Category Archives: decorating / homefront

The fence philosopher

Being fifty-something, I’m happy to grab my life philosophy and learnings when and where I can get ‘em.  I especially love it when I discover them in unexpected moments.

Last year I blogged about our Year of the fecking fence. As I suspected, our fencing phase overlapped into 2013, though only just.

As soon as our neighbours gave the green light for our new joint fence, I went in search of a fencing contractor. Bill the fencer turned up promptly to measure and discuss the job then mailed me back a reasonable quote the next day. In our book, having dealt with tardy tradesmen who take weeks to arrive or even acknowledge your call, Bill was the front-runner.  I didn’t mind his age (I guessed he was sixty-something), his heavy European accent or his struggle with English … I was after his fencing skills not his language skills. And he promised to build me a “schmick” fence.

Yes, Bill got the job.

Before: fecking fence

Before: fecking fence

He arrived early on day 1 and set to work dismantling the old fence, digging the new post holes and finally filling them with cement and new posts before knock-off time.

Day 2 was forecast as a scorcher. By lunchtime, Bill had the horizontal rails in place and the temperature was inching close to 40 degrees (that’s 40 degrees Celsius, folks). I decided to give him the option of knocking off early and coming back to finish the job in the morning when it would be cooler. I tracked him down in our neighbour’s yard.

He declined my offer to head home.

“What else am I gonna do?” he asked. “Another fence to build tomorrow. I said I finish today. I will.”

I surveyed his work so far, noting (aloud) that it was looking good already and that it was going to look great with the palings on.

There, in the dusty dry desolation of our neighbour’s backyard renovation, Bill turned to me, looked directly into my eyes and said (in perfect English): “Nailing on fence palings is like dressing a woman or shaving a man … the finishing touch.”

Like Robert Frost, only different.

In that single moment I understood more about fencing-as-a-craft than ever before and I knew (for certain) that my new fence was, indeed, going to be “schmick”.

fencing, fifty-something, boomers, midlife, philosophy

After: “schmick” fence

And so it came to pass.

If you’re in the Geelong area and after a “schmick” fence with some philosophy thrown in, email me and I’ll hook you up with Bill, the fence whisperer.

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Paving like a couple of bosses (or Venus and Mars tackle the yardwork)

Being fifty-something means I’m always looking for learning opportunities. Always.

Mr P and I have been married for thirty-something years and I’m still learning about what we have in common. And what we don’t.

Last weekend we shared a repaving project to even up the pavers in the alcove between our front gate and newly-laid footpath, which the council levelled about two inches above its previous height. (The retired barrister in our family had pointed out the tripping hazard and our liability should a visitor or passerby fall victim to our dangerous alcove.)

This is just the sort of project that highlights our differences. Again, I’ve confirmed that any shared project that ends without us having killed one another or headed off to the divorce lawyers is a successful one. In the spirit of my earlier post about Venus and Mars going property hunting, here are some of my observations on our paving venture.

Paving image by Mooganic on www.flickr.com

Paving image by Mooganic on http://www.flickr.com

Mr P may have not have been a boy scout but he sure is a prepper. He insists on having every tool we could possibly need on site before we start (to avoid unnecessary trips to the shed).

Even though I was a Brownie in my formative years, I prefer to grab only the first tool I need and then source them individually, as needed and as we make progress (to avoid unnecessary trips to the shed).

Tools image by Ontario Wanderer on www.flickr.com

Tools image by Ontario Wanderer on http://www.flickr.com

Mr P is process-oriented. Before we begin, he prefers to plan out the entire process chronologically (yes, he ALWAYS reads ALL the instructions before using anything new, too), from removing existing pavers to finally sweeping a balanced mixed of cement dust and sand into the cracks once we’re done.

I am more concerned with results, so I work the process backwards in my head (beginning with the end in mind). No, I NEVER read the full instructions before I switch on a new appliance. I believe they include “the least you need to know” and “getting started fast” instructions for people just like myself.

Mr P is a company man: “If we work hard, we could get this finished by 5.30.”

I’m a union gal: “Let’s stop for a cuppa after this row. I’ll work much better after a break.”

Mr P is super-good at communicating what he needs in terms of materials, tools or support (not).

I am ultra-intuitive about just “knowing” what Mr P needs without him having to tell me (not).

Mr P is a hands-on bloke (with mechanical training). If it doesn’t fit, he’ll make it fit. When the last paver in a row doesn’t quite slip into place, he takes to it with a hammer and chisel, and makes it fit.

I see paving as a giant jigsaw puzzle … all those slightly different pieces came out of there so they’ll all go back in. Somehow. I embrace their nuances and tiny variations. When the last paver in the row doesn’t quite fit, I try another paver, or another one, or another one … until it does fit (just like doing the jigsaw’s tricky sky bit).

jigsaw image by Squirmelia on www.flickr.com

jigsaw image by Squirmelia on http://www.flickr.com

Mr P is safety conscious. He starts the afternoon in steel-capped boots, safety goggles, leather gloves, high-visibility vest and an awesome tradie butt crack display.

I’m more fashion conscious (we’re working on a busy public street afterall). It’s not until half-way through, and after several near misses, that I change out my Birkenstocks and manicured nails for heavy shoes and protective gloves. Not one centimetre of my butt crack sees the light of day, but I do finish up with a nasty sunburnt neck.

Mr P is a lone achiever. Once our project is done, he surveys the work and declares: “Paving like a boss.”

In contrast, I do a happy dance, high-five him enthusiastically and declare: “Paving like a couple of bosses. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Vintage Kettle image by sbluerock on www.flickr.com

Vintage Kettle image by sbluerock on http://www.flickr.com

One’s signature salad …

Being fifty-something, one knows one’s place.

One is well aware that one is not a food blogger. No matter how hard one tries.

(Discovering PoachPods for oneself does not transform one into a food blogger.)

Still, when one attracts (consistent) high praise for one’s signature salad, one feels compelled to share one’s recipe with one’s readership, even when one is so uncomfortable with the notion that one refers to oneself in “royal third person” voice throughout one’s blogpost.

signature salad photo by Sheryl Allen

One has a repertoire of “one’s signatures” … one’s signature dessert, one’s signature soup, one’s signature celebration cake, one’s signature starter.

“One’s signatures” are those recipes that are high on presentation and results, but low on degree of difficulty.

They’re the recipes on which one can rely; the recipes which one knows one can’t f@*k up. No matter how hard one tries.

One has once again trotted out one’s signature salad for the pre-Christmas flurry of summery BBQs (one lives in the Southern Hemisphere). And, once again, one has been besieged with requests for one’s recipe.

One can take a hint so one presents one’s signature salad recipe for one’s readers’ delectation.

One’s Signature Salad

(serves one plus many, many more of one’s guests or acquaintances)

350g bowtie pasta

375g fresh peas shelled or one and a quarter cups frozen peas

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

One lemon, rind finely grated

200g marinated feta cheese, drained and cut into small cubes

One bunch rocket, trimmed, leaves torn

One third a cup of toasted pine nuts

1. Cook pasta in a large saucepan of boiling salted water, following packet directions, or until tender. Add peas to pan 3 minutes before pasta is ready. Drain pasta and peas. Rinse under lukewarm water. Drain. Transfer to a bowl.

signature salad photo by Sheryl Allen

2. Add oil, lemon rind, feta, rocket, pine nuts and salt and pepper to pasta. Toss gently to combine. Serve.

signature salad photo by Sheryl Allen

One knows that the hero in one’s salad is the bowtie pasta … it dresses one’s salad up, making it look damned fine and fancy.

One sourced this recipe from one’s aged edition of Super Food Ideas magazine.

One now lives in hope that one’s signature salad will be adopted by one’s readership, to be known forever, far and wide, henceforth as Sheryl’s Signature Salad.

One won’t hold one’s breath.

Adventures into upholstery #1

Being fifty-something means I’ve spent half my life not knowing how to upholster.

I’ve got an upholstery itch I need to scratch.

My planned upholstery course (yes, it’s on my Bucket List) has been cancelled for the second time.

Sad face.

So, I’m grabbing the stapler gun by the horns and teaching myself. (Holy button-back chesterfield!)

What could possibly go wrong?

Don’t answer that. I’m giving it a go anyway.

I present my first project. We bought this chair around a decade ago (that’s at least how long I’ve been procrastinating about upholstery), had it stripped back and re-glued.

Then we stuck it under the house while I went in search of an upholstery course. As you do.

We all know how that turned out.

Fast-forward to last weekend. I dragged it out from its dusty hidey hole and thrust it front and centre into my first adventure in upholstery.

My initial step was to refinish the frame … and what a stunning old oak frame it is. Luckily, Mr P is an expert of sorts in French polishing and he agreed to supervise my first foray into applying a shellac finish.

Lots of sanding, lots of shaking and five coats later, I’d achieved the glossy finish I craved. Too excited to snap pic’s at this stage. Sorry.

Now for the fabric. Keep in mind that we hadn’t kept the springs or webbing or drop-in seat for this one (if there ever was one) … though there were thirty or so salvaged upholstery tacks captured in a tiny plastic bag strung to the chair leg.

I had no idea where to start with the upholstery elements.  So where did I turn? YouTube, of course. (What did we do before YouTube?)

There I found hundreds of DIY upholstery tutorials carefully explaining the ins and outs, the tools, the tips, the tricks of the trade and the traps for young players.

It feels like I’ve already gleaned a bucketload of upholstery wisdom.

I have no intention of turning this blogpost into an upholstery tutorial. That would be presumptuous.

What I am going to do is show you what’s possible with a few hours of curious and furious YouTube viewing.

I learnt how to measure a pattern, cut plyboard, apply batting and even how to use one of those super high-powered staple guns. Turns out we already had one of those in the shed. I’d been too scared to use it (it makes a helluva noise and you’re talking to someone who may or may not have sewn right through her finger with a sewing machine. Twice. You get the picture.)

It was just one of many fears I faced up to on the journey:

  • braving the big box craft mega-store for supplies
  • courageously selecting a fabric that goes with nothing else in our home
  • sharing the man-cave space with Mr P.

There was no looking back.

Here’s the finished result:

I think it turned out not too bad (notice the original upholstery tacks) … for my first late-blooming adventure in upholstery.

I have a loooooong way to go. It’s far from perfect. There are plenty of things I could have done better and differently, but I’ve got my initial journey under my belt and it feels pretty damned good.

I’m already planning my next upholstery adventure; it will take me into entirely new territory (via Air YouTube, of course).

I’m heading into the wild for adventure #2, exploring a more rustic aesthetic.

Curious?

Don’t worry. I’ll send you a postcard and let you know how it goes.

Wish you were here.

Partners in crime (comrades in rescue?)

Being fifty-something doesn’t mean that date night isn’t interesting.

Quite the opposite. Take last night for instance.

Mr P and I headed into the city (on foot) for an Indian meal. As we readied to cross the highway we noticed a long (very long) piece of timber moulding on the footpath, obviously displaced from a truck as it screeched to a sudden stop at the traffic lights (Mr P says I’m jumping to conclusions).

Perhaps it slid from a car rooftop as it slowed (not enough) to navigate the corner (more conclusions, says he).

It looks like cedar (a giant leap, says he).

There and then, we made a pact: if it’s still here when we return, we’ll carry it home.

On we went, to the Kahn Curry Hut (No. 2) where we enjoyed Chicken Madras, Lamb Szabsi, Saffron Rice, Garlic Naan and a bottle of local Pinot Noir.

Perfect.

Out we headed into the fresh night air, for our usual after-dinner on-foot journey home.

As we crossed the highway, we could see our prize was still there, on the footpath for all the world to see. Though it was dark now.

We took one look at it, one look at one another, and sprung into action … he at the front (steering) and I at the rear (puffing) we hefted the timber up under our arms and made for home.

It didn’t escape us just how odd we looked, wandering down the road, late at night with this long (very long) plank of timber suspended between us.

It felt like a wicked collaboration of sorts and we jollied each other on with maniacal laughter.

In the distance we could see the dim (Dickensian) light of the local Irish pub and the telltale cloud of smoke signalling the smokers huddled on the footpath outside.

On a normal night, we would stop in at Irish Murphy’s for a nightcap. Tonight was not normal. We doubted we could trust these ne’er-do-well smokers with OUR prize so we decided to walk nonchalantly through the huddle, without making eye contact, and hoping for the best.

Of course, we looked more Three Stooges than nonchalant. Possibly, we whistled as we went. I couldn’t be certain. Still, there wasn’t a comment from the gallery and we walked on (just a little faster).

At the next corner, we opted to turn off the main road and head for the cobbled laneways that thread their way through our neighbourhood. Their tight twists and turns demanded mathematical precision … lucky Mr P was at the helm, yelling directions back to me in the rear, in the manner of a farcical slapstick comedy skit.

We had one more main road to cross. We waited on the curb (forever) for a lengthy break in the traffic to enable us to sprint across with our prize.

(Surely there’s an arcade game based on this exact same scenario.)

Finally we reached home and carried our loot into the garage for closer inspection under lights.

Even better. It DOES look like cedar. It’s a fine piece of timber.

Now, we don’t consider ourselves criminals. (Hell, our friends would probably describe us as tiresomely straight.) We see this as a rescue of a found object. We’ve saved it from the inevitable … those (other) drunks making their way home from the city would have thrown it on the road to be smashed into tiny splinters by gargantuan truck tyres.

We reasoned that it more than likely would have ended up over our front fence anyway, like so many finials and fence palings do on such Saturday nights.

Indeed, we have done a good deed for the community (and the planet) by rescuing this item.

Still, if you see us on Crimestoppers, captured on CCTV, mum’s the word. OK?

You know nothing.

Imagine the intro’: Inebriated fifty-something couple walks the plank in the urban jungle

Then they’d zoom in for the mandatory close-up of me looking furtively (OK, guiltily) over my shoulder. I knew I should have reapplied my lip gloss for that trip home.

Then another close-up of me laughing maniacally. If I’d thought ahead I could have applied some dramatic Cruella Deville style red lippy to help with that shot.

While I wait (drapes drawn) for the constabulary to knock on the door, I will, of course, make some enquiries to see if I can track down the rightful owners.

If I can’t unearth them within a few days … I fear it will be too late.

Mr P has plans to split the loot and “launder the money” if you will.

He’s already measuring to dissect the plank up so it’s unrecognisable as several of these masterpieces:

Discovering the promised land of the perfect poached egg

Being fifty-something doesn’t mean I’ve got all the basics down pat.

Many life skills that others take for granted still escape me completely: parallel parking, gears on bicycles, price haggling, cryptic crosswords and … wait for it … poaching eggs.

After years (nay, decades) of failed poached egg attempts which ended in soggy, stringy, watery misshapen messes, I had given up hope of mastering aesthetically pleasing, well-shaped, evenly cooked and appetising poached eggs of the type served up in cafes, restaurants, diners and eateries around the globe.

I’ve tried all sorts of tips and tricks: boiling water, simmering water, still water, a slurp of vinegar, a pinch of salt, no salt, swirling clockwise, swirling anti-clockwise … even suspending the egg in a twisted pouch of cling wrap.

Always a disaster.

Every time.

Until now.

I have discovered the secret to the perfect poached egg… the PoachPod.

If you’re familiar with PoachPods, you may look away now. Go directly to another blog. Do not pass go. If not, stick with me. I promise it will be worth it.

I found these four PoachPods in a thrift shop.

I wasn’t sure what they were, how they worked (indeed, if they worked) but, being a curious type, I handed over my one dollar investment (yes, for all four) and took them home to investigate.

YouTube came through with a very instructive PoachPod how-to, and I got to it.

So simple. Here’s the nuts and bolts of it.

Set a half saucepan of water to boil.

Spray your PoachPod lightly with olive oil spray. Crack in your egg (trying to keep the yolk whole).

Once the water is boiling, carefully float the PoachPod (including the egg) in the water.

It will remain afloat in the water. Magic.

Here’s four I prepared (at once) for lunch today, floating neatly in their saucepan of water:

Cover the saucepan with a lid and after about five minutes, use a slotted spoon to lift out the PoachPod (with the egg nestled safely inside).

Loosen the egg with a spoon and serve.

The egg itself has never touched the water. It’s formed a uniform shape within its little pod and is cooked through beautifully.

Here is Mr P’s lunch. No straggly wet egg whites. No soggy, forlorn toast.  (And, yes, Mr P only eats white bread. He’s a trucker.)

How awesome is that?

What do you think? If you already knew about PoachPods you won’t find my awesome discovery quite so awesome. And I’d like to know why you haven’t been raving far and why about your discovery.

I’m slow on the uptake – especially with culinary-related things/gadgets/skills/ideas – so it’s very probable I am amongst the last on the planet to learn the secret of perfect poached eggs.

If that’s the case, I’d rather not know. Right now I’m channelling my inner Christopher Columbus and feeling quite smug about it.

Now, if I can just discover a snazzy gadget to whip up some hollandaise sauce (or change the gears on my bike for me), my world will be complete.

Note: This is not a sponsored post. I have no relationship with the makers of marketers of PoachPod.

Note II: Mr Google tells me you can buy a pair of PoachPods for yourself for about $10 … or you could set sail for your local thrift store and hope for a fortuitous find like mine.

Hob-knobbery at the local church jumble sale

Being fifty-something, I love discovering a foraging opportunity close to home.

And so it came to pass that I hurried along to the local church jumble sale, just a few doors down from my own, arriving expectantly at the advertised start time.

Alas, the early bird had beaten me to the worm.

There were sold stickers plastered on all the best bargains … an antique dark wood hall stand ($65), a vintage wooden dresser with barley twist detail down the front (also $65) and some gorgeous depression glassware that I didn’t have the heart to price-check.

I figured it was still worth a poke around.

I managed to snaffle up a few little goodies … a couple of vintage books and a tiny blue Aussie pottery rabbit.

And the millisecond I noticed this, an idea began hatching in a crafty corner of my brain.

I asked the stallholder for a price and waited. And waited. And waited.

He carefully turned my latest find over, ran his finger along the edge and held it up to eye height as if to check it was even and square. He pondered silently, wrestling with some inner dilemma.

Finally, he turned to me, looked me dead in the eye and said “one dollar”.

“Sure,” I smiled (with relief), pressing a gold coin into his palm and dismissing his offer of a plastic bag with a single wave.

I was out of there.

Once home, I double-checked to see what I had.

Obviously, it’s a wooden fence finial, a post topper. Right? Nothing more. Nothing less.

I’ve seen plenty of these. We live on a busy street in an older part of town where there are a lot of period homes and fancy wooden fences. Our street is a main route out of the city for many late-night and on-foot revellers. Fairly regularly, on a Saturday or Sunday morning-after-the-night-before, I’ll find a finial or two and maybe a clutch of fence pickets in our front yard, assuming the merry passers-by have grabbed them from a nearby property before throwing them over our fence.

As you would.

I know how hard it is to get matching fence parts so I always take a wander back up the street, towards the city, find the fence where each piece/s belong and return them. It’s quite satisfying.

But I had something different in mind for this finial find from the local church jumble sale. A couple of coats of paint, a layer of wax, a pair of old keys and some twine, and it’s become my new door stopper, referred to by others in this household as: “The Big Knob”.

Jack Sparrow (Pirate Cat) is still a little wary of it.

And I have no idea what was going through that stallholder’s mind when he was pricing this for me.

I think he was probably taking a lend of me.

And I fell for it … bizarre, over-dramatic hob-knobbery in the church hall.

The year of the fecking fence

Being fifty-something, I’ve lived within many different fences, both physical and metaphoric.

The fences on my mind just now are the physical ones.

The year 2012 is panning out to be our “Year of the Fence”.

Did someone declare 2012 “International Year of the Fecking Fence” … and forget to warn me?

We have just replaced the fence at an investment property we own (well, we AND the bank own).

Quite possibly the world’s most boring fence.

There are four units on the lot and it’s taken several months of organising and collaborating and negotiating to make this fence happen. We engaged a professional property manager part way through the process to help deal with everyone’s needs and deal with the fencer and deal with the council and particularly to deal with the next-door neighbours.

Why is a fence so problematic? Because it’s a shared structure? Because it marks our property rights? Because it’s tied to our sense of privacy and ownership?

My Boy (an Economics major) says it’s all to do with property rights. He says that EVERYTHING has to do with property rights … domesticating dogs, taxing carbon and erecting fences.

What I know is that I wouldn’t be a fencer for quids. And, if by some quirk of happenstance I were, I’d insist on payment up front, before I turned a sod or flicked on the power saw.

A fencer always ends up in between, treading the no-man’s land between what one property owner wants, and what another (or in this case, another four) property owner wants.

Oh, if only fence fixing was as simple as Robert Frost described it in his Mending Wall poem (a favourite of mine)

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

By Robert Frost

Not much consolation when the fence at home looks like this:

I believe two could pass abreast through those gaps. Perhaps they are the work of urban hunters. Or maybe just suburban wear and tear. One more good wind and it will be down.

We have no cows, or apples or pines to keep confined.

I have let my neighbour know beyond the hill, but spring mending time has come (again) and there’s not much fence mending action.

Over the wall, beyond the hill, there’s a giant renovation going on and a landscaping project in the wind, so we have agreed to wait. Until the time is right.

Because good fences make good neighbours.

Especially important for the neighbours you actually live beside.

Falling in love with our house. ALL over again.

Being fifty-something, I should have my feelings more under control.

But I haven’t. I am fickle.

When we bought our current home more than 12 years ago, I fell in love at first sight. This grand old dame had me at “verandah”.

We settled in fast, devising a ten-year plan to boost our investment in a high capital growth area while we enjoyed life in the city. Surely by then My Girl and Wonder Boy would have flown the nest and we’d be ready for a move to the country.

We were right on one count only.

My Girl has made her way out into the big wide world several years ago.

Wonder Boy is still hanging on, teetering on the edge, almost ready to take flight.

And I’m not ready for a move to the country.

Feck. There go our best laid plans …

When we moved here in 2000, we set about renovating. Serious renovating. I mean knocking out walls. Unearthing beautiful period features of our home that a previous generation of 1970s renovators had eaten up.

We painted. We polished. We plastered. We sandblasted and glazed and painted some more. It seemed never-ending. But over the years we got tired, maybe bored, and slowed down on the work.

We busied ourselves with other things and learned to live with the undone renovations, as if they didn’t exist.

We dropped the ball.

In the last eighteen months or so, we swung our ten-year plan into action.

We needed to ready our house for sale so we could downsize to something smaller.

Something in the country.

We picked up that renovating ball and got it bouncing.

We turned this, into this

And this, into this

And this, into this (still a work in progress)

ANd this into this (WIP)

french doors, midlife, fifty-something, renovation, before and after

We even renovated the bathroom and I got this dreamy bath.

Now I’m not sure I can leave. I am falling in love with this house ALL over again. I’m motivated more than ever to show this home some more love.

Since this incidental gardening stint and the $4 porch redo, my spirits lift every time I come in the front gate.

Yes, this grand old dame still has me at “verandah”.

“Here” doesn’t feel like a rut whatsoever.

And a move to the country doesn’t seem nearly as inviting as it did ten years ago.

Eventually our retirement is likely to depend on us unlocking some capital from this house as we move on to something smaller and more manageable.

Eventually.

For now (for the next wee while, at least) I’m loving making this house our home again … a fifty-something home. We’re creating a new legacy and something to leave behind … something for the next generation of renovators to rip out and re-fashion.

Yes, I’m loving falling in love with our house ALL over again. There I said it. Again.

Time to break it to Mr P that my heart belongs to another here.

My spidey sense tells me he might be feeling the same way and loving this resurgence of our renovation mojo as much as I am.

Why else would he be calling himself the “roofing ninja” this week?

Be careful what you wish for (a cautionary tale of upcycling)

Being fifty-something, you’d think I’d have learnt to keep my big mouth shut.

When I went public on this Nothing Like a Candle in the Wind blogpost about my fetish for Fowlers Vacola jars, I should have known I’d get more than I bargained for.

And so it was.

My sister K responded with an offer of an entire Fowlers Vacola bottling kit, which was gathering dust in her garage.

When Mum passed away in 2005, K was voted the Sister Most Likely to Bottle and accepted the challenge of stewardship of Mum’s preserving kit.

It’s eight years on. The urge to bottle hasn’t kicked in for K (or any of the rest of us) so I now have guardianship of the Fowlers Vacola manifest … with the family’s blessing to do with it whatever I feel best.

Obviously, that means upcycling.

The challenge is on … I have the big sterilising pot (or, as we refer to it: “the cauldron” – we love a witchy reference), a bag full of multi-sized lids, clips, rings, instruction booklets, tongs, bands and the bottles/jars. More than one hundred of them. Yikes! That’s a lot of candles in the wind.

I have a mountain of upcycling ahead of me.

Here are my first two projects. You will notice, I have picked off the “low-hanging fruit” to begin with, while I give some thought to how I can make meaningful use of ALL those bottles.

#1 Fowlers Vacola Upcycle – Rhubarb Pot Cauldron

This makes perfect sense in our family. Mum and Dad were mad, keen gardeners and always had a thriving bed of rhubarb under cultivation.

Rhubarb is undergoing a resurgence in the foodie world. I checked with the horticulturist at our local nursery and discovered that rhubarb is a very pot-friendly vegetable (yes, it’s technically a veg) and that there were seedlings in season, ready-to-go.

Mr P drilled some drainage holes in the base of the cauldron, panel-beated the lid out into a saucer shape and I planted it up.

There we have it … an upcycled cauldron of rhubarb-in-the-making. That’s the original colour of the cauldron (no repainting required) and I’m already loving the pop of colour in the wintry garden.

#2 Fowlers Vacola Upcycle – Tall, tall candlesticks

This simple project took care of four Fowlers Vacola metal lids and helped me upcycle these two turned wood “pieces” I picked up a couple of months back at the Ballarat Trash and Trivia Market for $1 each.

Let’s call them wooden legs, just for the family in-joke reference … see The Peculiar Language of Families.

Mr P evened the wooden legs with a saw. We then screwed two larger Fowlers Vacola lids to the bases of the wooden legs and two smaller Fowlers Vacola lids to the tops.

A slap of undercoat, a swish of Dulux Antique White, a light sand to add some distress detail, a coat of white wax and these 55cm-tall babies were ready.

With a couple of chunky white candles ($2 each at the $2 Shop … amazing, because very few things in the $2 Shop actually cost $2) these make quite a statement in the hallway.

I’m pleased to have made a start on this over-sized upcycling project that has inveigled its way into my life. It’s an elephant I’m going to devour one bite at a time. I will keep you posted with my progress, bite-by-bite.

In the meantime, be careful what you wish for.