City House, Country House

It only takes a few weekends away in the country to get that sweet air into your lungs, enough to inspire me to sell up the rad inner city pad and purchase a run down wreck of a Federation palace with a wrap around verandah deep within the bush, living off the fat o' the land and collecting eggs for my breakfast in the morning.

Oh the dreams.

Before Ali Webb from Melbourne there was Alison Murray from Yackandandah. A kid from the scrub who was raised on 10 or so acres, jumping into dams from the trampoline, helping mum bake bread, pod peas, collect eggs, shoo rabbits, water the orchard, feed the cow, milk the cow, pick the veggies for that night's tea and so on. You could say we were self sufficient.

So when I called mum the other night to squeal with excitement about baking my own bread, she laughed. Of course she did, she's been doing it for years.

But what a sense of achievement it is to make something for yourself. This week it was bread, pesto and hummus. All from scratch, every ingredient accounted for and the only numbers on the recipe was for quantities rather than preservatives.

While explaining this to mum in Beechworth over the long weekend, she got it straight away. "I could have told you all about this years ago, honey. But you wouldn't have been interested," she said. Mums are always right.

I'm sure I'm not the only person out there who has had a swift change in plans, craving the space and air of country living and that trendy little two words we keep hearing today: slow. down.

While a shift to the country might be a pipe dream at the moment, there's no harm in treating our city house like a country house.

We've chocked up our vegie patch out the front with snow peas, broccoli, eggplant, chillis, herbs and more. We've got seeds from Diggers on their way. A blob of bread dough is slowly rising on the bench and this evening Alfie ate the last of the strawberries straight off the plant.

Yesterday I traded some fabric for wool with my neighbour and I've already commenced a little crocheted blanket for my friend's babe.

Yes I know, all these things take time, but how nice is it to use your time making a lovely home for your family.  Insert smiley face.

It's excellent.

I didn't even swear once in this post. Perhaps all this country air has changed me.

Fuck,

Ali xx

My bread

Easter  Parade in Beechworth

Every country town must have a man with a cocky on his shoulder or a trolley full of ferrets

MY pesto and hummus smashed on Turkish bread

Pants for grots

My son's a grot. He's outside all the time, loves to eat with his whole face, sit in puddles and has had a runny nose for about two months. It's totally cool. I think we all wish we could be grots most days. So this got me thinking; if I was a grot, what would I wear? Stretchy pants, absolutely. Pants I could high kick in, pretend to karate kick-n-sweep, jumping pants, climbing pants, scratch and sniff pants, and pass out in the hallway on my face pants.

So I decided to make some Pants for Grots for Alfie. Here they are. They cost me $4 each to make (thanks to a ripper sale at Spotlight) - the price of a cup of coffee. They took thirty minutes to cut, sew and elasticise and presto, here they are! 

And here's how I made them:

• Grab a pair of your grot's current jeans. 
• Measure the length and add an inch on the top and on the bottom. 
• Trace out a big letter 'U', like a harem pant. 
• Sew the sides of the U together, turn over the top of the pants an inch for the elastic, and same for the bottom of each leg. 
• Measure the elastic around your kid's waist and ankles.
• Cut the elastic and weave it with a mega safety pin through each folded cuff.
• Cut off all the loose threads, turn inside out and WHAM... Pants for Grots.

I'm hoping the elastic waist is going to be ace when it comes to toilet training. However, let's start with the basics... trying to get my kid to wear pants in the first place!

Enjoy!

xx

Mother's Day sucks pom poms

It sucks balls.  I dread it every year because it’s yet another reminder that our family is not a normal nine-to-five family where everyone sits around the table at the same time telling tales about bigfoot sightings and camping adventures. We’re a tag-team family who work hours unbeknownst to many, and sometimes our hours clash and we panic.

Mother’s Day is a day that I avoid all family locations – zoos, lunch spots, picnic areas, day spas (ha) – because I want to cry my face off when I see parents together with their kids celebrating all things mum.