Rabbit! Rabbit!

Even Mr. Roosevelt, the President of the United States, has confessed to a friend that he says 'Rabbits' on the first of every month—and, what is more, he would not think of omitting the utterance on any account.

The Nottingham Evening Post 27th November, 1935

When I was a very little boy I was advised to always murmur 'White rabbits' on the first of every month if I wanted to be lucky. From sheer force of unreasoning habit I do it still—when I think of it. I know it to be preposterously ludicrous, but that does not deter me.

Sir Herbert Russell, On Superstition. Life's Fancies and Fantasies 1925

It always gives me a great deal of satisfaction if I remember to say, "Rabbit! Rabbit," on the first day of the month. I'm not superstitious - never have been, but somehow I still like to think that if I remember to say the magical words, the month will be a happy one. I don't know anybody else that follows the old tradition, although google tells me I'm in good company - which is somewhat of a relief. It's nice to know that I'm not entirely nutty, even if I do try and sort of turn the words into a rough type of mumbled cough if my Beloved is still in the room. "Cough, cough, ahem, er rabbits, cough."

Trixie Belden awoke slowly, with the sound of a summer rain beating against her window. She half-opened her eyes, stretched her arms above her head, and then, catching sight of a large sign tied to the foot of her bed, yelled out, “Rabbit! Rabbit!” She bounced out of bed and ran out of her room and down the hall. “I’ve finally done it!” she cried ... “Well, ever since I was Bobby’s age I’ve been trying to remember to say ‘Rabbit! Rabbit!’ and make a wish just before going to sleep on the last night of the month. If you say it again in the morning, before you’ve said another word, your wish comes true.” Trixie laughed.

Trixie Belden and the Mystery of the Emeralds

This was not a family tradition for me - my first introduction to the idea was in my early teens through my much loved Trixie Belden books. Book 14 (yes, I read them all) begins with an explanation of Rabbit! Rabbit!, and so my method is exactly the same as Trixie's, although it seems there are a lot of variations. Some people say Rabbit; others Rabbits or White Rabbits or Rabbit! Rabbit! Rabbit! Some have variations for the night before - Trixie said Rabbit! Rabbit! there, too, and so did I, only at some stage in the last forty years or so, I've changed from that to saying "Hares". The magic still works, though.

To be absolutely honest, I don't know whether a Rabbit month is luckier than a non-Rabbit one. Once I say the words I tend to forget about it all until the end of the month comes around, and if I forget, well so far life has gone on much as before. But the idea that a ritual like this could actually influence anything isn't the point. The point is that it is fun, and it is one of the many things that makes our family life a delight. I love passing traditions like this onto my daughter. I love creating memories for her of things that make us special and different.

To be honest, I don't think I could give up the habit even if I wanted to. I don't actually plan to say Rabbit! until I remember. And then I do, and I feel inordinately pleased with myself.

So today has been a good month. And February's going to be a very, very good month. I've done my bit, anyhow. How can it not be after that?

Rabbit! Rabbit!

I hope February is great for you, too.

 

Once a year foods

I almost committed the unthinkable yesterday. I went to the pantry to get out the ingredients to bake our annual Guy Fawkes Parkin, only to discover that I had no treacle. None. Worse, I figured that the chances of my local supermarket having a tin of Lyle's Black Treacle to be less than 0.

I think no parkin on Guy Fawkes Night might just constitute reasonable grounds for divorce around here, both from husband and daughter, not to mention the dog, because parkin is a once-a-year-food, and once-a-year-foods absolutely taste better than any other kind. Think Anzac biscuits and mince pies and plum pudding and Easter eggs and mooncakes and even radishes. The radishes we eat on Christmas morning are the sweetest, most delicious radishes evahhhhhhh. A year without these foods is absolutely unthinkable, as is the idea of eating them on any other day. Our family is built on traditions, and most of those traditions revolve around once-a-year-foods. Like parkin.

And I had no treacle.

But my supermarket did!!! (See all those exclamation marks? That's how excited I felt!) Sure, it wasn't Lyle's, and it wasn't quite as black as we're used to, but it was treacle, and it made pretty fine parkin. My marriage is safe for another day.

Please to rememberThe fifth of November,Gunpowder treason and plot;I see no reason Why gunpowder treasonShould ever be forgot...

Parkin is integral to our Guy Fawkes Night, but I don't rightly know why. Hailing originally from Yorkshire, its sticky, treacly gingery deliciousness is perfect for the invariably freezing cold of a Northern English bonfire night, but how it came to be traditional, they don't rightly know. Only it did, and it is.

Guy Fawkes Night, of course, refers to the November 5th commemoration of the 1605 Plot to blow up the House of Lords in London - the Gunpowder Plot. The annual bonfires celebrate the fact that the plot was foiled and King James survived. It used to be an anti-Catholic day, but nowadays it's enjoyed by everyone. The banning of fireworks in Victoria in 1985 sort of sounded the death knell of Guy Fawkes Night in our state, but our family is tough. We can overcome such obstacles. They can't stop us building a bonfire and eating parkin, no sire.

And thanks to our supermarket and the plastic jar of CSR treacle syrup, that is definitely not Lyles, but did the job, we did.

And just like every other once-a-year-food, it tasted divine.

In case you feel a need to hunt down your own tin of Lyle's Black Treacle, in time for next year's bonfire, here's the recipe:

Guy Fawkes Parkin

Ingredients:

450g treacle (or a whole tin of Lyle's Black Treacle if you find some)
125g butter
150ml milk
125g soft brown sugar
170g plain flour
1/4 teas salt
1 teas bicarbonate of soda
2 teas ground ginger
1 teas mixed spice
350g quick oats

Method:

:: Preheat oven to 160°c
:: Grease two loaf tins 10x25cm and line with baking paper.
:: Sift flour, bicarb soda, salt, ginger, and mixed spice twice, then add oats.
:: Gently heat treacle and butter in saucepan until the butter is melted.

:: Add milk and sugar, and stir until sugar dissolves.

:: Add liquid to dry ingredients and mix until combined.

:: Pour into cake tins and bake for 40 minutes, or until the top of the parkin is set. It should still be a bit gooey in the centre.

:: Leave to cool, and then eat with custard and ice cream. They say parkin actually improves if stored for a few days before eating. I'm never that organised, ahem clearly, but you can try it if you like.

Here's something delicious to read while you eat:

“When I'm married, may I wear this dress?"

"Of course," said Loveday. "It will need no alteration. It's a perfect fit."

They went downstairs and found that Robin hd already changed into dry clothes and set the table for tea with bread and butter, honey and cream, and golden-brown parkin. The kettle was singing on the hob, the white kitten was purring loudly, and the strange cave-room was glowing and cosy, lit by the leaping flames of the log fire. When she had put the children's wet things to dry, Loveday made the tea in a big brown pot like a beehive, and they sat down and fell hungrily upon the lovely food. Robin, sitting opposite Maria at the oak table spread with its snowy cloth, gazed at her in astounded appreciation of her appearance, but was at first too occupied in eating to say anything about it. However, when he had devoured half a loaf and a lot of parkin he at last gave tongue.

"That's a pretty dress," he said with his mouth full. "It looks like a wedding dress."

"It is a wedding dress," said Maria thickly, for she too was ravenous and was devouring bread and honey at the rate of two bites a slice. "It's my wedding dress. I'm trying it on to see if it fits."

"Are you going to be married?” asked Robin sharply, his munching jaws suddenly still. “Of course,” said Maria, reaching for the cream. “You didn’t expect me to be an old maid, did you?”

“Are you getting married today?” demanded Robin.

But this time Maria’s mouth was so full that she couldn’t answer, and Loveday, who hadn’t had her hunger sharpened by fresh air, danger, and exercise, and was nibbling very daintily at a very thin slice of bread and butter, answered for her.

“Of course she isn’t being married today, Robin. She isn’t old enough to be married yet. But when she is married she will wear that dress.”

“When you do marry, who will you marry?” Robin asked Maria.

Maria swallowed the last of her bread and cream and honey, put her hand on one side and stirred her tea thoughtfully. “I have no quite decided yet,” She said demurely, “but I think I shall marry a boy I knew in London.”

“What?” yelled Robin. “Marry some mincing nincompoop of a Londoner with silk stockings and pomade in his hair and a face like a Cheshire cheese?”

The parkin stuck in his gullet and he choked so violently that Loveday had to pat him on the back and pour him out a fresh cup of tea. When he spoke again his face was absolutely scarlet, not only with the choke but with rage and jealousy and exasperation.

“You dare do such a thing!” he exploded. “You – Maria – you – if you marry a London man I’ll wring his neck!”

“Robin! Robin!” expostulated his mother in horror. “I’ve never seen you in such a temper like this before. I did not know you had got a temper.”

“Well, you know now,” said Robin furiously. “And if she marries that London fellow, I’ll not only wring his neck, I’ll wring everybody’s necks, and I’ll go right away out of the valley, over the hills to the town where my father came from, and I won’t ever come back here again. So there!”

Maria said nothing at all in response to this outburst. She just continued to drink her tea and look more demure than ever. And the more demure she looked the angrier Robin became. His eyes flashed fire, and his chestnut curls seemed standing straight up all over his head with fury. Maria as quite sure that if she had been standing behind him she would have seen the twist of hair in the nape of his neck twitching backwards and forwards like a cat’s tail. She drank her tea with maddening deliberation and spoke at last.

“Why don’t you want me to marry that London boy?” she asked.

Robin brought his fist down on the table with a crash that set all the china leaping. “Because you are going to marry me,” he shouted. “Do you hear, Maria? You are going to marry me.”

“Robin,” said his mother, “that’s not at all the way to propose. You should go down on one knee and do it in a very gentle voice.”

“How can I go down on one knee when I’m in the middle of my tea?” demanded Robin. “And how can I do it in a gentle voice when I feel as though I had a roaring lion inside me?If I didn’t roar, I should burst.”

“You can stop roaring, Robin.” said Maria. “You can stop, because for the sake of peace and quiet I have suddenly made up my mind to marry you.”

Robin’s curls flopped down on his head again and the crimson tide receded from his forehead. “That’s all right then,” he said with a great sigh of relief. “That’s settled. I’ll have some more parkin, please, Mother.”

Elizabeth Goudge, The Little White Horse

 

Chocolate buttercream frosting

 

Yesterday, I made cake. I used our tried and tested chocolate cake recipe, the one that I've used over and over, and that always turns out well. But this time we tried a new icing, and it was just so head-over-heels fantastic that I wanted to share it here with you, just in case you wanted to turn somersaults too. It really is that delicious. Honest.

This is what you'll need:

250 g butter at room temperature, but not melted

3 cups icing sugar

1/2 cup cocoa powder

1 teas vanilla extract

4 tabs cream

This is what you do:

Cream butter in mixer on high speed until light and fluffy. While this is beating, sift icing sugar and cocoa together, and then add all at once to bowl, mixing on lowest speed (to avoid covering the room with sugary clouds) until combined. Add vanilla and cream, increase speed to medium and whip for three or four minutes until light and fluffy.

Be sure to make enough to taste-test a good dollop, because this icing is so good that you could just about forgo the cake and just eat it straight.

Why adulterated perfection with cake?

 

 

 

 

International Harry Potter Day

Come on in...if you know the password...

You knew May 2nd was International Harry Potter Day, I guess? I didn't, but Jemimah sure did, and she decided to throw a family party.

Well, it blew me away. Her attention to detail was just incredible, and she planned such a wonderful day of eating, drinking, reading and movie watching. And laughing, and spending time together. Which was really the best bit of all. For those of you who are Harry Potter fans, here is a whole album of photos to show you every little bit. There rest of you might like to skim quickly through to see how much work she put in.

I have never been to such an intricately orchestrated party in my life before. It was truly magical. I love you, Jemimah. xx

Making memories

Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing — absolutely nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing... about in boats — or with boats. In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not.

Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

We almost talked ourselves out of doing this on Saturday. It was expensive, not educational, and kind of silly to think of taking a punt ride around the ornamental lake at the Royal Botanic Gardens. After all, hadn't we visited the gardens to see the flowering Titan Arum, not mess about in boats?

I'm afraid Daddy's logic was airtight, and we all agreed. It looked fun, but it was unnecessary.

And then suddenly there we were, waiting at the dock to hop in.

 

 

Can you see how wonderful it was? As we lay back on the plush pink cushions, white parasols shielding us from the fierce heat of the sun, and calmly meandered around the islands, we looked at each other and smiled. We had definitely made the right decision. This was going to become part of our family's collected memory. It was sublimely, peacefully perfect.

We chatted with the punter and admired his technique with the pole. We laughed at his stories. Together we identified moorhens, swanphens and coots, laughed at a funny Pacific Black duck, who followed our punt, admired a couple of aptly named Eastern long-necked turtles, discussed the dangers of the recent blue-green algal bloom, the use of artificial islands as a water filtration system, searched for elusive bell birds in the trees - so easy to identify; so very hard to spot, and lots of other stuff, but mostly we just relaxed and enjoyed the moment.

Making memories, for us, is intentional. There are lots of bits of Jemimah's childhood that are far from perfect, and I can't do much about those, but I can help create good times. They don't always cost money, either. A mummy-daughter night with popcorn and a movie. A walk hand-in-hand through the bush. A green St Pat's meal. A picnic at the lake.

When she is grown, it is entirely possible that Jemimah will look back at her childhood and see parents who worked too hard, and a house damaged by floods, but somehow I don't think so. I hope she'll see the magic parts. The ballet, the picnics, the holidays, the food, the books, the jigsaws, the happiness. I pray that she will.

And maybe she will remember the special afternoon we spent together punting on the ornamental lake in the Royal Botanic Gardens in the middle of the Melbourne city, and how happy we all were. I think I'll remember it as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A teeny tiny treasure

My family has recently started a big decluttering project, ridding drawers and shelves of superfluous stuff. It is very satisfying, and while it is still early days, we are already enjoying our newly cleared and organised spaces.

There is another advantage to decluttering too, one that I hadn't really thought of, and that is that because you're opening drawers and cupboards and boxes that you don't often open, you find things. Things that you didn't even know you'd lost. Today I found my 'precious box'. You can see a photo of it down the bottom of the post. It's just a cardboard box filled with things that are precious only to me, and every one is filled with precious memories.

One of the items inside is this teeny tiny Bible, and because you're all bibliotragics like me, I thought you might like to see inside. Isn't it beautiful? The words are legible if your eyesight is good enough, and it is illustrated with many line drawings. It was a gift to me from my mum and dad when I was still a teenager, I think.

Here's my precious box. Perhaps one day I'll show you what else is hidden inside. Would you like to see? Do you have a precious box from your youth? What do you keep in yours?