Here he is, our new friend! He/she's half feral - we rescued him from the street last week. We figured that little kittens didn't stand a chance if there was a cold snap (which is coming, soon!) or vicious dogs around. I have always harboured a secret desire of owning a cat again, so we figured that this was a good a time as any to adopt. The boys were over the moon, of course, until they realised that he wasn't that easily coaxed out from under the bed, but over the last week he has got more used to us and has started to play like kittens should. The only catch is that he won't let us pat him! He'll sit on my lap, rub up against our legs and chase us around the house, but patting or touching with hands is strictly forbidden. I wonder if he has been traumatised, and associates hands with bad things? Who knows. Hopefully, he will slowly get used to us.
We haven't got a name yet! The list just keeps getting bigger, so I thought I'd 'throw it out there' for some votes, please! If you're reading this then express an opinion. it might help give little whatshisname an identity. We are tossing up: Fizzgig (my choice), Grover (Matiss' choice), Pūka (Latvian for "Fluff" - Jeremy's choice), Scrappy, Beelzebub, Snowy (yep, just like 'bluey' for a redhead), Slinky Malinky, Scarface Claw (Mikus' choice) and others. Any more suggestions?

If you ask me, there's nothing better than a jar of homemade jam. Especially if you crack it open on a cold winter morning so that you can decorate your porridge with strawberries or cherries or blackcurrants which you picked long, long ago - when it was sunny and you could walk around barefoot...
Homemade jam for Latvian-Latvians is no big deal. During the Soviet era you couldn't really buy mass-produced preserves from the shop, so every granny and person with a garden would make their own jam, jelly, cordials, pickled cucumbers and salads etc. Typically, gran always made WAY too much and lots of my friends seem to have memories of getting jars of jam from the cellar which had been there for years, and remember feelings of frustration because gran kept making new jars, before the old supplies could be finished off. Even today it is accepted that the store-bought jam is the 'posh', high quality stuff. But not for me!!
A few years ago I thought I'd try my hand at making jam, and haven't looked back. No pectin, though. You just boil the berries with lots of sugar, let it cool, boil it again, let it cool, until it thickens and then just whack it into jars. I know that I'm probably meant to have thermometers and bottling accessories and recipes and stuff, but I don't want to overcomplicate things. And also - why bother when the kids slurp down my strawberry jam faster than I can make it? One little touch that does make a difference, though, is a kiddie-drawn label.
So it all starts in late June with strawberries - last year my aim was to make enough jam so that I wouldn't be forced to buy that soul-less, smooth supermarket version. Let me tell you, there's nothing more heartbreaking than a pot of burned strawberry jam. Ask Jem what a grown woman does when she burns it!
We have berry bushes all around our house - blackcurrants and gooseberries, and there are also red currants and raspberries just down the hill. When Mikus is sleeping and Tiss is otherwise occupied, I am partial to plonking myself down next to one of these bushes with a little bucket and picking berries. Those tiny balls of flavour and vitamins. Mmmmmm. When we first moved over here, I was intrigued and just that little bit offended when the workers building Kugures mentioned that there were some great wild strawberries and raspberries growing on our property - and they had just been eating them. When I asked them where, they answered: "Not telling!" And they meant it. If you know a good wild berry patch in Latvia, you certainly don't share the info around.
My triumph this summer is making jam from rowan berries, pīlādži in Latvian. They turn red/orange when the weather gets colder and are small, hard, bitter berries with a black cross on the end. A pīlādzis is a magical plant in Latvian folklore. Good against witches and other evils. Anyhow, I made jam with rowan berries, some apple, and a dash of good gin. Mashed through a sieve to remove the hard stones. And it worked! Great with meat or a tart jam to put on a grown-up toast.
My biggest jam-making disappointment this year were the cherries - we usually have oodles of sour cherries from the trees around our house, and this year was shaping up to be a BIG year. Ages ago I gave up making "Latvian olives" - hours of painstakingly removing stones from cherries and then layering them in a jar with rum or other such spirit, leaving them soak so that around Christmas time you can spend many sozzled evenings remembering summer and the fruits of the harvest - because soon after making the 2 five-litre jars of Latvian olives, I got pregnant, and had to miserably watch everyone ELSE eating them that Christmas... so I got into making cherry jam instead. Much more politically correct and child-friendly. BUT this year it was not to be. One weekend, when we were away camping, a flock of birds flew down and ate everything off the trees. It must have been a big flock because when we returned from our 2 days of camping (me with my jam-making pot ready to go), there was NOTHING left. Not even a sole cherry stone on a stalk. I felt very ripped off, and still do. So next summer you will see me running around the orchard like a madwoman, hanging bits of alfoil and nets over everything!
I could go on and on about berry culture, but I'm sure I've said enough.
PS. Above is a friend, Kaija Moore, enjoying wild strawberries we picked in a Kūgures field this summer - yep, I gave away the secret location

Sorry to anyone who actually reads my ramblings - I haven't been writing much lately. Partly because I've been computer-deprived, but mostly because I've not had much to say! Too relaxed and busy picking berries. Berry picking will definitely have to be the subject of my next entry.
Being in the country has been so wonderful, but soon we will be returning to the 'mean streets' of Riga. During the summer we have been back a handful of times for various commitments - and returning after so much time in the country is always a bit of a shock. When you live here you get used to that fine, black street dust that covers everything, but after the vivid green of Kūgures, Rīga is looking greyer and dirtier than usual. It seems as if everyone in the family feels it: this time the kids went psycho the minute we walked in the door of our apartment, I felt a big stress ball descend on all of us.
I had forgotten my big mental wall of resistance I usually have set up when in Riga - the wall that deflects all of the 'agro' you feel when out on the street. I'm talking about that hard city-stare and those elbows when you're queuing. Too many people who put way too much time into thinking about what they are wearing rather than about how to respect and care for their fellow pedestrians and neighbours. People who believe that if they can scam/earn/steal enough money to buy a luxury car, they have the right to park where they want and drive how they want: and by extension anyone who doesn't have a car like theirs is a lesser human being. It's a crass, simplistic, 'nouveau riche' style and attitude which rules the streets in Rīga, and after a while of living amongst it, it starts to affect you in all sorts of ways. You become self-conscious if you have run down to the corner store in your tracksuit pants (yes, Joel, even YOU); you fret if the kids start yelling too loudly in the park; and worst of all - you find yourself slowly but surely, looking at others who aren't following the "dress and behaviour code" as strange - or even inappropriate.
I know this is the story for a lot of cities - but Rīga seems especially good at it.
I have spent quite a while watching and trying to analyse this and I know the background, there's lots of reasons for it to be this way: previous enforced Soviet conformity and oppression; the influence of our large (and often tasteless) neighbour; the influence of the seemingly priveliged West; the rapidly changing economy; the fact that our neighbourhood has turned into an yuppie, sought-after area lately; etc, etc. I know there's good justification but it's annoying nevertheless. So I have to start building that wall again, I suppose. Oh, and keep the kids' yelling down to a dull roar!

Well, we've now moved to the country for the next few months - the day Matīss finished kindergarten we got into the car (along with the kindy guinea pig) and headed straight to Kūgures (our country house). So that's why we haven't been answering emails or phone calls. The first few days are always a bit stressful because we don't have an internet connection down there - or a landline for that matter - and so I feel like I've cut myself off from the world.
The country is so INTENSE at the moment - we've just celebrated Jāņi, the summer solstice, and paid homage to the sun (at Jāņi, the longest day of the year, it never really gets properly dark, and the sun technically sets for a few hours) and basked in the gloriousness of the countryside at its peak. On the day before Jāņi I did the traditional thing for girls to do, wandered out into a field to pick flowers for my wreath - and sat down amongst the staggering array of wildflowers. The sight was amazing - dozens of different flowers and plants all 'doing their thing', with the heavy honey aroma enveloping me and the sound of a million bees buzzing all around.
So who cares that it was raining all morning - a warm summer rain - we waded out through waist-high grass to cut branches from oak trees anyway. Then managed to bog the car and had to walk back home, gathering cornflowers and poppies along the way.
It was the first year we celebrated Jāņi at Kūgures. About 40 Jāņa bērni ('Jānis' children') came to help us, and we spent a day involved in pagan ceremony. Here's some pics. I won't go into the whole ethnographic explanation. Suffice it to say that I don't believe in all the new-age mumbo jumbo, but I am convinced that at Jāņi the whole of the country vibrates some kind of magical energy. If you don't believe me, come over on the 24th June next year and see if I'm right.

Two years is just about long enough. It's the amount of time that I can be away from Australia, and then I start getting "home sick". Although I'm not sure its technically "homesick" anymore, just "Australiasick" or more accurately, "Brisbanesick". I envy those emigre Latvians who were born in Germany and when they moved back to Latvia, just had to fly two hours north and they were there. They certainly don't have the dilemma of missing the specific environment, weather and lifestyles like we Aussie Latvians do. They can go back to Germany on their holidays for short holidays. When they ring Germany, there's only a one hour time difference. When its daytime in Latvia, its daytime in Germany. When its winter in Latvia, its also winter in Germany, etc, etc.
Whereas when I compare Australia to Latvia, everything is upside down - literally on the other side of the world. I know we all know its a different hemisphere, but it makes an impact. I'm awake when you're asleep. When we look in the night sky over here, we don't even see the same stars as you do. When we are chopping down christmas trees in a snowdrift, you're sweltering next to the bbq. I'll bet that its even true what they say about the water spiralling down the sink in the opposite direction!
I remember the last time we were in Oz (that'll be OVER two years ago now) and those magical first three days after arriving - when you see the new land with the new-vision goggles, where you can see everything, every detail and value it as something interesting and inspirational. I remember studying the gum trees in the tiny little bush-park in the 'burbs, and wondering at the texture of the bark and the combination of earthy colour tones, vowing to get my camera and take some snaps of the breathtaking fusion of natural delights for friends back in Latvia. I was overawed by the smells and sounds of the bush and the burnt out grass and rugged, wild coastline. But after a few days those little details - the bark and the colours and the smells - become assimilated and you don't 'see' them clearly any more. And later I could hardly remember which details were remarkable enough to photograph.
But after two more years of life in Latvia I'm getting flashbacks. I really need a dose of:
lazy, hot afternoons with bare feet on wooden verandahs and watching the electrical storm break later in the evening; eating breakfast OUTDOORS when the cicadas have already started up their heat stress song and reading the Saturday paper with its umpteen special supplements and advertising pamphlets; those friendly guys at the take-away shop/deli/newsagents who ask you: "so how was your weekend?" eventhough you've never met them before; ripe mangoes, tinned spaghetti, kalamata olives; garage sales and the crusty recyled-second hand culture; the view from our house in Pullenvale (see above); poking around in rock pools and watching the surf break on the rocks, that salt-spray taste in the air; friendly strangers and helpful bureaucrats. And funnily, after writing this list, I realise that the things I miss about Oz are little details - there's not really much 'big picture' stuff I yearn for. Just small things that I have come to realise are totally ingrained in me. That feeling of hot air on my skin; the humidity after it's rained. Little things that I can't even describe.
And then, of course, its all those people that we miss like crazy. And all of those milestones and life events that we cannot be there to share, no matter how much we wish we could: I haven't yet seen my best friend, Mel, as a parent eventhough Jack is already over a year old. I can't think of anything better than us letting our kids run riot around us while we yabber amongst the chaos. I'd love to give Andy and Leisel's new daughter a kiss and a cuddle, and to offer to take big brother Gabe out for the afternoon to help out. I want to see Matīss and Mikus at their Oma's sitting down for dinner (with the 'good' tablecloth on because we've come to visit!) Again it's those little details which seem insignificant which make my heart ache for Australia almost every day...