Breadmaking and Other Mysteries

Since John has been away, one thought has kept me appreciably distracted from the whole situation – missing him; the molasses-drip of time. Sure, I’ve been planning for the Cook Islands, dreaming about going home, working, socializing, watching films, devouring books, and obsessively checking Facebook – but besides all that, John has also put a bug in my ear that’s been whispering exciting and far-fetched ideas for weeks.

It all started with our friend Russ, a Political Science major who is due to get married next month, and who’s apparently starting to ask some important, penetrating and worrisome questions. What he proposed to us was this:

Given that the world’s economy, at this stage, is entirely dependent on an infinite supply of cheap petroleum; and granted that this supply is actually neither cheap, nor infinite (it’s getting more and more expensive – and it’s expected to disappear within the next few decades); perhaps the world economy is due for a major collapse in the foreseeable future. Maybe, he suggested, we shouldn’t be quite so dependent on the world economy, if we hope to save our own skins.

Supermarkets, he argued, carry a three-day food supply: if their shelves aren’t replenished by then, they run out of food. Having seen the empty supermarkets in the South Island following the earthquake in Christchurch, I believe him. After the earthquake hit, people started to panic, buying more than they needed, stocking up on anything that was hard to get.

It doesn’t take much to tip the scales. In one day, the bread isle was completely empty, and entire shelves of canned goods were missing, like a Jack-O-Lantern’s teeth. The next day, most of the vegetables had been cleaned out, too.

I did some research of my own, and found that Russ may be right. Scientists and researchers at top universities in fields as diverse as economics, sociology, environmentalism, and future studies have been saying the same thing for years: this system will inevitably collapse. And, far from having any kind of game plan, those at the top seem to be merely attempting to portray a public persona of concern, while urgently reaping whatever profits they can, while they still can.

Because of the decline of cheap petrolium, food prices are expected to increase by more than half in the next decade. This means that, by the time my generation is busy caring for young families of their own, we will need to work harder and earn more money just to get by. On the other hand (and this should concern us), somehow earning more income in an economy that is rapidly declining may not be a viable option.

So what can be done?

For himself, Russ plans to buy land, and grow his own food – to become self-sufficient, if possible. He wondered if John and I would consider pitching in with him and Colleen on a hundred-acre farm and embarking on (I imagine) the kind of homesteading project that I read about in The 100 Mile Diet and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.

I have to point out that all of our high school friends had been half-joking about this kind of thing for years. If the world ever ended, we said, we’d all get together and farm some land, can tomatoes and make soap. We’d make The Commune. We’d survive.

But Russ, of course, was no longer joking.

Even though John and I are in no position to buy property, and although none of us has ever farmed a day in our lives, we all felt the adventure that such a project would entail.

I can’t help but also feel that it’s got the potential for disaster.

Still, John has started to send me retail listings for properties all over BC, alongside the Craigslist ads for apartment rentals in Victoria. And even though we were both doubtful, we also looked longingly at the sunny cottages, farmhouses, fields of hay, orchards, and greenhouses, noticing things like water and electricity supply, total arable acreage, latitude, and the distance to the nearest town.

Granted, any house out there would be isolated. On the plus side, we could potentially purchase a house and quite a few acres, for a fraction of the cost of a house in Victoria.

Even though this kind of thing is probably out of our reach at the moment, it got rekindled a lifelong dream of mine: an orchard, a kitchen garden, flowers, chickens, and a bee hive. Maybe I could grow peppers and lemons in a greenhouse. I’d bake bread, can vegetables, make pies and soup, and maybe even make my own cheese and butter. It would be hard work, but if I had time off, I could spend it with my dog, taking long walks in the country; or spend it in my library, reading near the fire. I could paint landscapes and portraits, throw clay pots, and at the end of the day, I’d curl up with my husband feeling utterly content.

Sigh.

Am I getting clucky, or what.

Screw this doomsday talk – I want my farmhouse for its own sake.

Speaking of which, I attained one of my New Year’s resolutions today: I learned to bake bread. All I needed was flour, water, yeast, sugar, and salt. I served it up, buttered hot from the oven, with a bowl of homemade cream of cauliflower-broccoli soup.

Midnight dinner for one!

Here is a recipe for what I did:

Traditional Hearth Bread

2 cups body-temperature water                                                  

5-6 cups whole-wheat, spelt, or all-purpose flour
1 tbsp sugar, or a mix of honey and brown sugar                                

½ tsp salt
1 tbsp active dry yeast                                                                    

1-2 tbsp oil

Pour the water into a bowl; add the sugar and make sure it dissolves. Sprinkle the yeast on top. Let it sit for 10 minutes, until bubbles appear.

Stir a cup of flour into the water before adding a pinch of salt. Stir the rest of the flour, a little at a time. Use your hands until it looks like dough, and then start kneading on a floured surface. Knead for at least five minutes; when it’s smooth and elastic, you’re finished. Form it into a ball, coat it with oil, cover and stash it in a warm place to rise, until it doubles in size. (This should take about an hour.)

Punch it down and knead it again; then place in a greased loaf pan. Cover with a towel and let rise again (about half an hour). Preheat the oven to 400 F.

For crusty bread, put a roasting rack in the bottom while you preheat the oven; when ready, carefully pour a cup of water into the pan. Steaming the dough before baking produces the famous crust.

Bake for 35-45 minutes.

The View is Worth It

Tauranga is situated on a network of inlets and channels that snake in all directions: when you’re here, you’re near the ocean, no matter which side of town you’re on. Vast stretches of mud run underneath the bridges at low tide, and fishing boats huddle together in the deeper pools.

Mount Mangenui stands across the narrow water, dominating the view. It’s a volcano, and emerges from the flat surroundings, impossibly lush and green, like a child’s drawing of a mountain, with the snow part cut off. A thriving town known locally as The Mount clusters in its shadow.

Naturally, with a volcano on the horizon, I had no other impulse than to climb to its summit and look around.

After six weeks living in Tauranga, my opportunity finally came disguised as a shopping trip.

One afternoon, Bridgette, the sous chef, came over and sat down at the bar. She looked different with her hair down, without the white chef uniform. She’s quite a beautiful girl, to tell you the truth. I plunked a Cherry Coke down in front of her, and she and Alley began to make plans for their day off.

The conversation quickly turned to Alley’s recent discovery: the fact that, in New Zealand, I don’t own a hair dryer, curling iron, or make-up; don’t have high heels or stockings, nail polish or a cocktail dress – not even a bra with an underwire.

After expressing incredulity that I would voluntarily live without such necessities, Alley had a moment of inspiration.

Thus, the shopping trip officially came into being.

*                             *                             *                             *                             *

Alley and I work closely together. She’s such an easygoing, positive person, full of energy and conversation, that it’s easy to pass a day at work with her. She has a bit of a femme fatal look about her, with her dark hair, dark eyeliner, and signature red lipstick – but she’s way too sweet to be dangerous.

As it turned out though, Alley wasn’t feeling well the next morning. Bridgette texted me and offered to pick me up anyway. We weren’t necessarily going to buy anything, but we wanted to look around, and maybe have lunch.

Waiting for Bridgette to arrive, I had a moment of nerves, worried about hanging out with someone new. What would we even talk about? Since Bridgette and I work in different spheres, I hadn’t had much opportunity to get to know her.

Of course, I had a blast. I felt at ease around her right away, and soon we were chatting and laughing like we’d done it a hundred times before.

The day was sunny and warm. Magnolia trees were opening their tulip flowers, and orange butterflies were dancing in the long grass. We drove toward The Mount, and I watched the volcano as it spun toward us, drawing us inward on bridges like the spokes of a wheel.

We ended up at a shopping center called Bayfair. (The exact marriage of Bay Center and Mayfair – at last!) We had Indian for lunch, and wandered from shop to shop, trying on clothes until we grew bored. Knowing I couldn’t actually afford a single stitch of clothing took some of the fun out of it for me, and I think Bridgette could tell that my head wasn’t really in the game.

“So what do you want to do now?” she asked, as we finished lunch.

“Um,” I said.

“Hey!” she said. “Want to go up the Mount?”

“Yes!” I said. “Yes I do!”

That I could afford.

So we jumped in her car and drove toward the hulk in the distance, along ocean-view boulevards, past tall apartment buildings and expensive-looking chalets, until we came upon a gorgeous stretch of beach and the foot of the mountain.

On our way to the top, we were stopped by a bug-eyed man wearing a bike helmet, who warned us about the imminent doom of humankind: the nuclear meltdown brewing in America.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I told him and we made our exit.

The trail leading to the top was virtually one immense staircase – a little like the Aztec pyramids, only taller and more intense. The stairs, although helpful, appeared to have been built for people with enormously long legs and tiny feet, and zigzagged to the top without remorse. We hoofed up, Bridgette leading the way easily.

“Come on,” she encouraged me. “The view is worth it.”

I stopped to take pictures of sheep grazing in terraced meadows, and impossibly cluttered boulders that seemed to boil up out of the tall grass, like tombstones. They cast long shadows in the winter sun.

Sometimes I took pictures just for an excuse to rest.

Finally, we crested the summit, the trees giving way to a stunning view. I felt triumphant (and winded) as we followed the trail from one lovely vista to the next. By the time the trail bent downhill again, I had regained my breath and felt ready to go up again.

Or, I at least felt ready for some water.

                *                             *                             *                             *                             *

The following week, I received another text from Bridgette, inviting me on another hike. She’d mentioned a waterfall on the outskirts of town, and I was keen (of course) to check it out.

The day was, if possible, even more pristine this time. It was so warm in the sun that I ended up stripping off layer after layer – gloves, jacket, sweater – until I felt comfortable, finally, in a T-shirt. We drove with the windows down.

This time, the trail led mostly downhill toward the river. (I knew I’d have to regain the altitude at some point, but I pushed those kinds of negative thoughts away.) We rushed down, through mud and down rough staircases, until we reached a trail that led us along the river’s edge.

There were several waterfalls, actually. And someone had (ingeniously) cut stairs out of the clay, making quite a spectacular sight. I even managed to snap a couple of photos before my camera battery died.

Eventually, the staircases led us back up to the car park. Bridgette drove me back to town in time for our weekly work meeting, at noon.

Since it was so sunny, everyone clustered outside, drinking coffee and waiting for a manager to show up and read us the sales figures for the week. It was a boring half-hour, but we all liked to see each other anyway.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in pleasant solitude, mentally preparing myself for the work week ahead.

I couldn't help but mull over the fact that, like a long and rewarding hike, sometimes it's the struggles in life that make happiness more worthwhile. Toiling up the side of the mountain is more sweet for the feeling of accomplishment and reward you get when you stand at the top and take in the view. For me, although my time here in New Zealand has not always been easy, the view has definitely been worth it.