Socks, Cherry Blossoms and Cough Drops.

 There hasn’t been a huge amount happening here since I last wrote—just the usual shifts at work, plus an extra thrown in for good measure. I’ve taken the liberty of putting my phone on silent for yesterday and today, just in case work gets any ideas. I think I’ve earned my days off, and I intend to keep them.

I’ve had a sore throat lingering for a few days now. Not enough to make me miserable, but just enough to be noticed—especially at night, when it seems to settle in like an unwelcome guest. I’m not sure if this is the whole show or just the opening act, but for now I’m keeping it at bay with sugar-free cough sweets and quiet defiance.

Aside from work and throat-soothing rituals, it’s been the usual domestics. The other day, while emptying the bins, I spotted a pair of Tony’s rather expensive merino socks tossed in with the rubbish. One toe had worn through—but I only bought them a few weeks ago! No way were they going to landfill. I sat down and repaired the holey toe. It’s not the tidiest job in the world, but it’s certainly cheaper than buying new ones. Besides, there’s something satisfying about saving a sock from an untimely end. Let’s just say the socks weren’t the only thing in need of attention. I may have hinted that a toenail trim could save future wool casualties.

I treated myself to a set of those trio- needles to try out on my next pair of socks. Knitting up those pixie boots recently gave me a taste for sock-making again. I might just have another go—especially since I’ve got that lovely raspberry-coloured yarn waiting patiently in the wings. And yes, there may be more pretty sock yarn on the way. I’m not making promises, but the stash might be expanding.

The mohair sweater is coming along slowly—just a row or two here and there—but I’m happy with how it’s shaping up. It’s a quiet kind of progress, the sort that suits the season.

Speaking of seasons, the cherry trees in our garden continue their dance. The big tree is now mostly green, having shed its blossoms, but the little tree is in full bloom. Anyone standing beneath its branches will hear the gentle hum of bees, busy with their day. It’s a lovely sound—like nature’s own machine, stitching spring into place.

I’ve been playing with my chocolate and coconut slice again. Did I mention the peanut version? I added chopped peanuts and three generous tablespoons of peanut butter to a batch, and Tony absolutely loved it. Then I tried crushed freeze-dried raspberries in the next round—another delicious twist. It’s become a bit of a ritual now, tweaking the recipe and watching the smiles.

So that's me for now. A quiet week, in more ways than one. Now I'm off to put a chilli con carne in the slow cooker, what's for tea in your house tonight?

Voirrey Thistlewinks Boots.

So you know by now that I stumbled upon a knitting pattern for the cutest wee boots—turned-up toes, and a cuff of leaves circling the ankle like a forest whisper. I fell in love instantly and knew I had to make some.

I have no one small enough to wear pixie boots, and I hadn’t knitted in the round with DPNs for years. Even then, I’d only made three tiny baby socks. But I was determined. I was going to knit myself some pixie boots.

I had a vision—a dream, really—of a Faerie who came in from the cold, just wanting to be warm for a while. Then, caught off guard, she ran off barefoot, leaving her boots behind. That whimsical tale grew stitch by stitch as I knitted.

My first effort was ripped out, but I wasn’t deterred. I started again, a little tidier, a little wiser. The first completed boot still wasn’t perfect, but it taught me what I needed to know. The pair to the first was better, easier going. And this morning a surprise snowfall gave me the perfect excuse to stay home, sit down and finish the last of the leaves around the ankle.

The leaves knit up quickly, and before I knew it, I was slipping the second boot onto my DIY sock blocker. And finally this Faerie tale was born.

Voirrey Thistlewinks Boots.

She came in from the frost with a whispering tread,

A faerie in search of warmth amid yarn and thread.

She slipped past the fabric to a crafty retreat,

Where scissors hung sharp and the projects ran deep.

In boots knit from twilight and thistle’s own thread,

Voirrey danced softly where a crafters dreams spread.

An Inneen ny Shee, with a secretive grace,

She vanished, a whisper still warming the space.

Now resting alone with a whimsical toe,

Turned upward like laughter where faeries might go.

Their cuffs are all leafy, a green-stitched bouquet—

Two booties now waiting to dance the spring day.

*

A Note on Manx Folklore

Inneen ny Shee (pronounced in-yen nuh shee) is Manx Gaelic for “Girl of the Fairies.” In Manx tradition, the Shee are fairy folk—secretive, nature-bound, and often glimpsed at twilight. An Inneen ny Shee might be a gentle visitor, a mischief-maker, or a guardian of hidden places.

Voirrey is a Manx version of Mary, often linked to fairies and folklore. Soft, secretive, and Fae approved, it felt like just the right name for the owner of the boots supposedly left behind in my craft room.

I wonder what you make of Voirrey’s boots and my imaginings. Feel free to share—this corner of the internet is always open to a bit of whimsy.

*

Still here after my imaginings? You’ll be wondering what comes next after the completion of that little obsession. Another squirrel, of course.

Do you recall when I found the pattern for the mohair sweater my lovely mum knitted for me back when I was about 16 or 17? I started it the other night. I needed a break from the 2.75 mm needles and the 4-ply yarn—my eyes and fingers were beginning to complain. The mohair and the 6 mm needles were on hand, so I cast on the back of the sweater. There’s a lovely 2x2 rib in progress, soft and rhythmic.

To my surprise, the mohair isn’t nearly as troublesome as I feared. It’s behaving—mostly—and I’m very much enjoying the change of texture. I think I’ve found my next mindless TV project. It’s the kind of knitting that lets the story unfold on screen while the stitches grow quietly in my lap.

*

We’ve reached that time in my roster where I get three whole days off. Unless the phone rings, which seems unlikely this week. With only a few chores, a quick grocery shop, and a visit to the chiropractor on Friday afternoon, the rest of the time is mine.

So what to do with all of that time? 

**

Post Script

There’s always a phone call, isn’t there? Just as I was off editing photos and admiring Voirrey’s leafy cuffs, the phone rang. So, this evening I’m working a short shift—just four hours. Not too bad, really. Enough time to be useful, not enough to unravel the mohair mood. The boots will wait, the blog will post, and the squirrel will find me again tomorrow.

Springing Forward and Digging In, A day of soil and seasonal shifts

 Sunday at last—a day off, and blissfully so. I woke not to the alarm, but to the sound of birds. Even better, I was able to drift back to sleep for a while. When I woke again, the dawn chorus had passed and the birds were already busy about their day. The clocks in New Zealand sprang forward last night, so I’ve no idea what time it was. But I decided it was time to get up.

I started the day with a cup of peppermint and liquorice tea while checking blogs and answering emails. Then it was time to knit. I managed about a dozen rounds on my DPNs and nudged the pixie boot to its next milestone. This version is gliding along far more smoothly than its predecessor—what a relief.

At some point, Tony announced it was time to visit the garden center to shop for chilli peppers. I decided to tag along and sneak a few extras into the trolley. Once home, we had a quick lunch and headed straight into the garden.

First things first: I dug a hole under the cherry tree and planted another hellebore. I do love them—and the way they spread themselves around. The more ground they cover, the less I have to keep tidy. Next came two wildfire chillies, a Carolina Reaper, and a red capsicum, all tucked into the new greenhouse alongside some very sorry-looking marigolds. Hopefully they’ll perk up and help keep the bugs at bay. Tony, meanwhile, was busy planting tomatoes in the big greenhouse.

See that bright blue packet on the shelf? That’s the sulphates packet. THE packet. The one that housed the monster spider. (((Shudder)))

Next, we dug a hole in a sheltered corner and planted a lemon tree. Yes—I got my way, and we now have a new lemon tree. While Tony busied himself with lawn food, I planted sweet peas in the big barrels on the front patio, alongside the pansies and other flowers from last time.

Then came the broccoli, planted beside the cauli flowers. I picked a small cauli that was ready for the kitchen, then planted a few rows of leek sets in the next bed and covered them with netting to stop the blackbirds from digging them up. They do love to rummage through the gardens—especially that bed, which still wears its winter blanket of straw and leaf mulch.

Finally, we gave everything a big drink with some especially smelly food recommended to us. It’s made from leftovers in the factory that produces frozen fish fillets and fish fingers. Need I say more?

I made sure to stand for a while beneath the cherry tree. It’s not so pink now—many of the blossoms have drifted away—but enough remain to draw the bees, who hum through the branches like tiny, winged blessings. Their quiet industry filled the air with a calming pulse, a reminder that the garden still has its own rhythm.

The smaller cherry tree is just beginning to bloom. It’s not as showy as its larger sibling, but it holds its own charm—modest, steady, and still beloved by the bees. They don’t mind the difference. They simply go where the nectar calls

The wind’s rising now, and we’ve retreated indoors after a successful couple of hours in the garden. The soil’s been turned, the lemon tree’s in, and the bees have had their say. It might just be time to pick up the knitting again and let the pixie boot march on. Or maybe, just maybe I'll dig out the mohair and start something new.

How did your Sunday unfold? Did it come with soil, stitches, or something entirely unexpected? I’d love to hear.

Teapot Memories and a Squirrel Detour.

Though I’m back at work, the bootie knitting continues. I’ve surprised myself with how much energy I still have in the evenings—more than I expected, and it’s a welcome thing. The later starts in my new role help too, giving me space to ease into the day.

Most mornings, I manage 15 to 30 minutes of knitting or crochet before hopping into my wee car. It’s a gentle ritual—just enough time to add a few rows, sip something warm, and feel like I’ve done something creative before the day begins. Evenings bring more stitches, and the second boot is progressing nicely. I have to say, it’s looking much tidier than the first one.

I’ve been thinking about how best to tidy up the first boot. Maybe I’ll make a third and chalk number one up to the learning experience? While pondering that, I stumbled across some sock blockers online. Hmm. I’m not buying one of those just for a single pair of boots!

So I had a ponder and decided I’d make one myself.

As luck would have it, when I got home from work on Wednesday, Tony had a delivery. As soon as he’d opened his package, I claimed the cardboard it was wrapped in—good, heavy stuff too. I quickly flattened out the completed boot as best I could and drew around it, even that cheeky turned-up toe.

Next came the cutting, followed by a generous wrapping of waterproof bodge-it tape. I pulled the boot over my DIY sock block—perfect fit. Out came the spray bottle, filled with warm water and a dash of fabric softener, and I gave the boot a good misting. Then I propped it up on the bath taps to dry and walked away.

By Thursday after work, it was dry and smelling beautiful. When I pulled it off my homemade sock block, it held its shape nicely.

Loulee ingenuity at its best.

That first boot still isn’t perfect, but it looks a lot better for having been blocked. I think I’ll hang onto it. These boots aren’t meant to be worn—they’re for decoration only—And to be honest, I rather like the idea of them looking a little lived in.

There’s something comforting about a boot that’s seen a few adventures, even if those adventures were just in the making. A slightly wonky toe, a stitch that wandered—these are the marks of learning, of care, of time well spent. I’ll let it stand proudly beside its hopefully much tidier twin, a reminder that finished is better than perfect.

*

Who remembers one of these? 

A Dolly Bobbin, French Knitting Doll, I-cord Maker—what name do you know it by?

I have three of these now, two of these Dolly style and one that is a wooden cotton reel with tacks.

I came across this one quite by accident while looking for something for Tony last night. It was tucked into a bag of yarn scraps I’d picked up at an op shop. The yellow yarn was already started, so I pulled out a crochet hook and was instantly hooked. As you can see, I added some pink last night. I’m not sure what I’ll make yet, but I’m enjoying the process.

When I was a little girl, I had one of these and made a long cord. My lovely Gran turned it into a teapot cosy. I can still see it if I close my eyes—her little teapot held just enough for one China cup of tea. Not a mug, mind you—a proper cup and saucer. I remember the delicate clink as the cup settled into its saucer, and how proud I felt being trusted to carry it from the dining table to the kitchen. I was so careful, afraid I might drop that precious cup.

The teapot sat on a wicker basket lined with a cork mat, heat-stained from years of use. The pot was silvery in colour, with a black knob on the lid and a matching handle. My Gran stitched my bobbin cord into a snug little cosy and showed me how to make a pompom for the top. Nobody seems to use tea pots these days, though I do still have a couple tucked away.

Now I’m leaning toward making a very, very long cord —perhaps enough for a rug. 

What would you suggest? 

Do you remember what you made with yours as a youngster?

*

I’m working an extra shift tomorrow, and one of the girls I’ll be working with was on duty today. She knows I love to bake and cheekily asked if fresh baking might be on the cards. LOL—how could I resist?

As soon as I got home, I reached out to a friend for her recipe and whipped up a batch of raspberry muffins. They’re light, fruity, and I made mine with coconut milk instead of dairy—just a little twist that worked beautifully. I do hope my new colleagues enjoy them.

Easy Raspberry Muffins

🧺 Ingredients (makes 12 muffins)

• 250g plain flour
• 1 tbsp baking powder
• 100g golden caster sugar
• 75g chilled butter (coarsely grated)
• 1 large egg
• 175ml milk (I used more. 225-250).
• 150g fresh/frozen raspberries

🥣 Method

1. Preheat oven to 200°C (180°C fan). Line a 12-hole muffin tray with paper cases.
2. Sift flour and baking powder into a bowl. Stir in sugar.
3. Grate butter into the bowl and mix with a fork to coat.
4. Beat egg and milk together, then pour into the bowl. Mix lightly—don’t overbeat.
5. Gently fold in raspberries.
6. Spoon batter into muffin cases. Bake for 20–25 minutes until golden.
7. Optional: Sprinkle with sugar while warm or drizzle with melted chocolate for a treat.

*

My back is improving—slowly but surely. These days, the chiropractor doesn’t have to work quite so hard during my visits, and I can feel the difference both at work and when I get home.

Before the injury, even the commute home was uncomfortable. I couldn’t settle into anything that required focus, especially not knitting. But now, with the pain easing, I find I can concentrate again in the evenings. Even focusing on fiddly sock knitting, and it feels like a small victory.

I’ve gone from three chiropractic visits a week down to just one. That shift alone feels like progress—a quiet milestone in the background of my days.

Now if I could just find my way back to the WIPs and the sewing machine instead of chasing yarn squirrels!

I'm sure that one day soon, I’ll thread the needle again. For now, the squirrels are winning.

*

That’s the week: a little baking, a little healing, and a few squirrelly detours. Drop a comment below if you’ve chased a yarn squirrel lately, baked for kindness, or have your own teapot memories to share—I’d love to hear them.

Blanket Weather Fades, But the Yarn Goes On

Suddenly—just like that the last day of my leave is drawing to a close. Bedtime nears and the quiet settles in again.

No gentle, bird-song wake-up for us this morning. Tony returned to work today, so we rose to the bleeping tune of the alarm clock. It was still dark when we shuffled into the kitchen to make breakfast. The dawn hovered low on the horizon, glowing red—the kind of sky that gives shepherds and skippers pause. That redness deepened as we cooked and ate, slowly bleeding into the clouds. By the time Tony left, daylight had arrived, but it was grey and overcast. A stark contrast to the warm, sunny days of the long weekend.

It felt like a day to stay home, but I had to scoot out for a quick grocery top-up. I’ll be working six of the next seven days, so it was now or never.

While putting everything away, I discovered a sorry-looking leek hiding in the bottom of the fridge. It seemed only fair to rescue it, so I turned it into soup for lunch. While it bubbled away on the stove, I tackled the ironing—it was only a very small pile, just three items.

And then, finally, the fun stuff.

*

I kept an eye on the soup as I poked about, looking for something mindless to do. You see, last night I completed the final round of the ripple blanket. That shell edging I’d been working on is now stitched and settled. The last few yarn ends are woven in. Done. Finished.

As you can see, I’ve added a very simple border of alternating chocolate and bright yarns in single crochet—just enough to frame the ripples without stealing the spotlight. Then came the shell edging, which I always enjoy. It’s one of those wonderfully adaptable finishes: light and lacy when you want a whisper of detail, or bold and scalloped when the blanket calls for a flourish. This time, I kept it somewhere in between—enough to soften the edges and add a bit of rhythm without overwhelming the ripple beneath.

And here it is—the completed blanket.

I love the random colours in varying shades, stitched from bits and pieces, leftovers, and generous acquisitions from friends, op shops, and Facebook giveaways. Even the chocolate brown rows are made up of different tones, but somehow they all come together to create something beautiful. It feels friendly and inviting—like a well-worn story. I’ll miss it in my lap during the evenings, though with the weather warming, it’s not quite as necessary as it has been.

Some of those rows have names, of course. You might remember the mint ripple that inspired a baking session, or the orange ripple that led to the latest chocolate and coconut tweak. And now, a few more join the fold:

•  Lemon Lullaby – soft and zesty, stitched during a sleepy afternoon

•  Op Shop Orchid – a surprise skein with no label, just charm

•  Giveaway Grape – a cheerful purple from a stranger’s stash, now part of mine

•  Foggy Fuchsia – a muted pink that snuck in during a grey morning

Each ripple holds a moment, a mood, a memory. And now that it’s finished, it feels like a chapter closed—with warmth stitched into every row and ready to be gifted, or donated, whichever need comes first. 

*

My hunt for something mindless took far longer than it should have—and yielded absolutely nothing. That’s not to say there weren’t options. I found plenty I’d like to do, and more than enough WIPs I could be doing, but nothing called to me. So I decided to think it over while finishing my soup and eating it slowly, hoping inspiration might arrive with the last spoonful.

Still nothing.

After cleaning up, I pulled out the Pixie boot. Just a few leaves left to knit, and they didn’t take long. Nor did the tidy-up—those stray yarn ends poking out here and there were quickly wrangled. And look, here it is: one imperfect Pixie boot. It could do with sitting on a sock block for a while, but I don’t have one of those. I might try stuffing it with toy filling to see if that helps it hold its shape.

Inspired by the finish, I cast on the next one—and made great progress. Everything flowed more easily this time. The pattern suggests dividing the stitches over three needles and working with a fourth, but one of the lovely Zoom ladies recommended using four needles and working with a fifth. So I gave it a go.

What a difference.

It made the whole process smoother, more balanced. I’m much happier with the progress this time—it’s so much neater than the first one. The stitches are behaving, and so far it feels more like a story I’m proud to tell.

Evenings after work are a mixed bag. When I’m bright and alert, I’ll keep going with the second Pixie boot—it’s coming along so much neater than the first, and I’m enjoying the rhythm now that the needles behave. But I still need something mindless for those tired evenings when I can’t quite focus, yet my hands itch for something to do.

Today’s wanderings took me to the Attic 24 blog, where I stumbled across Lucy’s cupcake blanket. I've made a version of it before.  It’s cheerful and forgiving, and I think the pattern would suit the jumble of yarns in my scrap basket beautifully. I’m tempted to cast one on—though, as I mentioned before, it really is getting beyond blanket weather. Still, there’s something comforting about starting a new blanket just as the old one is folded away. 

We’ll see. For now, I’ll keep the idea tucked in my mind and the scrap basket here beside my armchair, ready to be picked up when the evening calls for softness and simplicity.

*

Tomorrow my rhythm shifts again—back to work and busy corridors. But tonight, I’ll savour the quiet, the stitches. If you’ve got a go-to project for tired evenings, or a favourite way to ease back into routine, I’d love to hear about it. Let’s swap stories, one ripple at a time.

A Tale of Two Green Houses.

Sunday.

 After all the forecasts and wind warnings, Saturday night was… quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The Nor’Wester that was supposed to barrel through the entire county seems to have taken a detour around Timaru, leaving behind still skies, neither stormy nor sunny, just waiting.
All around us, there’s damage—power outages, uprooted trees, and property owners were spending their morning clearing up. But here in Timaru, nothing happened. I did prick up my ears around 9:30 pm, thinking "that was a good gust", but it barely reached 22 km/h. That was the peak for us. The cherry tree still holds its flowers, unbothered and blooming, and nothing seems to have shifted.
Sunday dawned with a gentle breeze—just enough to lift the washing. A good drying day, so the machine was on early. It’s strange, really, to be nestled in stillness while the world around us reels.  A little unsettled. But quietly thankful for the calm.
As the forecast suggested we’d get little more than the gentlest of breezes all day, Tony and I decided it was finally time to risk building the new greenhouse. After clearing away breakfast, popping a big piece of beef into the slow cooker, and pegging out the washing, we donned our boots and headed out.
At first, I mostly stood around while Tony measured the plot, sorted the parts, measured again, and then had another sort of the parts. Eventually, he disappeared into his shed to dig for something. Bored, I wandered off to stand beneath the cherry tree. The bees were busy again. I do love to stand beneath the tree and listen to them going about their day. While I stood there happily listening, I noticed a few weeds, so I pulled on my gloves and got stuck in.
I weeded, I trimmed a few shrubs, I filled the green bin (the one reserved for compostable garden waste), and I planted some flower seedlings I’d been meaning to get in. 

The flower seedlings went into my big barrels. 

I'll add sweet peas to climb the pyramids soon. 

Then I found another shrub to trim so I busied myself with that.  By the time I was done with that Tony had decided he needed a trip to the hardware store for different screws.

We hopped into the car. At the store we wandered around, picking up his screws, some potting mix, and a compost/mulch blend. Tony found someone to talk to, so I wandered off again—this time into the seedling section—and came out with a big punnet of pansies. Tony decided we ought to leave before I added anything else. LOL. I was hoping for a look at the lemon trees. 
It was lunchtime, so we stopped at a favourite spot for a bite to eat, then headed home and back to work. Tony still didn’t need my help, so I planted the pansies, some in the barrels and some under the cherry tree. Next I took my fork over to the neighbour’s place. He’d invited me to help myself to anything I liked, as he’s putting the property on the market and preparing to move.
I dug up a pair of Chatham Island forget-me-nots and planted them in a good spot back at our place. I was about to go back for some more plants when Tony summoned me—he finally had the timber base in place and was ready to begin building the kitset.

Chatham Island Forget me Nots.

(Image stolen from some website, as they are not flowering yet).

We spent the rest of the day putting two-thirds of the greenhouse together. Only the roof and door remained to be added. By six o’clock, the sun had dipped behind the neighbour’s house, and the temperature was dropping, so we called it a day.

It felt good to stop while the light was soft and the air was cooling. Tools down, boots off, and a sense of something nearly finished. The greenhouse, even in its incomplete state, already looks like it belongs. Nestled beside the smaller cherry tree, it’s starting to feel like a promise: of capsicums, chillies, and countless jars of preserves.

Inside, the beef had done its slow-cooked magic, and the house smelled like comfort. I was tired and sore, my back aching again after a full day of bending, digging, and greenhouse wrangling. I took a hot shower before we had tea, letting the steam soften the stiffness, and then we both soaked our weary feet in bowls of burning hot water. Bliss.
As you can guess, I was pretty tired and in no state to tackle sock knitting, so I opted to add a little to the final round of the ripple blanket instead. Once our feet were soaked and dried, I pulled on my slippers, drew the basket close, and picked up my hook.
I didn’t do much—just hooked away for about half an hour before giving up. The stitches weren’t ambitious, but they were enough. A few quiet shells to end a full day. I slept well, very well indeed.

Monday

Monday dawned dry and bright. The breeze had dropped overnight, and everything was still. Breakfast was cooked with sunlight pouring through the window—and eaten with the sun in my eyes.
Once again, I was out at the washing line before 8 a.m. For just the two of us, there always seems to be a surprising amount of laundry. LOL. We did use a few towels last night, and a bunch of grubby garden clothes went into the wash with them, so I suppose it adds up.
While I waited for Tony, I kept myself busy in the kitchen. One of yesterday’s jobs had been to tidy up the rhubarb—I’d cut away its flowers and pulled a few stems to stew for Tony. It’s been growing slowly all winter, and I’d left it alone until now. But with it flowering, I figured it was time to start using it.
As luck would have it, I had an orange sitting in the fridge. It was meant for another recipe—just the zest, really—but I could use the juice with the rhubarb. Two recipes, one fruit, as it were.
First, I prepared the usual ingredients for the chocolate and coconut slice, then stirred in some slivered almonds and the orange zest. My latest experimental brainwave. That went into the fridge to set. We still have some of the minty version of the chocolate slice sat in the pantry, but I needed to cut the orange, so in the interest of using the entire fruit I had to make an orange version today. Next, I got on with chopping the rhubarb and juicing the orange. 

Just as I thought the rhubarb might be stewed about right, Tony finished playing his online wargame with my brother, so I called him through for a taste test. He suggested a little more sweetener, I obliged, and he tried again. Perfect.

As I stirred and mixed alone in the kitchen my mind got busy and out came this rhyme, inspired by Shakespear's witches. 

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.

Cauldron boil, boil and bubble.

Orange juice, and rhubarb and zing,

Stewed with spells and sweetening.

*

Tart and tangy, stirred with care,

Steam and citrus scent the air.

One lone fruit, two dishes born,

A slice for dusk, a spoon for morn.

*

Dark delight with coconut thread,

Orange zest through chocolate spread.

Almonds whisper, texture deep,

A fridge-bound spell that’s rich and steep.

*

Cut in squares, a quiet cheer,

Fudgy warmth and citrus near.

One lone fruit, two dishes spun—

Kitchen magic, neatly done.

LOL Tony often accuses me of witchcraft in the kitchen. LOL

By now, he was waiting for me! So, I quickly tipped the rhubarb into a bowl to chill and filled the sticky pan with hot water. Tony washed up for me while I went in search of comfortable footwear. I wasn’t wearing my welly boots all day again—they’re fine for an hour or two, but not all day.
Comfy shoes on, dishes washed, dried, and put away, we headed outside to complete our new greenhouse.
Three hours later, the washing was dry, and the greenhouse was almost complete. The automatic window opener needed a stint in the deep freeze—thirty minutes of chill before a bit of wizardry could be performed to ensure it opens on hot days while we’re at work. So, we came indoors to pop it into the freezer and while we were here decided to have some lunch and a cuppa.

While we were in the kitchen, I pulled the orange chocolate slice from the fridge and cut it into squares. We had a taste. YUMMY! Still that dark, rich, fudgy texture—now with a warming hint of orange. That tweak is definitely a keeper.
Once we got back outside it didn’t take long to attach the automatic window opener, and then we turned our attention to the big greenhouse.  We dug coffee grounds and eggshells into the earth for nutrients. Then we started to tidy up. 
I started to clear the shelf. A packet of sulphates had stayed in there all winter and was a little firm, so I gave it a squish to soften it—and out fell a HUGE white-tailed spider! I squealed and said that word. You know, the one that rhymes with duck.
Tony, my hero, squashed the spider and thought everything was fine. But it wasn’t. I was freaking out, the hairs on the back of my neck were stood up, my heart was pounding, I was shaking and starting to hyperventilate. I wanted out of there, and he was in the way.
“Move please.

 Get outta my way. 

MOVE! 

LEMME OUTTA HERE!"
Eventually, he got the message and stepped aside.
I’d dropped the packet on the floor, and Tony spotted a nest in it too—so that was taken care of while I retreated under the cherry tree, listening to the bees and hoping they’d calm me. They sort of did.
I don’t do spiders. I really don’t.
When I looked back inside the greenhouse, Tony was clearing away webs. He commented that there didn’t seem to be anybody home in any of them. Hmm. Maybe because the bloody whitetail had eaten them!
Did I mention I don’t do spiders?

I moved away from the green house and got busy with the leaf vac. That kept me busy and kept my mind off spiders until it was time to move indoors for afternoon tea.

There’s still more to do outside. The greenhouses need planting out—tomatoes in the large one, and a variety of peppers in the smaller. I’ve got leeks waiting to go into the garden bed, and those dwarf beans I planted the other day will join them once they germinate and gain a bit of size.

I’m also hoping to plant a lemon tree down in the corner, beyond the new greenhouse. It’s sheltered there, and with a bit of luck, a lemon tree will be happy.

The idea of planting a lemon tree is a bit uphill with Tony at the moment. He wasn’t thrilled with the last one we tried, and he’s still muttering about its performance. So I’ve decided to take a more persuasive route: lemon cakes. Maybe I’ll try baking a few, zesty, golden, and irresistible—in the hope that they’ll soften his stance.

And once he’s convinced, I’ll be the one to dictate where he plants it. Or maybe I’ll just go ahead and buy one, plant it myself, and let it quietly settle in beyond the new greenhouse. I’ll look after it, fuss over it, and make sure it thrives.

*

That was our Sunday and holiday Monday. Sadly, not much woolly creativity to report—but plenty of standing around, or keeping busy while I waited, and eventually getting on with building a greenhouse. The less said about eight-legged creatures, the better.
The garden looks a little tidier, and we’ve got leftover slow-cooked beef and veg for tea. Easy, peasy. I might even pick up my crochet this evening and add a few more shells.
Only one day of leave left—back to work on Wednesday.

*
Thanks for wandering through the chaos with me. Comments welcome—especially if you’ve ever met an unwanted eight-legged lodger or bribed a loved one with lemon cake.

“I Didn’t Mean to Buy Sock Yarn … But I Did”

Friday

Friday began with a soft hum of chores—just enough to clear the decks. Then I wandered into town for something new: a nail appointment. Not a ritual yet, but perhaps the beginning of one. Since changing roles, I no longer wash my hands a hundred times an hour, and I’m starting to believe that pretty nails might actually stand a chance. On the rooftop carpark, I paused to take photos—first the mural, then Caroline Bay, and finally the snow-draped mountains in the distance. They felt impossibly close, like they’d crept forward overnight to greet me. My photo doesn’t quite capture it, but in that moment, they were almost touchable.

I’ve been meaning to photograph the mural for ages, but there’s usually a lineup of cars guarding it like sentinels. Friday, though, the view was clear—just me, the whale, and a sky full of blues. Everyone knows I’m drawn to that colour, and maybe that’s part of the pull. Or maybe it’s the whale itself, swimming through flowers like they’re coral. It felt like a small gift, catching it unobstructed, as if the town had paused just long enough to let me see it properly.

Caroline Bay was looking splendid. The blue waters mirrored the sky above, while the greens and the bustle of the port brought the whole scene to life. Down on the footpaths, people wandered in the sunshine, adding warmth and movement to the view. In the distance, the majestic Southern Alps stood tall—the snowy backbone of New Zealand—draped in their winter overcoats and glowing in the morning light.

Although they seem distant in the photo, in that moment the mountains felt impossibly close—larger than life, like I could reach out and scoop up a handful of snow. It was one of those tricks of light and air, where the world rearranges itself just long enough to make you believe in something magical.

On my short walk to the nail salon, I passed by the coffee shop and its mural.

I had time, so stopped for a look. There’s something quietly quirky about it—a woman with oversized glasses cradling her coffee or is it hot chocolate? She is surrounded by butterflies, birds, and a jungle of potted plants. It’s fun, unexpected, and just the kind of visual detour that makes a short walk feel like a story.

And just look at that blue sky.

*

At the nail salon, I was greeted by a young man I’ve seen often. The staff are from Thailand and speak little English, but kindness doesn’t need translation. I know he’s a good nail tech—once a month, the team volunteers their time at my work, offering free manicures to the ladies and gents. The women even get to choose a polish colour, a small luxury gifted with care.

What followed was an hour of quiet attention—soaking, trimming, a quick hand massage, and layer upon layer of careful painting. When he finally looked up and said, “All done—do you like it?” I admired the result. He had perfectly reproduced the design I’d shown him, and I was tickled, delighted, and so very grateful. 

I’d chosen blue, of course—my favourite hue, the colour of skies, seas, and quiet strength. The design featured the cutest little dragonfly, delicate and full of charm. The design wasn’t just about colour or sparkle. It was a quiet nod to the winged creatures I’ve always adored: bees, fairies, dragonflies. There’s something ethereal and magical about them, the way they hover and flit, never quite still, always dancing with the breeze. Whether it’s a shimmer of wings or a hint of iridescence, I love that my nails can carry a whisper of that magic. It’s like wearing a tiny spell on each fingertip. He painted it with such care, each stroke deliberate, each detail precise. I hope they last a while. He put so much effort into them, and I left feeling not just polished, but quietly uplifted. A small act of artistry, a hint of magic shared across languages, and now carried with me into the weekend.

*

After the nail salon, I made a quick stop at the supermarket before heading home. Lunch was early and simple, and then I settled in to knit the afternoon away. The Pixie Bootie pattern was challenging, to say the least. The instructions called for two needles, but I tried four, then three, then two again—none of it seemed to help with the looseness of my stitches. Still, I persevered and made it all the way to the pointy toe before casting off with a quiet sense of triumph.

Next came the delicate task of pulling out the provisional cast-on without losing those tiny stitches. I managed to catch them all on a needle—just—and began knitting the top of the bootie. I completed one leaf before it was time to head off to visit Dr D, the chiropractor. A crunch at the end of the afternoon.

Not such a big crunch this time. Time is healing the wound, and the days off have helped—even though I’ve kept busy with chores, both indoors and in the garden. There’s been a noticeable improvement. Dr D was happy, and so was I. Instead of the usual two or three days, it’ll be a whole week before I see her again. That’s a massive boost, and a quiet reassurance that things are shifting in the right direction.

*

I got home just as Tony was preparing to head out. He’d come in while I was away, swapped his work wear for something more comfortable, and was getting ready to fill the car for Saturday’s road trip. I parked my wee car and hopped in beside him, and off we went into town to fuel up the big gas guzzler.

On a whim, we stopped in to see our friends John and Ange at their shop. They were just about to close up for the day, and before we knew it, plans had shifted—we decided to go out for tea together. It was spontaneous, relaxed, and full of good conversation. We didn’t get home until bedtime, and it was the kind of unexpected evening that leaves you smiling as you kick off your shoes. An unplanned but gentle end to the day.

*

Saturday.

Saturday began without an alarm clock, but I had a very important date to keep. Chookyblue was all geared up for a Zoom gathering with the Chookshed Stitchers—it was Jellyroll Day. I didn’t have a Jellyroll to sew, but I’d promised to join in anyway. By just before 8am NZ time, I was ready and waiting, cup of something warm in hand, looking forward to the chatter and stitching energy that always fills the virtual room.

I only had an hour to spare before Tony and I climbed into the car for our road trip, and I was determined to make the most of it. I pulled out my ripple blanket and began to hook the shell edging—the final flourish, the last of the border rounds. Each stitch felt like a small celebration, a nod to the journey this blanket has taken with me. The yarn flowed through my fingers as the Zoom chatter hummed in the background. What a lovely way to start the day.

*

Then it was time to climb into the gas guzzler and head north—Christchurch bound for a shopping trip. I was on a mission to find some very special fabric for a very special quilt. The day was glorious: sunshine spilling across the road, and the mountains looking majestic once again, their snowy peaks gleaming like quiet guardians.

Traffic was light, and we made good time. I couldn’t find the exact fabric I’d hoped for—Batiks, it seems, are becoming harder to source here in New Zealand—but with a little help, I found a beautiful alternative that matched the bundle of fat quarters that I’d brought along.

 Mission (mostly) accomplished.

Next stop: a yarn store. And gasp! Shock! I picked up more sock yarn. 

I didn’t mean to buy more yarn. Honestly. I don’t know how it happened, but that colour—It's like a raspberry crush—was just too lovely to leave behind. It’s not blue, but it’s soft, squishy, and full of promise. I could already see it becoming something cozy, maybe even more Pixie Boots (as if the current one hasn’t tested me enough!). It was a quiet indulgence, tucked into the day like a warm hug in skein form.

I also spotted some Trio needles at the knitting store—those clever little sets that sit somewhere between double-pointed and circular. I was tempted… very tempted. But I held back (for now). Has anyone used them? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Are they worth the switch? Do they make sock knitting smoother or just fiddlier in a new way? Tell me everything. The good the bad and the plain ugly..

*

Tony doesn’t do shopping. He’s patient, yes, and good-humoured in short bursts, but by now he’d had enough. With a quiet but firm declaration—“Time for home”—he steered us toward the car, the raspberry yarn tucked safely in my bag and the wind beginning to stir. I didn’t argue. The weather forecast wasn’t looking great, with winds predicted to exceed 140km per hour as the day wore on. Tony was keen to get on the road and back to Timaru before things turned wild.

Strangely, the air was still in some places. Trees and grasses barely moved unless a vehicle passed by, stirring them into motion. But in other stretches, the wind was fierce—trees bent in sudden gusts, and we could feel the car being pushed around. We didn’t envy the drivers of campers and trucks, who must’ve felt every buffet and sway. And the winds were not yet at full predicted force.

It takes about two hours to get from Christchurch to Timaru. As we drove, the sky darkened—not dramatically, just enough to make us wonder what the evening might bring. We could see that the Nor’Westerly winds had been busy melting the snow on the mountains. The peaks that had looked like iced cakes in the morning were now showing their bones—less frosting, more grit. It felt like the land was shrugging off its winter coat. A quiet transformation. 

*

On the way home, I was messaging with Debbie. She’s home alone this weekend—her husband is up in those very mountains, helping a friend set up his caravan for summer. I don’t envy them tonight; it’s meant to be wild up there, and the wind’s already making itself known. Anywhooo, Debbie joined Tony and I for dinner this evening. I made fish and chips (using my Fish in Parmesan Crust recipe—shared on the recipe tab if you're curious), and Debbie brought along a beautiful fresh salad. It’s been quite a while since we’ve had the chance for a proper chat and catch-up. Debbie’s started a new job in a different facility, still within the same company. As it turns out, my new role is her old job. Serendipity at its finest

*

And now, it’s almost bedtime. The wind hasn’t arrived here—yet—but the day has been full enough. If you’ve read this far, thank you for joining me on the journey. I’d love to hear what your Saturday held—whether it was stitchy, stormy, or simply still. Leave a comment below and let’s catch up.

Windy Weather and Woolly Goings On.

With seven days off I hope to document what I get up to each day. 

We'll see if I stick to plan or chase squirrels

Wednesday. 

Wednesday dawned dry and clear, the kind of morning that promises order and ease. I moved through my chores with quiet purpose. Grocery shopping was next on the list, so I headed out beneath a still-bright sky, the sun warm on my shoulders as I stepped into the supermarket.

But when I emerged, the day had shifted. The air was suddenly thick—hot, humid, and heavy with change. The sky had turned a brooding grey, and a restless wind had begun to stir. I loaded my bags into the car quickly. The wind was strong enough at the lights to make the car shift a little—definitely not the same calm morning I’d started with.

By the time I reached home, the wind had picked up and the temperature and humidity had climbed. The sky had darkened, low and grey, hinting at rain but holding off for now. Looking out of the kitchen window as I unpacked my bags I saw the cherry tree’s branches moving with the wind, petals torn loose and dancing across the garden. I feared I wouldn’t get the chance to stand beneath its branches and listen to the bees going about their business as the wind might steal away all the blossom.

After a quick lunch, with the weather growing wilder still, I settled into my armchair and let the afternoon unfold in stitches. Outside, the wind rattled the roof iron and stirred the garden into motion, but inside, it was bootie time. I got busy, needles clicking softly, the Pixie Wine yarn running between my fingers, the rhythm familiar and soothing. Mistakes from the first attempt had been noted, forgiven, and lessons learned.

Mid-afternoon, I took a break to make a cuppa and whip up a batch of my chocolate and coconut slice. This time, I added a tweak. I’ve had a few ideas of my own, and a friend suggested one or two more—so I’ll need to revisit my recipe page and note the variations as I try them. Wednesday's twist was peppermint; I stirred it through and then popped the mixture into the fridge to set.

After lifting my needles again I made good progress, the bootie growing row by row.  But later as I was greeting Tony, my attention wavered, and I pulled the wrong needle. Not the empty one—no, the one loaded with twelve precious stitches. Just like that, they all dropped. Oh no! I scrambled to gather them back onto the needle, fingers fumbling. Somehow, I managed to rescue them, and carried on, completing the next two rounds quickly. Phew. Not perfect, but not a disaster. I had reached the point where I needed to turn the heel, I'd need peace and quiet for that part, so I tucked the knitting away in its bag.  Besides, it was time to turn my attention to dinner. Butter Chicken was next on the agenda, so I donned my apron.

Once dinner was cooked and eaten, and the kitchen tidied, we treated ourselves to a taste of the chocolate and peppermint slice. Yum—definitely a keeper. The mint came through clean and cool, just the way I’d hoped. With dishes done and the evening settling in, we took our places in our chairs. I picked up my crochet and let the evening unfold with TV and stitches.

Before bed, I completed a full border round in a soft cherry blossom pink—delicate and cheerful, like spring stitched into yarn. I folded the crochet gently and tucked it away, ready for the next round when the time was right. A quiet finish to a day full of wind, booties, mint slice, and small wins.

Thursday. 

During the darkness of the night, I woke more than once to the sound of the wind still blowing. It thrummed through the iron chairs on the deck and made the halyard clank against the flagpole—a restless rhythm that tugged at sleep. But as dawn arrived, the gusts began to ease, and things began to settle.

Tony and I watched the sunrise as we cooked and ate breakfast, the light spilling softly across the kitchen. Outside, the cherry tree was still dressed in its pink blossoms, swaying gently in the morning breeze. Later our neighbour sent through her annual photo, taken from her kitchen window—a quiet tradition now, marking spring’s arrival.

In the photo, you can see the smaller cherry tree in the foreground on the right—a different variety that flowers a little later, just after the big one has shed its petals and begun to leaf out. They stand like quiet guards at either end of the greenhouse, marking time in blossom and shade. That’s our kitchen window, overlooking the garden. From there, we watch over the greenhouse and the veg beds. Soon, hopefully, there’ll be a second greenhouse to keep an eye on—a quiet expansion, the chilli house.

*

Once Tony had left for work, I turned my attention to the day. No chores, no baking, no errands in town—just a quiet stretch of time that was all mine. I picked up my knitting sticks and returned to the bootie, the heel waiting patiently. I took my time, checking and rechecking that each needle was in its proper place. By lunchtime, the heel was turned, and the bootie had taken its next step forward. It’s not my finest hour, but it’s progress—and no repeat of the previous days near disaster, and I’m one step closer to a finished bootie. Time for a break.

Grace and I exchanged emails, comparing our progress. Her sock is coming along beautifully—striped in soft blues and peaches, with a crisp white heel. It’s lovely to share the journey, stitch by stitch, even from afar. There’s something comforting about knowing someone else is counting rows and turning heels too.

*

After a quick lunch, I stepped outside to check the garden. The wind had all but gone, leaving just the gentlest breeze to stir the bunting on the deck. I stood beneath the flowering cherry and listened, thousands of tiny bee voices humming above me, with the occasional deeper rumble of a bumblebee passing by. The daffodils had taken a beating in the wind, so I picked the damaged ones and brought them indoors to a vase. There’ll be plenty more soon.

Then it was time to plant. I folded newspaper into seedpods and tucked in dwarf beans, nestling them beside the seedling trays in the back porch. Everything got a good drink, back outside I pulled a few weeds and decided it was time to return indoors.

*

Then a quick visit to the kettle for a fresh cuppa, and back to my chair and my yarn. Outside, the breeze stirred the bunting just enough to remind me it was still spring. Inside, the rhythm returned—hook, loop, sip, repeat.

As I sat knitting rounds, adding a foot to the bootie, the weather turned—and turned fast. One moment the garden was basking in a gentle breeze, bunting barely stirring, bees humming in the cherry tree. The next, clouds rolled in like a curtain call, and the light changed. I watched it happen from the comfort of my armchair. Rain and hailstones began to fall, growing heavier and louder. The wind rose again, and pink petals blew past the window like snow borne on the wind.

As the drama unfolded outside, the bootie grew inside, round by round, the Pixie wine yarn looped together and lengthened toward a toe. Each stitch holding the next, just as the pink petals had bloomed on the tree, now my yarn was blooming on my needles. 

Tony came home and told me about his day—he was lucky, catching a window between downpours to drive home. I worked to a convenient stopping point, marked it on my pattern, and laid my needles to rest. Then into the kitchen to create chow mien for tea. The evening promised another round of crochet, a different rhythm, a different tool, but the same quiet satisfaction. 

*

Wow, I wrote a lot. If you’ve made it this far, consider yourself officially weathered and worthy. I’d love to hear what stitched itself into your day, or which colourway caught your eye. Drop a comment below—rain or shine, your words are welcome here.