Swans and wasps, jawbones and scones

I don't like killing animals. And yet I love eating meat. I suppose I eat meat as long as I don't personally know the animal to be consumed. On Sunday we had a luncheon with pig on a spit as the main protein course. The pig had come from a friend's home and as I sat down next to her, she said, 'I am not going to eat piggy. I refuse to eat one of my piglets.' And that took me back to my Gran and my husband. Neither of them would eat meat or chicken reared on the property. I remember my Mom saying that she had bought the roast chicken from the shops, when we all knew that it was the hen that had stopped laying eggs that now sat on the platter in the middle of our dining room table. But it allowed my Grandmother to pretend that she didn't know where it had come from ... and enjoy the repast. My husband was the same. Chickens that he had lovingly fed and clucked to were to not to be eaten at our table. They could be given away for others to eat, but never ourselves. I do know people that fill their freezers with meat and never go near a supermarket or butcher. But it was not us and is not us.

Once upon a time Barry did buy a crossbow with the idea of shooting something edible. He set up the target on a few bales of hay at the far end of the garden. Took aim, and shot ... only to find that he had shot our cat sleeping in the bales, thankfully not fatally, but it scared the bejeebus out of him and he never touched it again. Anyhow, why am I ratting on about hunting? Well last month I came across a notice for hunters on my Facebook page announcing an end of Summer hunt. Being nosy, I read it of course. With a licence you could shoot as many black swans as you wanted and ten Pukekos (Marsh hens) in Rotorua. Swan eating used to be considered a royal privilege and yet here they are inviting all and sundry to partake of this delicacy. What was really concerning was the venue. Rotorua is a beautiful tourist town around the banks of a thermal lake in the middle of a volcanic caldera. Did I mention lots of tourists. That is not exactly a sight for gentle folks on holiday to view ... beautiful swans dying at their feet. Swan lake and all its balletic beauty is not even close. And why only ten Pukekos? No doubt the hunters amongst us will be rushing for their licences and their rifles as we speak. We don't have any black swans where I live. Turkeys, partridges, quail and yes, Pukekos and even owls and bats live around me. But no black swans, which are actually a native of our neighbour, Australia. And they are seriously gorgeous and so cute when they have cygnets swimming behind and sometimes sitting on their backs. I come over all gooey thinking about them. One year a work mate of Barry's went turkey shooting and gifted us a few turkeys, but seriously I would rather buy my protein ready prepared from a supermarket and looking nothing like its living self. I don't think that hunting is that cheap either. First the licence, then the gun and finally after you have shot the deer or whatever, you have to lug it for miles to your vehicle and then clean it and chop it up. Nope, not for me. I would cry and cry all the way home and never eat a thing.

I have been making a few Keto friendly desserts lately. Scones and cheesecakes and even a fruit fool that were all delicious. I eat Keto (no carbs, no sugars) because it does wonders for my diabetes. But I am not a diet Nazi about it, if there is nothing better to eat then I will eat carbs. I went to a book launch on Saturday at the local pub. About sixty people all milling around with drinks and talking louder and louder as the crowds grew. It is years since I went into a pub and I didn't enjoy it then and I certainly was not in my element on Saturday either. Screaming conversations at your friends is not my idea of fun. But the book was launched and toasts drunk, just not by me because I don't drink alcohol but I raised my hand as if I was toasting, Anyhow, they had lovely little savouries to eat. I thought 'well lookie here, a meat pie. And I love meat pies, so why not indulge?' I took the delicacy and bit into it. Yeah, maybe not such a great idea. The filling, boiling hot filling, squirted out the opposite end of the pastry and all down my best 'I am a well dressed person' shirt. By this time most of the assembly were well lubricated and didn't even notice me pulling the burning material away from my bosom and me hopping around in agony. I looked around for a napkin, none. And then I saw some, on the bar, through the crowd of milling people and on the other side of the room. I took one deep breath and thought that it might be time for me to make my escape. I had wanted to congratulate the author, but maybe next time when I am not wearing a smudge of greasy meat filling down the front of my shirt. And so I walked out into the night thinking that next time there is a book launch at a pub, I might just send a congratulatory email and leave it at that. How on earth were you supposed to eat that pie? Shove the whole thing in your mouth at once? Maybe. But I was trying to be all ladylike. And for my troubles I have now got a nice pink burn mark on my chest and have been soaking my blouse in detergent for the past few days in a vain attempt to get the stain out of it.

This week was my post operation visit to the Clinic to assess if I needed any follow up treatment. Usually when I had been to the hospital it was for Barry, my dear departed, who drove the car for us. Anyhow we always made a joke about the tragic state of the parking situation. Which level would we be on this time? I was lucky, it was Blue level 10, not quite on the top and not the best either. A kind of Goldilocks parking space. Just right. As I was driving I thought 'Shucks Barry, you used to do this driving stuff and now I have to do it alone. Not fair.' He knew that I hated driving ... or being a passenger, or travelling anywhere, and always offered to drive wherever we went. Just as I thought this, a vehicle came towards me with the number plate 'Barryz' on it. Obviously my husband has a sense of humour even from the other side of the veil of death and was reminding me that he was still around. The doctors were pleased with my recovery and as I lay there being poked and prodded Doctor I haven't a clue what his name is, asked if I lived alone and if anyone was there to care for me on a daily basis. I said no, and that my husband had died last year of cancer. Then I made the comment that cancer is an awful thing and not my friend. He looked at me and said, 'It must be awful for you to lose your husband to cancer and then for you to have it yourself is even worse.' It quite shocked me. I have never thought of myself as being a cancer sufferer. That was Barry's journey, not mine. When people send me these 'chain letter' thingies on Facebook about 'if you have a loved one with cancer pass this on to ten people in the next ten minutes and an angel will drop healing drops on your head' stuff, I always delete them. First off, its a personal journey and why the heck should I pass on a stupid message that does no one any good to ten others. Makes no sense to me at all. And secondly ... well there is no secondly, I have said what I want to say.

Now a moment of Grandma pride. Yes, I know I shouldn't but tough luck, I will share this moment of proudness and too bad if I am boring. My grandson, Omani, started intermediate school (he is eleven years old) and walks to school with a friend. This friend is a bit geeky and rides a scooter as Omani walks alongside. Anyhow some bullies saw this and thought the young boy looked like an easy target. They came up to him and pushed him demanding that he 'give' them his scooter. The poor kid was absolutely petrified of these awful kids. Omani then stepped up and told them to stop their stand over tactics. Putting himself at risk for his friend. My daughter was not far behind, she has been walking behind the two boys for the first few weeks of school to make sure they don't do anything silly. Just about to jump in to the rescue if needed, she was not required to put herself in the way because the bullies were then pulled away by some of their mates. But such a happy Grandma to know that my grandson has integrity and grit.The little friend was so overcome with gratitude and kept telling Omani that he was the best friend ever... and he is a great friend. I need to tell you that Omani is not a perfect child, he went on a school camp and came home the proud owner of a jaw bone of a dog that he had found. He used the jaw bone as a weapon, much like Samson did when he killed 1000 in the Bible. No, Omani would never slay anyone, rather he just waved it around. Unfortunately the teeth were loose and as he was gesticulating, one tooth fell out and into the backpack of a fellow student. Omani wanted to retrieve the tooth ... only to be challenged by the owner of the backpack demanding to know why Omani was stealing his stuff. The tooth was never retrieved and can you imagine the mother's shock when she empties out the backpack to find a strange tooth amongst the clothes? Okay enough Grandma moments for now. I do love all my grandchildren and they all make me proud in different ways. Who in their right mind would deny themselves the pleasure of grandchildren, well obviously not me.

I have a wasp nest in an old tree on my property. Thousands of the little beggars buzz in and out a million times a day. I went and bought the poison ... dressed myself up in sting resistant clothing aka socks, gloves and scarf across my face. I followed instructions to the letter. And still they live. Apparently when the wasps realise that they are being threatened with destruction, the male warrior wasps are sacrificed. Their bodies are stuffed into all the holes that would allow the poison to penetrate. And when the danger is past, they tunnel out again and continue on their rampage. Yikes. Have I been instrumental in killing off hundreds of male warrior wasps? I once asked my husband if he loved me enough to die for me and his reply was that, 'No, mine is an undying love.' Well those poor male wasps did die for their hive. But sadly, they will not win this war. I will let them get complacent and then try again, and again and again. And if that does not do the trick, then I will wait until the fire ban has been lifted for our area, drag that old tree trunk out to a safe distance ... and pour petrol into it and set it alive. Let those wasp beat that trick. I have genocide on my mind and murder in my heart.