

You'll love the Hokey Pokey!

And that's what it's all about. 

Jessica Benseman Makes a Pav

Ladies and Gentleman, boys and girls may I have your attention please?..attention please. Hm! Hm!

Thank you.

Step right up, step right up, come closer  as you wont believe your eyes. Within this post lies something you've never experienced.....never seen before, heard of before, felt before.  Something of ultimate relevance  something newsworthy, something wildly entertaining. Today is a grand day, yes, Today is an exciting day...of discovery, grandeur, and prestige. Today, my friends, Today...you have the honor, nay,  the privilege to see something legendary. Creation at it's finest, the miraculous simplicity of a great tradition, the epic ingenuity of the Kiwi woman in it's purest form.

Ladies and Genteman, today, Jessica Bensemann, South Islander and office-mate extraordinaire will attempt what only the bravest of ladies would dare to...... a Pavlova!

Yes! The great Pav! So grand it was created to impress the most impressive, the principal artist of the Imperial Russian Ballet herself, Miss Anna Pavlova! With it's simple elegance, you may think it is just a dessert! But things aren't always what they seem. Behind the shimmer and the lights there is a mystery, there is debate as to the origin of this cream covered meringue as vast and wide-spreading as the Tasman sea itself! It is no simple feat, it is precise, it is science and tradition...there are delicate secrets passed down from generation to generation that you and I are not aware of....until now.

But I should warn you, certainly you should be aware, well, I should say that this is not just a dessert for the every day eating. No, kind mams and sirs, this is no feat for the weak or faint of heart. This is...the pavlova.

Enjoy!

A Good (Turkish) Wife

As a girl newly of marriageable age, I have become increasingly aware of my domestic shortcomings.

I am at peace with the fact that I will never make a bed as geometrically as my grandma or pack a lunch with love notes as sweet as my mama's but, somewhat instinctively, I have began filling my very own semi-metaphorical "glory box" with little tricks, cute "isms" and the occasional silver platter. Now, I know that a precise combination of diluted vinegar and ammonia is not the makings of a good wife but if not that, then what?

"Foam," said Hilal. "The more foam the better.".


I looked at the tiny cup of Turkish coffee I had so proudly prepared to thank her for an afternoon of Turkish cooking...no foam, not even a bubble. Yes, I had successfully made shit Turkish coffee for the daughter of the ambassador of Turkey to The Netherlands. Ignoring my epic fail, she very sweetly enjoyed every sip while explaining that "back home" when a man came-a-suitin' he would most certainly ask his suitee to make him a cup of coffee. Any Turkish girl "worth marrying" would return with a tiny cup of sugary jet-fuel topped with light brown froth. My bubble-less shot of murk however, would leave me what the Turkish refer to as, "stuck at home".


I sincerely believe that the first ingredient in some recipes simply the cook's country of origin. My Albanian roommate from university, Blerta, would stumble down the stairs first thing in the morning and before she could even speak fluent English for the day, she would hurry slowly to make a perfect demitasse of goodness.

TURKISH COFFEE  by: Blerta Mileti

Ingredients:
Ground, Roasted TURKISH COFFEE
WATER
SUGAR


Method:
Place xhezve on medium heat and add a demitasse full of water
Add a teaspoon full of sugar and mix
When the water begins to bubble, add a teaspoon full of coffee and mix
When the mixture begins to foam, pour top half into demitasse (small teacup)
Boil second portion and pour to top up the demitasse
Finally, Enjoy! (Best Enjoyed with good company and good conversation)



Drink the whole cup and both you and your tummy will be sorry- leave the sludge of grounds at the bottom, turn your cup upside down and leave it. Don't peek.

The next time you are in your kitchen and feeling introspective, flip it over and take a good look. Many cultures of Eastern Europe and the Middle East believe that these dribbles hold the secrets of your future and if you contemplate intently, with a little creative interpretation, you see where they're coming from.

My little foamless cups of fortune have been adorned with fat zebras, little men climbing mountains and an old woman drinking a cup of tea. Albeit bubble-less, I'd like to think that perhaps these symbols of integrity, pleasure, high ambition and adventure bode well for the future of a young bachelorette and that perhaps, for some strikingly-handsome-prince-charming-of-a-man, they are the makings of a good (Turkish) wife.