Saturday night. Cooking dinner for friends. Wearing my Nana's apron for the first time. I found it in my Mum's wardrobe and brought it home with me. She was the best cook, my Nana. Perhaps that is why I always think of baking when I think of New Zealand. Shortbread, pikelets and ginger gems. Tins and tins full of buttery, sugary treats. I'm hoping her secrets are stitched into the apron. A nice thought.
I've been wanting to bake lately, so desperately feeling the urge to knead some dough and bake some sweet treats. But an inquisitive, curious 13-month-old and baking don't mix well. He's at one of those in-between stages and I am really aware of staying present with him and not wishing for him to reach that next phase. But in doing so I'm finding it a little difficult to create a rhythm in our days. Or to even notice a rhythm. And because I'm one of those ether types I tend to float along all day until I realise that it's almost dinnertime. I work better with routine, with rhythm.
So I'm going to spend the next few days creating some routine. Writing it down. Being a bit more aware, more grounded.
And just as I have been pondering all these thoughts I find out that my street is in fact blessed. There are four churches so you could call it holy land. But apart from that it seems to continually offer me things I ask for. Cherry blossoms - tick. Roadside blooms - tick. A footpath - tick. Village markets - tick.
A Steiner playgroup - tick. Today I discover that the house at the end of the street does in fact hold a Steiner playgroup every Friday morning. With bread baking, story time and lots of like-minded mumas and their little ones. Oh my goodness gracious me I am a lucky girl.