28July2005

This proposal of Green’s MP Nandor Tanczos to remove the criminal sanctions for the possession or cultivation of cannabis has serious implications for me as a home gardener. What he’s suggesting is that anyone over the age of 18 with up to 28 grams of cannabis or 5 grams of cannabis preparation would get an instant fine rather than a criminal record. He’s further suggesting that adults growing up to five small plants at home will get a $100.00 fine unless there’s evidence of selling. Then possibly a greater fine. Couldn’t agree more. This fine of $100.00 is like the instant fine you get for speeding. But he doesn’t say whether or not you’ll get demerit points. Like $500 worth of instant fines and you lose your cannabis licence for a year. Then he’s got another provision. Anyone found either smoking or cultivating cannabis within 100 metres of a school or other areas used by the under 18 year olds will get a $500.00 fine. It’s this provision that worries me. I live depending on how you measure it just within 100 metres of a school boundary. I don’t grow cannabis but I grow leeks. My friends tell me they’re very good leeks.

Come February I spend a lot of time preparing my winter leek bed. I bring in copious amounts of horse manure and leaf mould to encourage worm infestation. Around the middle of February I plant my leeks and wait for the winter crop. I don’t know what a cannabis plant looks like but in the dark my leeks could be at risk. What worries me is that my bed of leeks to the untrained eye may well be regarded as a potential cannabis plot. If his proposed bill gets passed then I can see what could happen. A new regime of officialdom would be created. I along with many other keen gardeners would become the object of suspicion and inspection. Like “Hullo, I’m a cannabis inspector and I’m here to make a random inspection of your garden. I’ve picked on you because you’re a prime suspect. You’re obviously keen on gardening. I can tell from the quantities of horse manure you’ve got stored in your back yard, but strangely I can’t see any horses. That’s what gave rise to my suspicions. Shall we go and have a look? What are these spindly little plants here?” “They’re leeks. They’re in the early stages of maturation.” “Well they may look like leeks and whilst there’s no legislation at the moment prohibiting their cultivation within the 100 metres zone of the school I would like to have them analysed. I’m going to take some samples.” I usually only plant 50 leek plants but unceremoniously the inspector digs up ten of my one month immature leeks with his rubber gloved hand and places them in a plastic bag. “What’s in those bags over there?” “Horse manure”. “That’s what I thought but in this game you can never be sure. I’ve seen pot disguised as horse dung. “So we’ll want to analyse that too.” “Go for it” I say.

Three weeks later I get the report from what used to be the Department of Scientific Industrial Research. “The samples taken from the Marlborough garden of JM Lundon have revealed that the species of vegetation known as leekus spoutus or in common terms leeks, are in fact leeks. The clumps of brown matter from the sacks which were found are the droppings of equus naturalis. Commonly known as horse manure.” I breathed a sigh of relief. The inspector who delivered me the report cast an eye around the garden again. Obviously disappointed. He’d been done out of a fine. “What’s that green stuff over there?” “Oats. I had a crop of spuds there. I usually sow my oats to replenish nitrogen in the soil after I’ve lifted the crop.” “They look a bit wild to me” says the inspector. “Well they go that way. I can assure you they weren’t wild when I sowed them.” “Just as well” says the inspector. “Once Nandor has got this pot bill through wants to stop the sowing of wild oats particularly within 100 metres of a school. Apparently there’s a lot of that going on up in the Coromandel where he comes from. “What, sowing wild oats?” “Yes, but like the cultivation and smoking of pot it’s only done for sacramental reasons.” "That God for that.”

21Jul2005

You may recall that the origin of that snow white fluffy cake known as the “Pavlova” has been the subject of an argument that’s crossed back and forward across the Tasman for years. The Aussies have long claimed it as their own. They say that the famous ballerina Anna Pavlova visited Perth in 1928. Some seven years later to commemorate the visit of the white fluffy tutu wearing ballerina Burt Sachse, a chef at the Esplanade Hotel in Fremantle beat up the whites of a few eggs with some sugar, baked it lightly and called the resulting white sticky fluffy cake with the chewy, crunchy top and called it a “Pavlova”.

But no says Professor Helen Leitch of the University of Otago’s Anthropology Department. She’s uncovered a 1929 Pavlova recipe published in the Rangiora Mother’s Union Cookery Book. Submitted by a Mrs WH Stevens of East Belt, Rangiora. All this is true. Professor Leitch along with an Australian food historian Michael Symons has not only been researching the origin of the Pavlova but also that of the Lamington and ANZAC biscuit. After three long years of painstaking detailed research they both agree that Mrs WH Stevens of Rangiora recipe for the Pavlova beats Burt Sachse by a number of years. So the Pav’s a Kiwi concoction. But there is conclusive evidence to establish that Lamingtons are definitely of Australian origin. I believe they’re named after that great outback explorer Dr. Lamington (no relation to Dr Livingstone). When Dr Lamington was met by an equally distinguished explorer by the name of Stanley out the back of Alice Springs he offered him a piece of sponge coated in chocolate and coconut to which Stanley is reported to have responded. “This is a Lamington Dr I presume …” But I digress. You may, as I did, well ask what is an anthropologist doing spending three years of research to find out where Pavlovas come from? Wouldn’t the money be better spent on the history of hip-hop or courses or twilight golf lessons? Well that’s where you’re wrong. Anthropology is the study of human kind. Especially it’s societies and customs. What Professor Leitch was trying to establish was from whence came the custom to have Pavlovas at birthday parties and at what stage of their development did human kind begin putting pineapple pieces, peach slices or kiwifruit on a bed of whipped cream on the top of the Pavlova. The scientists think they’ve cracked the mystery.

Well as usual I’ve been doing a bit of my own independent research. I believe the Pavlova came into existence at least thirty years before Mrs Williams of Rangiora unscientifically stumbled upon her recipe. I’m suggesting that the Pavlova owes it origin to Ivan Petrovich Pavlov (1870 – 1936). Fortunately for we cake lovers Ivan abandoned the youthful religious career that his father had mapped out for him. He literally went to the dogs. Drooling dogs. Pavlov found that you could train a dog to drool on command. His theory was that animals and indeed humans could be trained to react in a certain way to a particular stimulus. So every time Pavlov brought food to his dogs they would drool. He wondered if it was the food that was making the dogs drool. Or was it the white coats that his laboratory assistants wore when delivering the food. So he took away the food and along came the lab assistants wearing nothing other than white coats. The dogs started drooling. There, that’s it said Pavlov. It’s the colour white that the dogs are reacting to. His wife to test this theory beat up a few egg whites with some sugar and baked it lightly. She then gave it to the lab assistants in doggy bowls. The dogs immediately started drooling. Human beings do the same thing when they see Pavlovas. Well to celebrate they gave Ivan the Nobel Prize. And Mrs Pavlov? In Russian the feminine of Pavlov is Pavlova. So she took the cake.

14July2005

I’m quite fond of animals. I guess most of us are. This fondness was fostered very early in my life. I would have been all of six years old. I felt the need to bond with something other than human beings. So my mother brought me two guinea pigs. Lord knows where she got them from. We were living in Wellington at the time and it was the war years. That’s the WWII war. I thought finding two guinea pigs for domestic purposes in those troubled times was an amazing effort. You would have expected that guinea pigs like every other able bodied person or animal would have been called up for active service. After all genuine guinea pig fur would have provided a wonderful liner for bomber crew jackets. And for all I know may have been. Notwithstanding their possible contribution to the war effort two guinea pigs, one brown and white and the other mainly black with flecks of white, arrived on the front porch. They were immediately incarcerated like prisoners of war in a wire cage that my father had hastily constructed. I fed them religiously for two weeks on oatmeal, carrots and lettuce leaves. They seemed to enjoy this diet. I would talk to them and they to me. We shared a host of secrets. One night as I was about to put the cover over them for the night my father noticed some furious activity in the cage. I had no idea what it was all about suffice to say my father remarking “we can handle two guinea pigs but I don’t know about ten”. I found this remark puzzling. I only had two animals. I had no intention of acquiring any more. But I realise now that I had not at that tender age been educated in the secrets of life.

That night there was a violent southerly storm. Wind and rain lashed the front porch. I could hear it from my bedroom. At first light I pulled the curtains from over the front door. My worst fears were confirmed. The little cage was lying on its side. I know pigs can’t fly but these ones had. All that was left was the remnants of last night’s oatmeal and lettuce. And small pathetic teeth marks on one of the remaining carrots. I was crestfallen. My mother sought to console me. “Perhaps your guinea pigs are enjoying a better life. In the wild. After all it was a bit unnatural having them cooped up in a cage.” My father said nothing. He went out to the wash house to skim the frothing yeast off a batch of home brew he had been fermenting in the copper for the last few weeks. After a week or so I become accustomed to their absence. But I was always had that nagging feeling that the cage got conveniently overturned by a force other than nature on that stormy night. Like my dad. He could deal with two. But ten – no. In the end it was something we never discussed. I often wished to ask him “Dad, did you up end my guinea pig cage that stormy night?” Well I could never sum up the courage to ask him. But he did let it slip one day. “Son, those guinea pigs will be better off in the bush. They’ll probably turn into lions.” I was too young to appreciate the Darwinian references in this statement. Transmutation. Guinea pigs turning into lions?

Well last Saturday there I was at Eden Park to witness the fulfillment of my father’s prophecy. There on the paddock were 15 Lions. And over the space of a mere 80 minutes I watched them turn into guinea pigs. I was amazed. I was overcome with emotion. I wanted to feed them oatmeal, a lettuce leaf and carrots as I had done all those years ago. But I knew like their coach Clive. who was hoping to rekindle his historic win in Sydney all those years ago, trying to revive the past really ever works. Perhaps guinea pigs can fly?