The St George Stove, aka Mrs Patmore

I love this house. It's like living inside a fairy tale of my own creation; it is at once familiar and yet full of surprises.

The house was disused for several years, but was brought back to life during the time when Bronwyn Bishop was Minister for Defence Industry, Science and Personnel (1996 - 1998). Apparently, she loves old homes and arranged to have it re-opened and re-used.

Mrs Patmore, Head Cook of Downton Abbey

At the heart of the kitchen is a St George Stove. My guess (from the styling of the dials) is that this dates back to the 1970's, although St George stoves first began production in 1947. St George Appliances are still in business; they are an Australian company, based in Sydney. When the kitchen was renovated (presumably in the late 1990's) the kitchen maker is alleged to have declared the stove a treasure, and refused to remove it.

The stove suits the style of the kitchen and the house perfectly, and I'm very glad it's here. There is a marvelous extraction fan with bright LED lights that utilise the former chimney, which make it bright and pong-free to cook on.

However, it's not altogether easy to use. There is no fan in either of the ovens and each is heated by a naked element at the top and bottom. This has meant that (thus far) food quickly steams or burns, or both. The rings on the stove top are well placed, but after using gas for many years I'm finding it tricky to adjust to cooking with electricity.

I've called the stove Mrs Patmore, after the inimitable head cook from Downton Abbey.

[It seems, from my reading and internet perusing, that it's not cool to like Downton Abbey any more (if it ever was) but I confess to being a DA tragic, owning all the series on DVD and having watched each one more than once.]

Mrs Patmore's character is hard on the outside and yielding on the inside. I'm hoping that my relationship with the St George stove will mellow into a similar metaphor. After several attempts (read: at least 10) I have learnt to time cup cakes perfectly so that they no longer have blackened bottoms.

'Mrs Patmore' is just one of the many surprises within the house that dictate a certain style of living. We were having a friend over for morning tea yesterday and before hand popped out to the local Lions' market. This monthly event at the Clarendon Showground  is a veritable treasure trove for keen thrifters. Aside from cakes, plants, food and craft, there are always a number of 'junk' stalls, all of which glean delights.

Yesterday I found this tray, which looked perfect for the house. It is a solid oak piece, dedicated to a Mrs Alchin from her Bowning friends.

Hal was sent offered to negotiate a best price (with the enticement of financial reward if he could barter lower than the original asking price) and succeeded in getting it $8 cheaper.

I'm thrilled with it. The timber responded perfectly to O'Cedar Oil and it was the ideal accompaniment to morning tea.

Life, as previously observed, so often seems to go in circles; after I'd bought the tray and we were having a good look at the dedication plaque, the Gent noticed the Bowning reference. He said that Bowning is near Yass in NSW, and is the place where his mother's maternal family come from.

Very apt.

The beautiful tea cloth and napkins are a recent gift from my Mother in Law, but that's another story.

Curves

Cedar Lake, Minneapolis

Almost ten years ago, we bought a tiny little house in a charming suburb in Canberra. We expected to live there for a long time, but we ended up hardly living in Canberra at all. Instead, we lived in Adelaide for quite a while. And now we're near Sydney.

Cedar Lake, Minneapolis

We bought the tiny house expecting to knock it down and build a new one, but the vagaries of the Gent's postings meant there never seemed to be a good time to start such an expensive project.

Also, it means I have to decide on a style. I have to make definitive choices about what I want a home to look like. Another factor is that the Gent and I have rather different ideas about house styles.

Genesta Cres, Dalkeith

I've been compiling some photos of houses that I love. I think they're all from the Streamline Moderne movement of the 1930's. I love the curves against the horizontal window lines.

Searoads, Penarth

Trouble is, this style doesn't translate so well to the single storey, which is where our budget lies. And the Gent is not a fan of flat roofs.

Nob Hill

I think I'm partly to blame for the delay. I keep putting it off. Torn between a reluctance to dispense with a peripatetic lifestyle, as well as too much affection for our original 1950's cottage.

1950's Canberra 'govie'

The Infamous Deck

Chocolate, I'm missing you

Photo source

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. It was New Year's Eve, and the perfect date to think of resolutions for 2014.

On New Year's Eve 2013, The Absolute Gentleman and the oldest Blighter decided to give up what they like to call 'soft lollies' - what I liked to call revolting sugary things that come in the shape of snakes and frogs.

Photo source

Giving up soft lollies would have been no hardship to me; in my humble opinion, they don't belong to any of the food groups. However, for the Gent and Imogen, it was a torturous year of deprivation.

They held out for the full twelve months, and on NY Eve 2014, indulged in an orgy of multicoloured squishies.

Imogen and the Gent are renowned for their impassive, stoic abstinence and determination. I like to think that Hal and I are more flexible, easy going creatures, but this year I was determined not to be outdone.

In a rash, foolish moment, I vowed to give up chocolate for 12 months.

This is a big deal. One of my cherished sayings is, 'A day without chocolate is a day without joy'. Another is: 'Life without chocolate is not worth living'.

The Blighters have suffered a lifetime of 'tax'. Should they order a delicious dessert at a restaurant, or snack on a heavenly bar of chocolate in the safety of their own home, they are always obliged to pay tax to their Mother. They're not always eager to comply, so I've developed a singular phrase to ensure acquiescence: 'Give me that chocolate before I simply take it from you'.

Not surprisingly, after two months of abstinence I'm finding it a bit of a trial. The first month was (relatively) easy, but now I'm craving it like I would sunshine or coffee, if they had also gone AWOL.

I was unpacking some boxes this morning (haven't quite finished moving in yet) and found this very old Cadbury's chocolate box, which is part of the Henry Collection. Henry was a friend of my father in law, George. Henry was a hoarder who gave George a tremendous stash of  old tins and boxes not long before Henry died. George gave some of the stash to us a while ago. I particularly like the Milo tin - it's an austerity design from the IIWW.

Finding the box and tins was apt today, as the Gent is away this weekend, helping his parents move house. Much of Henry's stash has been sold along with the house. It is sitting, waiting, in George's old shed, ready for the new owners to discover it.

The move was not forced upon my in-laws, but it comes at a very late stage in their lives, and isn't easy for them. They will be living in a different and much larger town. For George, this is discombobulating. He's lived in the same, very small country town his entire life.

I sent some chocolate with the Gent when he went back to his parents' house to help them pack. I hope George had some. He, too, is a chocoholic. Unfortunately, my mother in law, Shirley is diabetic and never eats chocolate at all. I guess that puts my year of abstinence into perspective.

I couldn't manage without my radio

I grew up with BBC Radio 4; it was invariably on in the background at home. Mum is a radio addict and I have inherited the predilection.

When I was about 14, the age my daughter is now, we went on a fantastic holiday to a villa in Andalucia, Spain. I found a small transister radio there, and discovered the BBC World Service.

I also discovered The Archers, 'essential drama from the heart of the country'.

I have listened to it ever since, no matter where I have lived. It's the one thing about being English that I wouldn't like to be without.

When I lived in NZ, teaching at a boys' boarding school, a friend would tape if for me from his farm in Northumberland and send out the audio cassettes to my upstairs flat in a little town on the North Island.

Now, thank goodness, I can listen to it on my iPhone. Each morning, I download the podcast at 6.30am and enjoy it with the first cup of coffee for the day.

Circles

I've got a thing about circles. I like their perfection, their lack of angular sharpness, their round softness, their completeness.

I like the way circles meet themselves on their way home; coming back to the beginning, as it were.

Life moves in circles, for most of us. We can see the patterns emerging as we dance new moves. We think we're changing tempo, but, invariably, the shapes we make are the same.

After nine moves in and out of Australia, we have come 'home' to a house built in 1937. Looking back over the old blog posts, I know that this period is a time I love to circle back to.

Everything we own looks right here. Our life fits well into these surroundings.

I've just seen my Mum onto the plane back home to Northumberland. There were many circles to our life there, when growing up. Those threads that shaped my early story.

The gift of this house, this current life, is transient. All the more precious for not being ours to keep.

Lorn Road Summerhouse, London

Jellicoe House

Jellicoe House is a delicious mixture of simplicity and sophistication.

The Barossa B&B belongs to Sorby Adams Wines, and is run by the fabulous Simon and Helen Adams.

 We went there to celebrate my 40th birthday with some very special friends. Jellicoe House is nestled against the gentle slope of an Eden Valley vineyard.

What it is to greet some rare winter sunshine in the early morning, knowing that the voices in the next room are stretching into a luxurious breakfast, cooked with special ingredients stored in the 19th century pantry.

Welcome 2009!

Can you see the four children on the left, and the balloon caught in the tree, to the right?

We walked to the Oval today with our neighbour's children, carrying a basket of Hal's home made paper aeroplanes. He was hoping to fly them into the duck pond and see how they fared as flying-planes-that-are-also-boats.

The children all delighted in seeing the balloon in the tree; a remnant from someone's revelries last night. Fragile, fun, trapped and irretrievable (despite much tree shaking).

On the Eve, I stayed up beyond the witching hour, and was surprised (in our very quiet street) by all the fireworks, cheering...and running.

Yep.

Naturally, if I hadn't been looking after the blighters I'd have been out there myself. Gangs of people seemed to run to and fro, calling out good naturedly to one another. A bizarre South Australian phenomenon? As my chum Jodie pointed out, if only there'd been a good exercise bike at the party she was at, she'd have been spinning the wheels at midnight!

I shan't let you see the New Year's Eve created pin boards until they are installed in their new homes. (I am concerned that they are too fussy, but it will take hours of careful styling to be sure.)

In our new home. Our seventh in twelve years. It is just round the corner, so not a huge upheaval, but oh, so much better than our current one. Instead of falling over furniture (quite literally, quite a lot) I am wondering whether it will all look rather insubstantial in the new place.

As I do very frequently, I have been musing on the nature of my domestic life, which is transient but rich, imperfect but full of lessons...no answers, just thoughts.

We made it to the Oval today. There were too many ducks to attempt the flying plane come boat (didn't want to pose a duck threat) so the boys indulged in normal paper aeroplane flying. The girls wandered about and sang (apart from me. That would have been hazardous to the ducks.)

This afternoon we had a MAJOR clean out of the blighter's bedrooms (financial reward for the most things put in the bin or given to the Sally Army) and I scourged my wardrobe. I decided I would rather have hardly anything in there than lots of grim, old things to depress me. Some of those babies had lived in each of the 7 houses! Time to go!

Well, it's possible I'm rambling. I'm sure a rambling blog is an oxymoron, so it's time to go.