The Makers: Workshop

My sister is a crafty devil.

I had no idea of the extent of her work until I saw the mountain of collaged boards - literally, piled over a meter high, that's a mountain, right? - in a basket in her studio. The woman is prolific! not to mention talented, and modest.

I think she's adopted.

The Makers

My family is creative. We sew and we cook, we garden and we preserve, we paint and we quilt. We make things.

We're also all over the country, with the main core of talent residing in and around The Farm in Taranaki, New Zealand. And they have all the fun there - curry competitions, fossicking adventures, painting furniture - and it sometimes feels like the rest of us are on the fringes: too far North or too far West, miss all that comradery and support.

So we started a closed Facebook page and called ourselves The Makers.

On our page we show our work, we ask questions, and generally support each other. This page is relatively new, but by crikey, it's a wonderful connection to each other.

A Retreat

Online is great, and supportive, and works for us for the every day - but we have so much more fun when we're together, so naturally, the idea of having weekend retreats at The Farm has come up. A weekend where we in Auckland can drive down to Taranaki, and my cousin might be visiting from her homebase in Victoria, Australia. We coud all get together for a couple of days where we make stuff.

One might say a quilting bee, or a sewing circle, but with more wine, and lots more food.

At the retreat, those who love to bake, bake. Those who love to draw, draw. Those who love to garden, well, you get the picture. We might also have workshops where one of us could share expertise with each other - maybe we cold all learn to make felted cushions, or stitch a small quilt, or decorate a piece of funiture. We could also swap our skills - I'll paint you a dozen labels if you give me a jar of blackberry jam.

The Workshop

The other weekend when I was at The Farm, we had an impromtu workshop. A prototype, if you will - though that was more an afterthought. We mostly just got really excited about getting ourselves covered in glue and ink.

My aforementioned sister creates collages, and my Aunty Pat wanted to give it a go. I already had some drawing assignments promised, so I sat at the end of the kitchen table with my 2B pencil and sketchbook in hand, while Jo loosed her collage collection on and an almost overwelmed Pat - just.so.many.possibilities.

They got started, ripping paper, gluing layers, modeling paste. Stamping, drying, dying, smudging, smearing until I couldn't take it anymore and had to join in.

The really great thing about the day was that the work could be left for important things like looking after Granddad, and cooking lunch, and talking to Marlee and such. The kitchen table was a workhorse for our endeavours. Jo had lots of ideas and suggestions with the battle cry of "More On!" when both my Aunt and myself thought we were finished. (such Noobs!).

We had a super great time.

Links to people to learn from and experience art 'n' crafty things:

Kelly Rae Roberts

Donna Downy

Arty Em

Keri Smith

 

Feijoa Jelly

Making jams, jellies, chutneys, and preserving in general, is so satisfying.

To make feijoa jelly really couldn't be any more straightforward. Get a great pile of washed feijoas and cover with water in a large pot. After boiling for a couple of hours the fruit will be extremely soft. Strain the contents of the pot twice - first through a kitchen seive, then again through muslin. Don't squeeze or press the fruit while seiving/straining.

With this strained liquid back in a clean pot, add one cup of sugar for every cup of liquid. Add the juice of one lemon. Stirring, bring the liquid to a simmer. Continue to stir occassionally - skim any scum off the surface of the liquid throughout the cooking time. Test as you would jam, and take from the heat once it is ready.

Pour into sterilised jars and cool. Label and take photos - blog and tweet about your gorgeous feijoa jelly!

 

A little bit of Glasgow in Taranaki

My Grandfather is in the Hospice. I went to see him today. I haven't seen him in about a month as we've been busy birthing babies and looking after wee kiddies. In that meantime, he's had an asthma attack and has spent some time in hospital until a bed at the Hospice became available. He's become much frailer since my last visit. 

He's kind of - fading away. His body hasn't been working right for some time. It can't hold his weight; it's not giving him cues such as appetite or hunger; his eyes are failing; his hearing is going; he has trouble staying asleep. Trouble is, his mind is as perfect as it ever was. 

He is a complete expert in how sickness is affecting his body. He knows what he wants; knows what he needs; has opinions and requests and articulates them all. Sometimes he only hears what he wants to hear, but we all do that sometimes. He knows how important it is to eat so he tries to keep doing that too. He is still up for a visit and a good chat - so that's not changed.

Today two nurses came in to help him from his chair back into bed. The dark haired nurse asked him if he still wanted to get back into his bed and her lovely Glaswegian accent reminded him of a song. He sung quietly - he doesn't have the lung capacity for any volume - the nurse joined in, and together they sung Old Glasgow Town.

He's still quite the party animal. He's coming home tomorrow.

After he was tucked under the quilt on his bed, we noticed the CD player and asked Granddad if he wanted to listen to some music. He likes to watch TV but the remote is different from his one at home and it confuses him. There was only on CD in the room - Kenny Rogers Greatest Hits. My Aunt went out to the nurses station to see if she could score a different one.

I mentioned to Granddad while we were waiting that I had never considered him a "Kenny Rogers" sort. He said he wasn't, but that he'd met him once.

Now, I had to remind myself that this man is as sharp as he's ever been, so he wasn't making stuff up - well sometimes he does so I questioned him further, just to make sure. He told me the story of having a party at the house they lived in Rotorua. A (then) local talent (later a national treasure) Howard Morrison came along to the party and brought with him this shaggy-haired American called Kenny Rogers. Granddad said he didn't talk to him much but he seemed nice enough.

It's amazing you know, of all the hundreds and hundreds of stories my Grandfather has told me over the years - he can still come up with a new one (and apparently even true ones) at the ripe age of 95.

 

Check out the first section of Rolling Through New Zealand With Kenny Rogers and the First Edition for the fashion and the decor, then check out the second one for the dancing.