Friday, November 25, 2011

Thanksgiving: The Post-Bird Analysis.

Let me first start off by telling you how I feel about Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday, hands-down. I love everything about it: the sentiment, the gluttony, the family time. I love waking up late to the smell of a cooking turkey (Mom’s an early riser). I love reverting into an obnoxious child, which I invariably do when my sisters are around. I love getting all boozed up with my Grandpa before dinner and then lounging around in front of the fire with my nieces afterwards.

Anyway, Thanksgiving: it’s the best.

So, spending it in another hemisphere was kind of hard. But even though it made me really homesick, I wasn’t about to let it pass unnoticed. After searching far and wide, I found myself an 8-pound, $40 turkey (to put this into perspective, my Mom told me she bought a 29-pounder for $9). I found a pumpkin. I bought all the fixin’s. I was going all out. The only problem? I had no idea how to make any of it.

Skype to the rescue.

My sister, Katie, was nice enough to tell me how to make dressing. Her instructions, verbatim:

• Melt some butter and throw in onions and celery ‘til they’re soft.
• Sprinkle breadcrumbs with:
o Pepper (lots)
o Thyme
o Sage
o Poultry seasoning
o And maybe some rosemary if you feel like it.
• Pour the other stuff on top, stir it, and stuff it up the turkey’s bunghole.

Very precise, I’m sure you’ll agree. And apparently, “bunghole” is a technical culinary term. Listen for it on Top Chef.

Anyway, due to a minor oven snafu (snafu in the sense that I apparently have no idea how to use an oven), my turkey didn’t finish cooking until 9:30 at night. Which meant that my pumpkin pies didn’t finish until 10:30. Needless to say, my first attempt at Thanksgiving on my own was a long and arduous task. But in the end, it was a delicious one, so I’ll not complain.

But all deliciousness aside, when it comes to Thanksgiving, Dorothy Gale said it best, “There’s no place like home.”

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I miss you.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Hutt Bogans and Tramp Stamps.





Have you ever heard of pack floating? I hadn’t either until I inadvertently signed myself up for it, thinking I was just going on a weekend tramp in the Ruamahunga River gorge. When I became apprised of the situation, I was oh-so-close to backing out because it’s kind of insane. But I didn’t, which leads me to believe that I might be kind of insane.

Here’s the deal: pack floating, as its name suggests, involves using one’s backpack as a floatation device when crossing or following the course of a river. The trick is in making sure you have a plastic packliner without any holes in it. When sealed tightly, the liner turns your pack into something similar to a life jacket, though slightly less stable.

Our plan was to do a two-day loop, hiking to the DOC hut we were staying at on Saturday night and then hiking/pack floating our way out through the river gorge on Sunday. Sounds easy enough, but let me tell you, it was brutal. Lugging that pack up and down the sides of mountains takes a level of endurance that I was not at all prepared for. My legs were literally shaking with fatigue be the end of the first day.

Day two was exponentially harder. Immediately upon setting out, we had to do our first river crossing, trudging straight through waist-deep water in our hiking boots and polypro thermals (the most amazing material of all time, btw). So I was basically soaking wet from 7:30 in the morning until the time we made it back to our van at 5:30 in the evening. And it was effing cold.

Once we made it to the main part of the gorge where the trail ended and we were forced to follow the river the rest of the way out, we all put on wetsuits, which helped a lot. However, mine didn’t have sleeves, and wet polypro can only do so much. But for all the cold and over-the-top physical exertion, pack floating was still super fun. I’d definitely do it again, and probably enjoy it a lot more now that I know the ins and outs of how to go about it.

Some tips if you’re keen to try:
• Unless you live in the tropics, a wet suit is vital. Don’t do a half-suit; you need both tops and bottoms.
• Polypro and/or merino under the wetsuit is even better. Layers are your friend.
• Wear at least two pairs of wool socks. Yes, they’ll be wet and soggy the whole time, but wet wool can still keep your feet from freezing.
• Gaitors. They’ll help keep the gravel out of your boots. I was sorely missing them.
• Make sure your packliner is new. If you spring a leak, you’re screwed.
• Don’t use the chest strap on your pack. You need to be able to get out of it quickly if something happens.

And that was my weekend in a nutshell. I actually feel pretty bad-ass for having made it. The crazy part is that the trip was only graded “medium.” I shudder to think what a “fit” trip would entail—I’m pretty sure I would die.

Anyway, I also learned some new and colorful words to add to my international vocabulary. My tramping companions (two brits, an Aussie, and a Canuck) taught me various derogatory terms, though my absolute favorite was a “Hutt Bogan,” which is somewhat akin to the American redneck. “Hutt” refers to a town near Wellington. And a “Bogan” is recognizable by his scraggly rat-tail or full-on mullet.

Eager to reciprocate in this cultural exchange, I had the privilege of explaining the definition of a tramp stamp. As you can tell, our conversations were very deep and meaningful.

Friday, November 18, 2011

The Thanksgiving Conundrum.

Every year, Thanksgiving is celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November. So this year, Thanksgiving falls on November 24th. And therein lies my conundrum. November 24th in New Zealand is actually November 23rd at home. And given the fact that Thanksgiving is an American holiday, should I celebrate it on American time? Or should I strictly adhere to the fourth Thursday formula?

Of course, as of right now this is all a moot point anyway because I cannot seem to find a turkey anywhere in this entire country—a national tragedy that people, thus far, do not seem to comprehend. My mom assures me that a chicken would be almost the same, but I'm not convinced. And who knows if cranberries have made it this far? I'm not going to hold my breath.

Will it all end up being a depressing disaster regardless of the date? I'll keep you posted.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

South Island Rhodes Trip

Over the past six months, The Tandem Bike has hosted a few guest pedallers, and Melissa Rhodes, one of my all-time favorites, was back once again for a week-long spin around the South Island. It was a bit of a spur of the moment trip—the result of a weird confluence of events—but planning is for the birds anyway.

------------------

“Melissa, you’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“Why, yes. I am.”

This happened about two or three days in, when we both were starting to zone out due to our ever increasing, though completely unfounded, feeling of comfort with driving in a flip-flopped version of reality. So when I said “wrong side,” what I meant was “right side” because here the right side is actually the left side. Got it? Good. Anyway, she was driving on the wrong…er, right side, which could have rendered us both dead no matter which way you looked at it. However, everything was quickly righted (you know what I mean) and thus passed our one and only mishap in what was otherwise a marvelous week.

So, what all did we see? Well, despite being a copywriter, I’m having a hard time describing the landscape here. Insanely beautiful? Spectacularly lovely? Incredibly epic? Supercalafradulisticexpialadocious? Melissa and I usually just settled on any combination of the following:

Beautiful
Dude
Amazing
Totally
Wow
Shit
Holy
Crazy
Unbelievable

For instance, an entire conversation could go something like this:

“Shit, dude.”
“Totally amazing.”
“Unbelievably beautiful.”
“Wow. Just wow.”

Or:

“Holy shit!”
“Crazy, dude.”
“Beautiful.”
“Totally beautiful”

I think the two that I would like to eradicate from my vocabulary are “shit” and “dude.” They make me sound vulgar and American—both of which I am—but just like Madonna, I can pretend otherwise. Besides, I’m trying to be a positive ambassador to the rest of the world—an effort that also includes losing the word “like,” though that one is proving exceedingly difficult.

Anyway, we saw mountains, valleys, waterfalls, beaches, cliffs, plains, forests, pancake rocks, glaciers, pastures, lakes, seals, sheep, birds, cows, flowers, sand flies, vineyards, ducks, rivers, and deer. Want to know what we didn’t see? People. There aren’t very many of them here. I heard a statistic that helps illustrate this statement: New Zealand is two-thirds the size of Germany, yet Germany has 83 million people to New Zealand’s 4.4. No, not 44—4 point 4. So, two-thirds the size and one-twentieth the population.

The thing is, I actually really enjoy this aspect of New Zealand. People are highly overrated. This isn’t to say I don’t want to meet people—because I desperately do (New Zealanders, if you’re reading this, let’s talk! I have so many questions!)—it’s just that it’s nice to have a bit of breathing room—and to not have that breathing room contaminated by the collective filth of a bazillion other worker bees.

Bottom line: one campervan trip in, and I am completely sold. Dude.

South Island Rhodes Trip (images)















Friday, November 4, 2011

Did you call me?



No, I didn't miss your call. I just have no idea who you are or what you said. I believe you were Scottish. But after saying, "What?" about five times, I finally just had to pretend to understand. I apologize for the deception, but I was honestly baffled and embarrassed by my lack of comprehension. I hope it wasn't anything important. And if it was, could you please put it in writing? Thanks. Eleven.