I’m still buzzing from my recent attendance at a Furoshiki workshop at the local library! I feel like I have been bathed in creativity and beauty. Each time our teacher wrapped another random object in fabric with a combination of folds and knots, we all exclaimed with ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’. We’re all now sold on this ancient Japanese art of wrapping things in fabric.
Attending the workshop was a deliberate, much-needed break from painting a bathroom and bedroom. While there’s something beautiful about a freshly painted room, there’s nothing easy or effortless about it. My muscles were aching and lungs longed for fresh air. I exchanged the hard, wooden handle of the paintbrush for the soft folds of fabric. A welcome change.
The instructor explained how this traditional technique had been replaced with modern, habits during her childhood. She recalled with regret the shame she’d felt as a teenager when, out with friends, she discovered in her bag and little snack wrapped lovingly by her ‘traditional’ mother in Furoshiki folds. She quickly hid this from the sight of her friends. She was aware of the wonderful irony that she was now teaching us that ancient, sustainable art.
These past couple of years, Nick and I have certainly appreciated the inter-generational support of my parents. As we’ve developed our property, inside and out, Dad’s age-old winching techniques have helped remove dead trees and tightened new fencing wire. Mum’s decades-old Anzac biscuit recipe has kept us going over many brief coffee breaks.
My mother and father have known me all my life. They therefore knew when I was struggling alongside Nick with the depth and breadth of the physical labour involved here in my new farm life. They offered help. They did it willingly, pointing out that others had helped them so much over the years as they’d built their houses.
Nick and I would, at other times, struggle along with the work, just the two of us. We were so grateful then when help arrived with different perspectives and age-old wisdom.
Certainly from my Mum and Dad I’ve learnt the value of hard work. I grew up seeing them work hard, both of them, physically and mentally. Now, as I move about the house and the property in mud-stained boots and paint-splattered track pants, I recall my Mum saying that ‘a hard-working woman is attractive to a good man!’ I trust this is true. Nick tells me it is.
It certainly hasn’t been an easy start to married life, but it’s been a wonderful way to learn about, and from, each other.
Nick’s only known my parents a few years, and I’ve been on the other side of the world from my parents for 17 years before meeting Nick. All four of us together, clearing land, building a deck, replacing fallen fences and working on all the home-improvements, has given us plenty of opportunity to know each other better. The real knowing that comes in the context of real, down-to-earth work. We’ve sat around the table together, too, eating to be energised for the next task before us. But the real knowing has come in the dust, dirt and debris.
Marcella’s chapter of soups was a great place to go for simple, hearty meals to get us all through those winter work days. Always easy. Always tasty.
#145 ‘Risotto with Sausages’, #146 ‘Potato Soup with Carrots and Celery’, #147 ‘Crostini’, #148 ‘Vegetable Soup, Romagna Style, #149 ‘Summer Vegetable Soup with Rice and Basil, Milan Style’ with hard-working parents/parents-in-law at our table.