Cooking from blogs: pulled pork, Hungry and Frozen-style

Confession: this is not the first time that I've made Laura's pulled pork recipe. At some point during the three weeks I was riddled with glandular fever I decided that all this lying around wouldn't do at all, and pulled my disease-ridden body out of bed to make pulled pork, a fact that in itself vouches for my deliriousness.

Predictably, I was unable to eat it; in fact, the smell made my stomach turn. As I was vomming frequently at the time, this stomach turning had predictable results. This was, indeed, an ill-fated pulled pork-making venture.

Shannon, who ended up being the sole eater of the pulled pork, vouched for it's deliciousness*, which encouraged me to have another go - and YES, it was totally worth it. Please don't let the discussion of my illness put you off making delicious pork.

Second confession: I made a LOT of changes, but I don't think quite the extent that I didn't make this recipe at all (willing to hear arguments to the contrary). Here are the changes, listed in suggested order that they might affect the success of this recipe:

1. I had no fennel seeds for the mop, so I used whole star anise instead (it made sense when I did it but seems kind of whimsical now).
2. I had no ground ginger for the rub, so I had to leave it out.
3. I couldn't find pork shoulder or belly at the supermarket, so I bought a leg instead. 
4. I made the pulled pork in the slow cooker, using guidance from Beth at Budget Bytes.

Annnnnd despite my thorough bastardisation of what was undoubtedly a well thought-out and tested recipe, everything turned out well! Slow cooking the pork left me with no bark (the crispy bits on the outside of the joint), but the meat itself was delicious and not horribly dry. The bits on the bottom of the joint that were sitting in the mop during the entire cooking time - these certainly had more flavoursome deliciousness. But, I think because I marinated the pork overnight, the rest of the meat had plenty of flavour too.

In conclusion: DO IT. Make some pulled pork! We ate ours with flour tortillas, and coleslaw with smoked paprika and almonds, but it was also good two days later in a market baguette with melted cheese.

Would you believe this is the best photo I could get? Pulled pork is difficult to photograph. Probably a topic about this at a food bloggers' forum somewhere.

*Writing that sentence gave me the opportunity to reflect on how amazed I am that he ate the pork when I made it while I was SO ill. He basically ate my disease. Ew.

Have you ever made pulled pork before; and what's your favourite way to cook it and eat it? I want to eat all the pork.

Cooking from blogs: Smitten Kitchen's Coconut Bread

... which is also a Bill Granger bread via the Wednesday Chef via the New York Times, evidentally. Here it is on the Smitten Kitchen site.

I've wanted to make this bread since I read the recipe back in March. But then things kept coming up - things like, but not limited to, lemon sour cream cake, maple syrup tart*, and this bee sting cake. Besides, I was given a food processor for my birthday and tried an an all-food processor baking lifestyle for a while, a lifestyle in which this loaf just wouldn't fit, darling.

Luckily, I have an extremely tech-savvy filing system for future recipes which involves me: favouriting a recipe post, waiting a fortnight, printing out every recipe that I've favourited over that fortnight, and then filing the printed recipe in either my green "cooking" clear file, or my black "baking" clear file. Or indeed, my white "soups" clearfile. Cooking blogs are the way of the future, dudes. My nana wouldn't have recognised my system at all.

At any rate, I made this delicous sweet bread on Sunday. I had to use regular dessicated coconut because I have no idea where I would even find sweetened coconut (can I get such a thing in NZ)?

In saying that, for my palate it's just sweet enough...

... TO HAVE FOR BREAKFAST! Yay for cake for breakfast!

I'd make it again, but not in a fan-forced oven as the crust was too crusty for my liking. Deb's loaf clearly has a golden brown soft crust and here I have a dark brown hard crust which is less than ideal. The inner bread bit tastes pretty awesome though. I have discovered that it is best eaten when spread it thickly with butter.

*I WILL post this recipe, because you all need it *nods sagely*

Cooking from blogs: Smitten Kitchen's lentil soup with sausage, chard and garlic

During our summer months, I like to read all about the heavy soups, casseroles and puddings that people in the northern hemisphere are eating. While existing mostly on barbeque food and salad and summer fruit, I have no issue with reading about rib-sticking, heart-warming meals. I like to print them off or book mark them, save them up for a colder time where I will have the need of such dishes.*

Smitten Kitchen's lentil soup with sausage, chard and garlic has been on my mind since Deb Perelman posted the recipe back in January this year. While I've made lentil and sausage soup before (I mean, really, haven't we all) I'm always game to ruin a good thing, change things up and try something different. A change is as good as a rest and all that.

The recipe was, as they always are, easy to follow. The dish itself had many parts but was simple to put together. I thought the finishing furbelow of olive oil and sizzled garlic probably wasn't entirely necessary despite reassurances to the contrary, but perhaps I have a totally pleb palate.

I kept any changes, additions or substitutions to what I thought was a fair minimum. I never know what "Italian sausage" is when I read it in an American recipe - I did use an Italian sausage but it was a pork and fennel one (from the Park Ave butcher in Lower Hutt which is well worth the trip). I have a heap of great home made chicken stock that I used instead of plain water because why wouldn't you if you had it?, and I had some tomato paste so I added a little of that. Sadly, I didn't have any chard or silverbeet (is chard not just a fancy way of saying silverbeet?) but I did have a bag of baby spinach that needed using up and I thought that given they were green and leafy it was all much of a muchness.

After simmering, tasting and then scoffing in record time, I concluded that:

• The dish makes a good hearty weeknight meal if you can wait about an hour (I had a cracker-snack before I began cooking to keep the worms at bay).
• I think the soup will transfer well to smug lunches and I fully intend on wafting the smell around in the kitchen at work. 
• The ingredients are easy to find in NZ if you aren't precious about the exact kind of sausage you're using - although of course a good quality one is a must (and why would you eat a crappy sausage anyway I don't know). 

And finally:

• It would be very worthwhile using silverbeet (or chard tra la la)** rather than baby spinach because the poor bubbas just didn't stand up well flavour-wise. They were like sad wilted wisps of green in a sea of delicious and hearty. Even regular spinach would have been better because the soup does just needs the final leaf to have some kind of body, y'know?

The eaters appreciated it. I will probably make it again. You can make it too! And it's easy enough to be vegged or veganed - there are a couple of options in the recipe.

And now, a photo of my food:



*The reverse, however, makes me so sad - when people start writing about asparagus season and cherries I am sad and in the midst of cold-stored apples and the fourth month of pumpkin.

**I mean, but - they are the same thing, right?

What I know about Beau Brummell

Sunday I went to a lecture about Regency dandy Beau Brummell at Te Papa, given by Ian Kelly, an English actor and Brummell's biographer. The lecture was put on by the Friends of Te Papa and held in the Soundings Theatre, at the not inconsiderable sum of $25 at ticket for non-members. 

I do have vaguely directed interests in both Regency History and the history of costume, but it was the marketing genius of the lecture title that sold it to me: Undressing Mr Darcy: sex, suits and shifting cultures 1770 - 1820. Naked Mr Darcy!

Ian Kelly was a very entertaining speaker, and gave a lecture that was informative without being too specialised but wasn't patronising either. The tone was a little bit naughty. Titters abounded.

The only issue I had with the entire experience was with this horrible old bat who sat next to me in the five minutes before the lecture was due to start. As the speaker was introduced, this woman turned to me and said: "Are you going to write throughout the entire presentation?"

Me: "Ah - I thought I'd take a few notes...?"

HOB: "Well, I find it very distracting. If you're going to write, you should go and sit over there - " indicating single, lonely seat in the corner by a giant pole.

Me (fighting my "respect your elders upbringing" and horrified by the rudeness of aforementioned HOB): "Well, if you find it distracting, perhaps you could sit over there."

HOB ignores my comment. I ignore her and start making notes, but I'm boiling with anger and guilt. In the end I decide that I can't stand her giving me the evils from the edges of her pince nez , and I flouncily gather up my bits and begin to move away.

HOB (sniffily): "Thank you."

Me (hissing): "Spectacular rudeness." Which was neither particularly mature nor very respectful to my elders, but did allow me to have the last word. Ha.

I then preceded to sit on the lonely, sad person seat where I was unable to concentrate on the first ten minutes of the lecture because I was furious and kept coming up with a million better comebacks than spectacular rudeness.

Anyways, what I now know about Beau Brummell:

• He was born at Number 10 Downing Street (then Number 5 Downing Square). His parents weren't married and his mother was a courtesan.
• His parents had a country house with a flint hermitage. They advertised in a London paper for a hermit to live in their hermitage. Tom Stoppard makes a reference to this in one of his plays (Arcadia?).
• His entry into society, as it were, was as the child subject of a Joshua Reynolds painting called "The Brummell heirs".
• The Prime Minister Lord North (his father's boss) sent him and his brother to Eton where he began working on what would later be known as "the Brummell look" - i.e., mostly monochrome, with sexy skin-0tight pants.
• Some of the wearers of these skin-tight pants (Lord Byron was mentioned I think?) definitely did not wear undies, probably due to VPL. This can be deduced from their laundry bills.
• Brummell was the Prince of Wales' (later the Prince Regent) best man when he (George) disastrously married Caroline of Brunswick. Marriage fail!
• He resigned his commission from the Hussars when the regiment was posted to Manchester, claiming that he couldn't be seen anywhere so unfashionable.
• Brummell and his tailor at Meyer and Mortimer are attributed with the invention of the full length trouser.
• He bathed every day which was a scandalous innovation. The bathing took up one hour of the three it would take him to get dressed every morning. A second hour of the dressing process was spent tying his cravat perfectly.
• Peeps, including the Prince Regent, would come and observe this process. Because Beau Brummell was just that fashionable.
• Ignominious end: he fled the country because he insulted the Prince of Wales (short story - called him fat), and also because he had mountains of debt.
• Annnddd.... he died in Northern France in 1840 of tertiary syphilis sans hair and sans teeth, hallucinating about having Regency celebrities over for parties.

My favourite conclusions though were around what parts of the Regency lifestyle can be seen as contributing to Victorian standards of morality and the Victorian obsession with insanity and depression. And what it comes down to (at least, according to Ian Kelly) is that  the attendant venereal diseases (especially syphilis) of Regency promiscuity left a super-nasty taste in the mouth of the aristocracy and upper classes, no family of which had escaped unscathed. Lots of congenital madness and what not. 

CONCLUSION: Horrible Old Bats aside, lecture was good. Future idea for Friends of Te Papa lectures: find a seat far away from the main entrance.

Eating Some Food in Wellington, a review: Uncle Mike's Kansas City BBQ

In which I go on a 'hot date' to a barbeque rib house and am kind of disappointed.

Beef ribs!

One of the most exciting sounding eating establishments on the main road of Petone is Uncle Mike's Kansas City BBQ. Although, it doesn't look super amazing from the outside, the novelty of a ribs restaurant in Wellington is not to be sneezed at! Shan-dawg and I decided to grab life by the hairy bits and have a hot date at Uncle Mike's. Tragically, we discovered that all that glitters is not gold and that this rib restaurant was just not as awesome as might be hoped.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with Uncle Mikes's. All in all, the issue was not that the meal or decor or service was actively bad - just that nothing was really that great.

Shannon had beef ribs and I had pork and in both cases they were perfectly adequate - they weren't dry and the rib sauce and seasoning were good. The ribs were served with smokey beans and hand cut chips, which were also quite good individually. As a whole, however, the combo of the ribs, beans and chips was somewhat lacking - too many smokey flavours, not enough fresh flavours for the smokiness to play against. We ordered coleslaw on the side which readdressed the balance of the meal and I would recommend additional coleslaw as a course of action to any potential Uncle Mike's diners.

Pork Ribs!

Uncle Mike's is licensed but not BYO. I had a $10 margarita which I was quite pleased with, Shannon had a $9.50 Little Creatures beer. I have no recollection of the wine list whatsoever, I'm afraid, but why would you want a glass of wine when you can have a margarita?

"Decor"

Decor and waiting staff: decor is nothing to write home about and the lights are freakily bright, but the waiting staff were really nice - I didn't feel forgotten or fussed over. All in all, super nice kids!

AND IN CONCLUSION: Uncle Mike's. Don't get excited before you go and you should be all good. Doesn't require active avoidance, but I wouldn't urge you to attend.






Shannon took the photos of the food, and required a credit. So here you go doll!

Reading Searching for Grace

A couple of weeks ago I entered and won a competition on National Radio (mostly because one of the clues was the B52’s 'Love Shack'. Man I love that song). My prize was a Book. So exciting! I imagine there are many stray books lying around the National Radio office that are looking for a home.

In order to ascertain which book would be most suitable to my Winner's Needs, I was asked what I liked to read. I replied that at present I was mostly reading biographies of women who lived in the early 19th century, thinking about the Mitford Girls, The Viceroy’s Daughters, Fortune’s Daughters and the Virginia Woolf biography I was reading earlier this year.

On Monday I was lucky enough to receive two books: the second volume of Fiona Kidman’s memoirs, and the book Searching for Grace by Carol Henderson and Heather Tovey. I picked up the book at about midday from the post office, sat down to flick through it over lunch and then spent the next four hours consuming the book as quickly as I could!

So yes, very compelling, and also one of the strangest stories I’ve ever read. It’s essentially the autobiography/biography of Heather Tovey (nee Campbell) who was born in London in 1911. From an early age the woman who was raising her (‘Mummy’) made it clear that she wasn’t her biological mother. The identity of her 'real' mother remained a secret until the early 1970s when it was confirmed that Heather was the illegitimate daughter of a very wealthy Edwardian society lady, Lady Grace Weigall. Grace had inveigled herself, unacknowledged, into Heather’s life from about the age of seven and actively interfered with aspects of her life through Heather’s guardian, Doctor Leonard Boys. This interference included not only keeping Heather’s mother’s identity a mystery, but also potentially pressing charges againts the man that Heather eloped, and later emigrated with (Gordon Tovey, a well-known NZ arts figure).

I simply cannot unpick the whole sordid tangle for you here. It’s complicated and fascinating. And complicated. And FASCINATING.

When I first flicked through, I thought the book was going to a misery memoir. Gretchen wrote about reading misery memoirs as an attempt to make herself feel more spiritual which grosses me out, but stoked to say, Searching for Grace is much more than a mere misery memoir. It is a rather strange book, written as it is by two women (Heather and her daughter Carol) over a period of about 20-odd years. There are periodic diversions into spiritual matters (Carol feels her mother Heather’s spirit while she’s doing the dishes) and a number of poems about being abandoned that I think maybe the book could have lived without. I have an aversion to most poetry though, so take with a grain of salt, they could be amazing. Also: Gordon Tovey’s affairs and Heather’s acceptance of the Other Women? Priscilla’s terrible life? Carol watching her mother become increasingly depressed after the Revelations and then Heather’s deterioration through Alzheimers? This book  has everything, including a description of the female Victorian dressing process.

The most outstanding thing about the book was that it was an antidote to all the romanticised Edwardian-lady biographies that I’ve been reading. Those books put the figures they’re written about on a pedestal, and will list all of their peccadilloes with no eye to the real emotional consequences of the subject’s actions. Searching for Grace is rather a book OF consequences: the legacy left by the actions of a particular group of wealthy and privileged upper class English folk at a particular time in history. But it’s also a very unique and personal history. Microcosm and macrocosm in one, people!

In conclusion: Dude, you should totally read it. The prose will not make you wet your pants with excitement but the convoluted nature of the histories more than make up for this. You’ll never be able to read an Edwardian ladies bio in the same way again.

Eating Some Food in Wellington, a review: Dockside

In Part Five, I go to Dockside and am distinctly underwhelmed.

Get your suits here!

On Sunday I went with Shannon and his father Ross and stepmother Angela for lunch at Dockside. Dockside would never be my first choice for a place to eat, but given that Angela didn't enjoy herself very much at all at the last place we ate (Sweet Mother's Kitchen), it was definitely their turn to nominate a place to meet.

So. About Dockside. The last time I went to Dockside was about four years ago, and again, against my better judgement. It used to be referred as the Dry Cleaner, because “everyone went home with a suit” ie boozing after work on a Friday night at Dockside would lead you to score at the business end of town.

Sunday brunch at Dockside is somewhat more salubrious. The place really is in a wonderful position overlooking the harbour and the weather was absolutely stunning, so sitting in the conservatory was very pleasant indeed. There was a man playing inoffensive music on an acoustic guitar, so inoffensive and forgettable indeed that I can't even name one of the songs that he played. So: good company, lovely views, and live muzak.

The staff were very pleasant too, even when we turned up over an hour early because Shannon had got the time wrong (and now I am letting this go). The front of house staff were attentive without being overly so, refilling our water glasses frequently enough to keep us happy but not so much that one felt one was being chided for lack of hydration. Our food and drinks arrived very punctually. We drank a rather delicious Brookfield's Rose (Hawkes Bay) which made me think about summer in a very wistful manner.

The food was another matter entirely. The first glance at the menu reveals absolutely insane overpricing of brunch food. We're talking $20 bacon and eggs, $30 fish and chips, $19.50 for four pieces of squid and a salad. Those kind of prices are all very well and good if the food is crazy delicious, the ingredients sourced fresh locally and are organic etc etc. However, the food was average beyond belief, by which I mean that it was not very good at all. While the actual squid in my overpriced salt and pepper squid salad was itself very tender, it was encased in a very floury batter with not a lot of salt and pepper going on. The salad was a sad little puddle of mesculun leaves and contained FAR too much red onion (and not a lot else). I had some of Shannon's fish and chips and thought that the fish was overcooked (mushy) and the crumbing on the fish was too too dry. Gross. His chips were good but were the kind of frozen shoestring fries that you can buy for about $10 for umpteen kilos at Moore Wilsons and the tomato sauce was definitely Watties. Dudes, the best thing about the whole meal was the deep fry! A sad state of affairs.

In conclusion: a lovely place to catch up with Ross and Angela with gorgeous views of the harbour and inoffensive live muzak. However the prices and the quality of the food leave a hell of a lot to be desired. For a place that purports to specialise in seafood, their actual abilities to cook it were derisive. Don't do it!

Epilogue: on the way home we saw a seal and the worlds tiniest little tug boat thing. That was cool.

Reading the Happiness Project

Making new resolutions is one of life's greatest pleasures. Reading a whole book about someone else making resolutions and then sticking to them is as uniquely satisfying as peeling a hardboiled egg and getting really big pieces of shell off all in one go.

As a rule, I'm vehemently against self help books because - ugh, gross. As I started the Happiness Project I was struck with a fear that I was delving into a genre that I had no interest in delving into. Would I be Zig Ziglar-ed in mere months? How long before Rich Dad, Poor Dad? When would I Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway? The book is not an easy one to miss because of it's bright blue cover and I felt a little embarrassed carrying it around - while I was reading the book in public I held the book flat on the table so that nosy people couldn't see what I was reading. Of course, I don't think anyone is as nosy and as judgemental about people's reading choices as I am so this may have been a rather paranoid precaution, and it did make reading in some situations rather awkward. Vanity.


On the flipside to my abhorrence of self help books is my addiction to positivity/decluttering/life tips blogs, and generally making resolutions and challenging myself to stick to them. Really, the Happiness Project is just a padded out version of the blog with a better background story, a hard cover and a wrapper. I know that Katherine read a few chapters and decided that she hated it, and there is something disgruntling about the fact that the author Gretchen Rubin really does appear to Have so much. How much would I love to be a full time writer in New York with no financial worries? She addresses this a lot throughout the book - and acknowledges that really she has no reason to be unhappy.

The project, then, is less an attempt to rescue herself from the depths of despair then to research what it means to be happy and to apply those ideas to her own life. I'm all up for that - I think an ambient dissatisfaction kind of characterises much of the life that people live today, and as I strive for contentment I certainly see parallels with much that is discussed in the book. I usually try to keep away from the word 'happy' as I see my own 'happy' as a kind of delirious high with an opposite and equally delirious low. However I think that the ideas of happiness discussed in The Happiness Project are about being content with yourself and your life, and learning to be able to be happy within your own frameworks, rather than striving towards HAPPY! as a kind of ultimate goal. I like that.

Every few chapters I read encouraged me to feel Inspired to Do Good Things and make Positive Changes. I woke up this morning and decided I was going to reframe things as positively as possible - nauseating to be sure, but Gretchen advises us to act the way you want to feel. This is pretty much one of the most ghastly things to hear when you're depressed (oh and people say it!) but when it's within your power to make that decision, it can be very powerful. I know it to be true. Making an effort to be cheerful when you're feeling like crap is a sure fire way to up your cheerfulness quotient.

And now for some kind of conclusion:
I think that ultimately this book is for people who already like that kind of thing. The writing is perfectly adequate but is unlikely to hold interest for it's own sake. The book follows a basic chronological structure with a short conclusion and there isn't a great deal of plot to get you fired up.

I didn't love it, but it gave me lots to think about, and I'll add it to my own happiness arsenal I think.

Eating Some Food in Wellington, a review: Deluxe

Part four of an infrequent series

In Part Four, I visit Deluxe, have a savoury muffin, and continue to enjoy a cafe at which I've never worked.

NZHistory.net

Deluxe is my local and my favourite Wellington cafe: close to school and home and work. They make the best savoury muffins, vegan cupcakes and vegan sandwiches in the whole of Wellington, bar none. I’ve never had a better savoury muffin than those I get regularly from Deluxe. A contentious statement indeed! And yet, I will stand by it, and defend Deluxe savoury muffins against the inferior muffins that will maybe suggested as competitors (bring it ON!).

Frankly, I don’t believe it’s possible to have a bad bit of baking from Deluxe. The pizzas are good, as are the big bean and lentil salads and tempeh wrap things. The vegetarian foccacia has a perfect blend of pumpkin, pesto and feta, sweet and salty and cheesy. I’ve never had one of those quinoa ball things because there is something about the concept of ball-shaped foods that I don’t really like, but Eli was eating one the other day and I believe she said it was good. They make lovely sweet treats and pies and interesting sweet breads. I guess that the style of baking is similar to Midnight Espresso in terms of it’s vegetarian and vegan slant, but with the difference that Deluxe’s food is inevitably delicious and never disappointing like Midnight Espresso baking can frequently be.

The cafe serves Havana coffee, which I love. However, Havana has no strict training schedule that they give to their baristas, and the coffee served at all cafes with Havana as their roastery blend can be a bit hit and miss. I rarely have a not-decent coffee from Deluxe, but sometimes if you get your coffee at the end of a rush you can taste that the barista needs to backflush the machine or adjust the grind ever so slightly - the coffee tastes slightly dirty or burnt. Truth be told, I like my coffee a bit rough and ready so this does not make me unhappy - but if you’re some kind of L’Affare or Fuel or Mojo lover and you like your coffee smooth and predictable you could be disappointed. Keyword: strong.

Deluxe is located at the far end of Courtenay Place next to the Embassy Theatre. It’s a tiny sliver of a place with a tiny kitchen and counter area, and they only serves counter food. There’s no bathroom in the cafe and the closest loos are the epic bathrooms at the Embassy; any excuse to use these palatial pots is good by me. I’m pretty sure the front of house staff is at least partly hired on their indie cred, but are usually friendly and aren’t adverse to sharing a joke. The tall guy with the long hair and nose (John?) remembers my coffee order and doesn’t tell me off on the days I forget my Keep Cup. Suzy is a great baker and pretends to still recognise me from Fidels days, which I appreciate. I like the new girl with the topknot better than the other girl with the topknot. This morning there was a new girl with a feather in her hair. I have no idea what she’s like as a front of house person, but this coffee that I’m drinking right now is rather delicious and I thought the feather was a nice touch.

Finally: one of the things I like best about Deluxe is that it’s a well established Wellington cafe that I feel comfortable in and that I haven’t worked at. I went through a stage where I worked at a lot of cafes in a very short amount of time, and it changed my relationship with all of them - I still HATE going to Fidels. The fact I haven’t had an anxiety attack behind that counter still preserves The Mystery, and that I deeply appreciate.

Eating Some Food in Wellington, a review: Trisha's Pies

Part three of an infrequent series

In Part Three, I visit Trisha's Pies and eat yet another delicious pastry gravy meat treat.

via Flickr user TELPorfolio

For Wellington-based readers, I don't imagine that I am doing anything less than preaching to the converted, because these pies are what other pies DREAM of being when they grow up. They are the Ultimate Pie, on the VERY PINNACLE of pie-based achievements - perfectly balanced quantities of delicious gravy; tender, delicious and non-grisly* meat; and crisp, buttery flakey pastry.

The Cambridge Terrace branch of Trisha's is right across the road from my school, and it takes every ounce of self control NOT to eat a pie everyday. Tuesday is my special day for Pie Treats and I usually zip across the road after class has finished and take a Peppered Steak pie to the waterfront where I proceed to burn the top of my mouth with hot gravy because I'm so desperate to eat my little pastry-meat envelope.

I can strongly recommend the Peppered Steak pie, but may I also recommend that you look into the Steak and Kidney and Steak and Onion pies? I have heard a rumour that the chicken pies aren't really All That, but I cannot testify to that end myself. The regular sized pies are normally fine for me ($4.50) but on a particularly gluttonous day I have been known to have one of the larger ones ($5.20) which was no challenge whatsoever.

Anyway, today I actually wagged school in order to some work for a friend, but I did not allow this to throw out my Tuesday treat! I decided to have a Steak and Onion pie to mix things up, and while it was good I did regret that I hadn't had another Peppered Steak which are my current passion. I believe the lovely older lady behind the counter in the tiny shop is Trisha herself, although I wouldn't swear to that. Generally, she's more cheerful than she was today, but I believe she still managed to call me "dear" which suitably completed my Trisha's Pies experience.

The first time I went to Trisha's Pies was only at the end of last year, during that strange pre-Christmas period where some people have already gone away for their summer holidays and others are still slaving away in stuffy offices. Shannon and I went to buy a pie on our way down from our house, and the lady behind the counter made small talk with us. She remarked that Shannon and I "must have broken up already."

I was shocked! And I believe that my face must have show it as she then quickly clarified the statement with "Oh! From work!" In the split second between remarks I'd had this horrible sinking feeling, that somehow she knew that S was only taking me to get a pie in order to soften the blow of the end of our relationship. Did Trisha know something I didn't? Were meat pies the food of couples that had just broken up? How many other couples has she seen buy their final pie together?

And now for some kind of conclusion:
Trisha's Pies rule, and you should totally get yourself a pie! And Trisha doesn't really want you to break up, it's all a horrible misunderstanding.



*or indeed, non-gristly

Eating Some Food in Wellington, a review: Customs Brew Bar

Part two of an infrequent series

In Part Two, I visit the Customs Brew Bar and have a rather nice sandwich.

via Selector, part of an article about the eco-cork flooring in the place. How about that!

Friday lunch I broke my "no meals out rule" for the first time in a week, and sought out a sandwich at the Customs Brew Bar. This wasn't the first time that I've visited Customs but it was the first time that I'd eaten there - my desire to do so was entirely because there was a woman eating a sandwich when I had a coffee there on Thursday and it looked really.freaking.good.

Anyways, on Friday I marched in and up to the counter and demanded of the wait dude what "the deal was with their sandwiches", a request that he interpreted pretty well given how opaque (rude?) it was. I had a toasted roast beef, horseradish and blue cheese foccacia and it was as delicious as the Thursday woman's sandwich had looked. The only possible complaint I could have would be that the horseradish was not as fiery as I would have liked. However: still crazy delicious! For drinks I went nuts, and instead of my regular soy flat white I had a little demitasse of cold drip coffee. CALL ME A CONVERT. I wanted to drink it until I bounced off the walls.

I can't fault the service - I'd forgotten my wallet and didn't realise until after I'd ordered my lunch, but they were 100% happy for me to eat first, enjoy my lunch, and come back and pay later. Nice one! Everyone was super friendly as well which is always welcome. However, in the past I've been sitting there while a friend of one of the wait staff came in and had a very loud half hour conversation about fixed gear bicycles - shouting at one another across the cafe. Bah! Too loud! I am totally pro baristas having lives and friends and talking to their friends about their lives, but it is a bit irritating when you're sitting there alone and can't concentrate on your ridiculously wordy novel.

In conclusion: awesome cold drip coffee, the espresso is more than acceptable, I'm not sold on those new/old fangled analogue drip coffees yet but I'm willing to be convinced. Roast beef sandwich = for the win, and when friends aren't around the service is great! Treat yourself to a nice lunch there and make sure you try the cold drip coffee.

Fun fact: Customs was nominated for both best coffee and best service at the Wellingtonista TAWAs last year, which drove me onwards to explore the place, proper-like.

Eating Some Food in Wellington, a review: The Southern Cross

Part one of a (proposed) infrequent series about Eating Food in Wellington.


In Part One, I visit the Southern Cross, and eat quite a lot of meat.

Cadged directly from the Southern Cross dining page. I like the seats quite a lot.

On Tuesday night Shannon and I had a hott date night: but also, a hott date night that was super cheap because I had been given $40 worth of "Southern Cross Dollars" through Derby. I'd never eaten a proper meal at the Cross before because it's mostly a pub, the food always seems crazy expensive for pub food, and whenever I was there I was more intent in having a derby meeting or drinking as much beer as possible than on eating. ANYWAYS, we went, and it turns out that Tuesday night is two-for-one hot stone grill night! I had no idea that such an amazingly awesome and simultaneously bogan thing existed in this world. Also, isn't it bizarre the way that it's MORE expensive to cook your own meal on a ridiculously hot paving stone in a purpose made serving dish than it is to get a qualified chef to cook it? A deep reflection, I know.

We had Devils on Horseback as an entree (pre-dinner nibble) which was accompanied with a huge jug of Emerson's Bookbinder beer. The Devils on Horseback tasted like Devils on Horseback, which are (for the uninitiated), prunes wrapped in bacon, and are retro as all hell but well due for a major revival. The Emersons Bookbinder tasted like Emersons Bookbinder and there was quite a lot of it. Too much, in hindsight but HEY HO! All good in the 'hood (she slurs, as she slides down the Formica table).

The entree was cleared away very quickly (good if we're going to the theatre, bad on a date night) and we were presented with our hot stone grill mains: Shannon had a 400gm Surf and Turf (classy!) and I had a 400gm steak and envied his prawns. I only burnt myself on the paver once so I was quite pleased with that. We both had salad and I had chips and aioli with the steak, which were - boring. But! Even if I didn't think much of the accompaniments (blah caramelised onion blah) the meat was really, freaking good and we were both very happy with our enormous meat portions (*snicker*). Fun fact: hot stone grill makes your clothes smell like meat.

The waiter was a bit vague in a snooty kind of way but warmed up throughout the evening; I confess I felt very sorry for anyone having to work in the humidity and heat of Tuesday and I totally empathised with her vagueness. At the end of the meal we presented the vouchers which caused some consternation because we were getting a free meal (two-for-one) and paying with free money ("Southern Cross Dollars") and we were mildly told off by some guy higher up on the ladder than our waiter, who figured that they were paying for the same meal four times? However, when I offered to pay for both meals they refused my money, which was both passive aggressive and kind of nice, and meant that I paid something like $25 for a meal worth three times as much.

In conclusion: you could probably have an OK time at the Cross; a much better time if you drink lots and really want to experience the weirdness of hot-stone grill food. I probably wouldn't strongly recommend that you go, except maybe if your parents were in town from New Plymouth or Tauranga and didn't want to go somewhere too threatening. The staff we had didn't appear to really give a fuck, but I've been served by completely fine people there in the past so I don't want to tar them all with the same brush.

The Mayor of Casterbridge

 

Cor blimey. I just watched a television adaptation of this  - one of Thomas Hardy's Wessex stories - and MAN O MAN was it super tragic. And it involved wife selling (!) which, apparently, was an almost-traditional English custom for the mostly working classes. I find this fascinating in a historical-anthropological kind of a way, which is exactly the same kind of fascination I have about baby farming.

So, anyway, Thomas Hardy. I read Wessex Tales at a bach I was staying at one summer. It wasn't especially light and fluffy holiday reading, and I can't remember anything about it really with the exception of the name of one of the stories - "The Withered Arm". In fact, the whole reason I read the book was because I wanted to know what a withered arm was, and now I cannot for the life of me remember. WHAT IS A WITHERED ARM? It sounds creepy. Also, I read Tess of the D'Urbervilles in my last year of high school, and while I can remember a little more, it didn't really stick much either - the bits I remember are: the silver spoon that's supposed to be the record of her birthright and the fact that she kills herself at the end. Actually, Dude dies at the end of "The Mayor of Casterbridge" and leaves a suicide note after starving himself to death! That's two Hardy books ending with suicide. It's a little bit like writing "And then I woke up" at the end of your stories at school, don't you think?

Wednesday List: staple products for beautification

As a permanently broke person with rosacea who is constantly showering in the evenings, I've developed a very specific set of needs when it comes to my beautification products. It has to be fast, practical, and enhance the look of "rough and ready grace" that has taken me years of studenthood/lack of money to achieve. May I share with you some lady tips?

Trilogy rosehip oil. It's made by local ladies you know, and is completely natural.  It lasts for ages and is super extra good for helping scarred skin to heal (an issue after the hell rosacea breakouts of my early twenties). I like to use it in the evening before going to bed. I get to wake up a Princess!

"Lanolin-Agg-Tval" Swedish egg white soap. So this is some kind of wonder product, and is apparently the beauty secret of Swedish Women. All of them. It's smells like roses, and comes in a rather pretty blue box. The idea is that you can use it as a face pack, lather it up and smear it on your face and leave it for about five minutes. When you wash it off: TADA! Pink and white skin. I also just use it as regular soap and it's so gentle on my skin I just ADORE IT. I've never seen it in a New Zealand store, but I've just ordered a whole bunch of bars of Amazon and I recommend it. Really. 

Sunset styling lotion. After roller skating in the evening, I need to wash my hair. Because it smells like a stinky helmet and is greasy from sweat. But then I'm all tired, and I want to go to bed, and I have to fuck around getting the hair dry and I know that the next morning I'm going to wake up with a flat place on one side of my head and a crest on the other. ENTER: Sunset Styling Lotion. It's supposed to know what you want your hair to do and will set it overnight while you sleep. Too good to be true? I thought so (I was given it as part of a Farmers Card promotion) but since I've been using it As Directed, my hair actually looks less like a non-deliberate rats nest in the morning, and more like the tousled devil-may-care style I seek to emulate.

hair resort. People. This is the ultimate answer to devil-may-care hair. It's  designed to make clean hair look as though it's full of sea salt! (This does make sense, really). I think it has bamboo in it. It's the most expensive hair product I buy but it has awesome power and I can't recommend it strongly enough. Scrunch and go=whoop huzzah etc.
Have anything to share (especially in the realm of rosacea-care)? Please do! xox

What I have been reading

Once again, a weird combination of books - one extreme to the other I must say. On the other hand, a distinct lack of non-fiction in this group... not to say that I haven't been reading non-fiction, just that I haven't finished any in say, the last two weeks or so. I just wanted to indulge myself in the world of not-here, you know? Also I should note that there could be spoilers here. I'm not very good at working out whether I've written a spoiler or not I'm afraid.

I finished Barbara Erskine's Daughters of Fire about a week ago now. The book was leant to me by my mother and as a result when I picked it up I was ready for a little trashy indulgence, a little bodice-ripping, and some general escapism. "Ooh yeah!" I said "Bring on the indulgent trash!"

As in all of the Erskine books I have read, the story hinges on supernatural possession by a strong female figure from England's past. In this book it's the Celtic warrior queen Cartimandua. An historian writes a book about the queen and is then possessed by her spirit through the medium of an Iron Age brooch called the Cartimandua Pin. Two other people are possessed by other figures from the Cartimandua story as a result of handling the Evil Pin. Everyone hangs out in Iron Age forts and the country and two people try to record a radio play and the historian's boss isn't impressed by the main historian character's historical methods (understandably) but really he's just misguided and secretly in love with her but can't work it out because she was best friends with his wife who died of cancer.  A student has a crush on the main historian and takes her home to meet his mum who turns out to be a nutter. Some of the people from the past who are possessing the future-people are evil. Some are just misguided, and desperate to tell their true story (although why they waited almost 2,000 years I have no idea).

I wasn't expecting an work of high art, but I was disappointed nonetheless. I became unbelievably frustrated as the story constantly repeated itself and some serious editing wouldn't have gone astray/ It rather seemed as though the author desperately wanted to write a story about Cartimandua but had got stuck in a weird thing where she didn't feel as though she could just commit to writing a historical romance and was padding out the bits she really wanted to write with some "present day conflict". Furthermore, there was very little bodice-ripping, and a little more wouldn't have gone astray during some of the more tedious inter-possession scenes. I mean, really, write for your audience. I couldn't recommend this book to anyone with a clean conscience. Kids, don't do it.

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And this morning, I've finished Hodd by Alan Thorpe. This was a library book, so I was reading against the clock (also it was stupid heavy to carry around in my bag and I was over the shoulder pain).

In Hodd, Adam Thorpe is essentially offering a reconstruction of the Robin Hood story. The text itself is posited as a rediscovered post-World War I printers proof of a translation of a badly copied medieval Latin text (so: a text within a text within a text). Something po-mo is going on here. I would draw some superficial parallels with Coetzee's Foe, but I'm afraid I would expose the fact I haven't read Foe for sometime now and the comparisons would be very superficial indeed.

The main character is the nameless Author, and the text is the Author's written confession. The main part of this confession is the Author's involvement with Robert Hod's (Robin Hood's) gang, the violence and heresy that he participated in, and his attempts to expose these aspects of the myth - the twist being that his involvement (as a minstrel) was what perpetuated the Robin Hood "jolly-jolly fighting for the Poor" myth in the first place.

I love stories about myth construction and myth-origin and as a result, I was biased towards this book from the start. However, despite it's cleverness it was genuinely interesting. The writer's attention to historical detail was so complete that it didn't come off as belaboured at all - and in terms of writing with a historical bent I think that's deeply admirable. READ IT, DARLINGS. Unless you really hate footnotes.

An exceptionally lazy day

Today has been exceptionally lazy. I have lain in bed entirely, only eaten a jam sandwich and ice cream and a little chocolate. Coffee is good. I'm getting girly on it tonight with my Nat, shall be heading out presently via the Library to return some bits and pieces.

I love getting out movies etc from the Library but am so over how scratched everything is! I'm paying Money goddamn it, and the copy of The Adventure of English was simply impossible to watch, it jumped so much. When I want to get geeky with Melvyn Bragg, I can't help but be frustrated that other exceptionally rude Library patrons have curtailed my enjoyment with their vicious habit of scratching the Media to smithereens.

*shakes fist*

Today I read a book read to me by my Mama, twas the Mesmerist by Barbara Ewing. It wasn't Literature, but it was rather enjoyable nonetheless. It began with an historical novel and finished with a murder mystery. I was in decadent novel heaven... my two fave/trashy genres combined into one. Early Victorian England - and Fallen Women - and Mesmerism - and a happy ending.

Also, Barbara Ewing is originally a New Zealander, which means that she indulged herself in that favourite habit of New Zealand writers writing books based Overseas, while Overseas themselves - slipping in sly references to New Zealand at the oddest moments. Hence Ewing introduces a Maori tohunga in a cameo role... quite like Ngaio Marsh in this. More examples? I might start collecting them, for fun.

1. Barbara Ewing The Mesmerist.
2. Ngaio Marsh Opening Night.
3. More to come.

Saturday night with Derby Girls

A showing of Hell On Wheels at the Film Archives, and then drinks, late dinner and dancing to the Hardy Ha Ha's at Watusi (what used to be Tupelo*).

Movie was good, a documentary about much politicking in the early Texas Roller Derby scene. Made an attempt to collect money for the first bout at the beginning of next year... not a great effort on my part I must confess. But much kudos to Illicit Misfit, Tuff Bikkies and the rest of the Fundraising Committee for making the whole thing work. Hard to believe how hard events are to pull off unless you've seen the underside and the places where the ends of all the threads are tucked in.

Band, Bar.

Watusi: new bar in an old place in Wellington. And food! Proper food! Don't get me wrong, I adore toasted sandwiches with my jugs of beer (a la Mighty Mighty), but NOTHING beats the slices of meat pie at Watusi. Best. Pie. In. Town. Other people ate burgers and some kind of fish salad thing that I think was made from raw marinated fish. Miss Genocide had a prawn cocktail. She liked. Fruity cocktail things were also highly recommended - Grass Skirt Mule with pear and chili was the biggest hit with the RCRD. Deco included animal print covered booth. I was sold.

How much fun are the Hardy Ha Ha's? Very, very good fun. I danced with Born Lippy in front of the band until my brain almost jiggled out of my ears... I may have to stalk them next time they're in Wellington. Why can't I be in a Rockabilly band? I'd be 60-70% cooler and I could play the tambourine and wear more animal print. God I love animal print.

And then I scabbed a ride to Mt Victoria where I broke into the Boy's flat and climbed into his bed. He is no longer surprised to find me there when he gets home on Saturday night. I think I should stop doing this as I it's basically quite a creepy thing for me to do, despite how much I want to sleep in his bed. So no more of that behaviour young miss *tuts disapprovingly at self*.

 

* → Tupelo: such fond memories. I had this friend who worked at Brava when I had just left high school, and how excited was I to hang out with the hip hip Brava crowd? I went with her to her staff Christmas function at Tupelo and drank too many cocktails in an effort to look sophisticated and ended up crawling under the table and across the floor to reach the toilet so I could throw my guts up. The Accountant held my hair back←

Online Gallery Review - Ridin' Dirty Face

Mike Brodie is a Philadelphia-based photographer who exhibits his work both in real time and online. The latter is where I have seen his work, initially discovered in a particularly dull winter evening through my own love of Polaroid photography and interest in the peculiarities of the medium. Brodie’s early work is in Polaroid, the film initially shoplifted, an act that enhances the fleeting nature of instant photography and its “throw away” associations. Polaroid photography inevitably lends itself to hastily taken and bleached photographs, yet Brodie’s Polaroids are carefully framed and composed. His photographs have a luminous clarity to them, colours rendered jewel-like. His conventional colour photographs have a similar quality, however appear less impressive in comparison to similar effects achieved with Polaroid and given the space for developing technique that conventional photography allows. Overall, the photographs are the work of someone with a natural eye for photography, still developing his abilities but with the potential to produce even more exciting work in the future. It is Brodie’s subject matter and his portrayal of that subject matter that it most interesting for me, given my academic history in Post-Colonialism in Art History. His subject is sometimes landscape, but for the most part portraiture. The people portrayed are generally those living on the margins of society – street kids, pigeon-men and women, and other people that Brodie encounters on train journeys throughout the States. Knowledge of Brodie’s journeys and the fact that the majority of his photographs are taken on these journeys are key to understanding his photography, as they provide context and subtext to each photograph. In an interview with Fecal Face, Brodie claims that he has a relationship with each of his subjects – to paraphrase, that he finds it difficult or is uneasy in photographing people that he does not know. This belies an uneasiness with the possibilities for power imbalance that portraiture photography of this type lends itself towards, where the photographer is working from a position of power and representing people who are voiceless in a wider society. Despite awareness of these issues, Brodie falls into the trap to a degree. The juxtaposition of the subject matter and the polished nature of the photographs make each subject seem as though in costume, or as though they were part of a photo spread for a fashion magazine. Furthermore, I would suggest that each photograph can be read like an anthropological study, with the subject situated in his or her environment in order to emphasise the “Otherness” of the subject, their removal from the conventional world of suburban houses and shopping malls. This power imbalance and subjectification of the individuals portrayed is emphasised by the angle from which the photograph is taken, with the photographer often standing above his subject and angling the camera down. This is not to say that Brodie is exploiting his subjects - I do not doubt that he has an empathetic relationship with these people. However, there is a sense in his photography that he is cataloguing quirkiness – whether for his own records of a time, place, a set of experiences, or for a wider consuming public it is unclear. Whatever the motivations for these photographs they remain tied to the individual who created them for their contextualization. This positions the photographs in a dangerous space – a place where when the images become separated from the text, experienced without the contextualization of the artist’s personal history, and join a wider community of images that they will be misinterpreted, and this because of the histories of the photographic devices used in the work. I would draw a parallel between Brodie’s work and the work of Fiona Clark, portraying gay subculture in Auckland, New Zealand in the mid-1970s. Despite the empathy of the photographer and her involvement in the lives of her subjects, the photographs fulfilled a voyeuristic urge for the public with their portrayal of something with which the majority of New Zealanders had little or no contact. Widespread condemnation by the press in labeled the works as perverse because of the “Otherness” of those portrayed, despite Clark usually capturing her subjects in fairly prosaic suburban settings – familiar to an increasingly suburban culture. The comments of the New Zealand press of 1975 are mirrored in the press around Brodie’s work – he quotes his mother, who describes the photos as picturing “a lot of screwed up and angry people living a dark and depraved lifestyle”.* Clark’s images now act as documentary images to a degree and are nostalgic given their association with pre-AIDS gay culture. I would suggest that Brodie’s work is in a similar context, given his access to a subculture with which the majority of the public has very little involvement, the works acting to a somewhat voyeuristic capacity now and with the potential to act as fragments of nostalgia in the future for those involved in that particular subculture. There is a sense in Brodie’s work that he is experiencing and documenting a unique and important moment in time, experiencing both an historic American rite of passage through his train journeys, but with a unique contextual setting given present day American politics, the general apathy that characterizes the American public at this time and the subcultures that have grown as a response to contemporary American life. His photographs reflect their time and place implicitly with their emphasis on details, situations and environments. Each photograph works as a clear and jewel-like record of the photographer’s experience and situation. However, for the wider public, these images fill a different need, and there is a danger in the way that the image is perceived when separated from the accompanying text. I cannot say any less than that aesthetically, I love these photographs and find the subject matter and the stories around each photograph fascinating. However, this fascination belies the uneasiness I feel when reflecting upon the position of power that the photographer finds himself in when portraying subject matter of this kind. Select Bibliography http://fecalface.com http://fionaclark.com http://plrds.com http://ridindirtyface.com Thanks to Bex Galloway who pointed me in the direction of the Govett Brewster Art Gallery for information on Fiona Clark. * The fact that Brodie chooses to frame his work in this kind of rhetoric is fascinating in itself and deserves a whole different essay – something about the way that artists frame their work on the internet when it serves as their primary place of exhibition.

Reading my Flatmate's Books Pt. I: The Slave by Isaac Bashevis Singer

I read the 1986 Penguin reprint.

Isaac Bashevis Singer writes his novels in Yiddish, and later supervises their translation into English – “Yiddish contains vitamins that other languages don’t have” (blurby bit at the beginning).

This novel left me with the desire to read it again in Yiddish, I imagine that it’s a language that possesses the ability to be brief and simple about a thing and yet poetic at the same time. I also wish I could read in French, German, Maori, Samoan… the list goes on, really.

Reading books in translation is like tasting through pictures, like seeing an image of a piece of bread that you know is long consumed or rotted away. You can see the shadow of the thing, the experience is mediated, different and distant from the original.

The story itself is a pretty straightforward forbidden love narrative – boy meets girl under unlikely circumstances, their forbidden love blooms, the community discovers that boy and girl are living a lie and eventually pull them apart. The book reads like a morality tale, the righteous receiving their reward in heaven if not on earth and the evil summarily punished.

Singer writes in many ways an invective against communities and individuals who strictly follow the laws of Jewish custom but lack compassion for their fellow human being.

It was the historical subject matter that was the most fascinating for me, the treatment of Jewish citizens of Poland during the seventeenth century and the political and social situation in which all people in Poland lived. The main character is separated from his community, his wife and children by a Cossack massacre and is sold into slavery, working for five years in the mountains of Poland for a farmer before being ransomed by the elders of his community.

Singer writes of all sorts of terrible and bizarre things happening to people after the Cossack massacre, and I wondered how much slavery was a predictable fate for prisoners.

Also, Jacob’s travels across Poland and then later to Jerusalem highlighted for me what a huge and bewildering world it must have been at the time. So, I’m thinking that I liked this book, I didn’t love it, but I’m more than likely to keep reading my flatmate’s collection of Singer’s works.

New Zealand Content Review Pt.I: Dostoevsky's "the Idiot"

I read the 1981 Bantam Classic Edition.

The Idiot displays a lamentable lack of New Zealand context, instead using the character device of an idiot to examine social conditions, morality and the construction of society in Russia during the mid-1800s. 

This idiot, Prince Myshkin, is religious and an innocent who only desires love and acceptance but is luridly enmeshed in scandal and murder. 

His idiosyncrasies are interpreted as idiocies by his social peers, Dostoevsky using this as the device to show the ridiculousness and artificiality of the rules of the highly formalized society of the time. 

It is fair to say that a New Zealand perspective would have changed the focus of the novel for the better, given its claustrophobic and exclusive focus on the drawing rooms of Russian society. A little fresh air, a few rolling pastures, the lush and verdant rain forests of the Far North and West coast, all these could have served to “open up” this dense epic.

Early references to Myshkin’s experiences as a patient in Switzerland and the countryside there brought to mind the farming areas of New Zealand, if only through their references to cows, trees, hedges, waterfalls, mountains and the like. However, there was a glaring lack of comparison in the places where it could have (and indeed, should have) been drawn. 

It could be suggested that Dostoevsky produced his work before New Zealand was the super-power it is today. However, reading the text with this attitude is to take for granted the gift of hindsight. Now we can see just how much Myshkin’s constitution could have been improved by a jaunt along the Pink and White Terraces and bathing in the Mineral Baths at Rotorua. 

Moreover, by this time at least one Russian traveller had made his way to New Zealand (pictured), and so it is inexcusable that more Russian authors were not made aware of the existence of the country. 

Finally, Dostoevsky’s own religious fervor makes it hard to believe that he was not aware, at least anachronistically, of New Zealand’s reputation as “God’s Own Country”.