Monday, March 26, 2012

Potatoes, Blankets, Butterflies, Sawdust and Sandpits

I have a bit of a backlog of blog posts so have lumped a few miscellaneous items together. A bit like the last box you pack when shifting house.

All the reject potatoes ready for roasting - garlic, rosemary, olive oil and salt and pepper. Tiny potatoes, shovel chopped potatoes, slightly bug eaten potatoes. None would be good for the shop yet all were delicious. I've been thinking how you eat a lot more dirt when you grow your own food, home grown produce is never quite so sparkling. I bet it's good for us.

 Some newly thrifted woolen rugs, vintage picnic blankets which are also lovely to lie under.

A new hat and a new sandpit made by daddy Bowerbird.  Some old red gum sleepers upcycled , we found them near the railway line with "take me" on them, and $22 worth of sand.

Getting right into the spirit of it. After seeing the little one besotted with the beach we decided a bit of sand was definitely required.

Harvesting , harvesting, harvesting
 Laying saw dust paths. 
 A change of hat and change of spirit.
 The bigger Bowerbirds were very enthusiastic about this project and helped shovel and rake.  Sawdust is a lovely light, textural medium for children to play with.

Bit of attitude, actually I think she got sawdust down her top and wanted it off. 

Back scratch
Peering over our neighbours fence and taking photo, sounds very wrong but was perfectly innocent. Much butterfly excitement. The tree was so covered in butterflies at one stage it looked like bracket fungi.  The butterflies, birds and bees are having a sappy feast. Poor trees look like they have seen better days, it is some sort of wattle that is splitting and falling, nature is making the most of it's demise.


  1. Love the look of your roasting potatoes! They look fab to me! I have often thought about sawdust paths, I'll be interested to see how yours go.

  2. Love the hat and cheeky grin photo. Email to me


In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.
Margaret Atwood

“She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbour:
"Winter is dead.”
― A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young