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Took up the challenge (comment two blogs ago) to make a butternut squash cake. I pretended that squash was carrot and proceeded accordingly. We’re all still alive, and it got a thumbs up from my willing taste-testers.

It contains:
lump of squash, grated (skin left on)
SR flour
Sugar (I’d use brown in the UK but it’s hard to find here)
eggs
oil
walnuts, chopped
pinch of salt
ground cinamon
sodium bicarb (I’d use baking powder in the UK but it’s also hard to find here)

I think that’s all. Dump it all in a bowl and mix it up a bit. Pour into tin. Cook. Don’t ask me what temperature, my oven’s not that sophisticated. The filling is just a tangy buttercream; icing sugar, butter or soft marg, and juiced half a lemon.

We seem to be having the ten plagues of Egypt here at the moment. A wave of water-bourne swimming locust-like things filled the city. It was followed by a wave of gold-coloured hard-shelled flying beetle-like things, and now we are in a wave of multi-coloured locusts. Combine those with the ants and the mozzies and someone will be presenting it as evidence that the old testament prophecies all point to the second coming for a tuesday afternoon in 2010.
Changing the subject entirely, Dave Burnett, anthropologist, lecturer at All Nations and generally good bloke, used to extol the virtues of missionaries making themselves vulnerable to the people they are working amongst. So, does arriving on someone’s doorstep with “I’m sorry I’m late but I had to walk the last two kilometres from where I got the car stuck in the mud” mean I am a good incarnational missionary, or merely incompetant?

Once they had finished laughing, kiddo’s mum and two of her brothers hiked back with me and eventually we managed to release jalopy from its muddy incarceration, which took quite a lot longer than we first thought. In fact I got as far as wondering if I ought to pay them for their services, but I kicked against the idea that I do everything for free and I can’t take a favour in return, it kind of smacks of the white guy / native guy power inbalance, except that the inbalance already exists because I could have afforded to pay them if I’d chosen to…. sometimes thinking too much makes life seem so complicated. I compromised… bought some bits from the supermarket, and picked a couple of butternut squashes. i could make myself at home in an economy based around marrow-like vegetables.

Wanted; one long-lasting and tasty recipe requiring 30 butternut squashes. I planted a butternut squash plant, known variously in Argentina as corianito, anco, or calabacin depending on your bit of the country. Then two more plants sprouted themselves from the compost heap, and triffid-like they took over my garden. They haven’t actually tried to eat anyone yet but it’s probably only a matter of time. I’ve given twelve away. I’ve made a pie filling. I’m about to try crystallising them in sugar solution. I have recipes for soup, salad, pasta sauce and hot-pot, although with temperature in the 30’s we might give the hotpot a miss. And there’s still several green ones left on the plants.
Made me remember a book we had as kids; Apple Pigs Which I just went looking for on the internet and found retailing for a hundred quid second hand on Amazon. Sincerely hope our childhood copy hasn’t been sent to a jumble-sale…

New Year’s resolutions for 2010; 1. Convert Argentina, and 2. Fix the car CD player. We plan to start with the latter.

Happy 2010, we hope you celebrated appropriately. The photo above is of us trying to write 2010 in sparklers which would have come out better if I’d known how to slow down the shutter speed. New Year’s resolution number three: learn to use that camera properly. We were up in Salta for a few days, medium sized city some 12 hours driving north from here, hence the need to fix the car CD player. Actually, Joni was extremely well behaved despite the lack of kid-music. We drip-fed him lollies, biscuits, cornflakes and all the major foodgroups, other combinations of sugar and additives. Front seat roles include driving and providing the cabaret; occasionally the cabaret rep takes a break by shifting across to the driver’s seat. Of the various Argentinian provinces we have driven through, Santiago del Estero is not the most picturesque, but it is almost definitely the most exotic (and probably the poorest). Road-kill (not by us) as well as the usual array of dogs and cats, included iguanas, tortoises, little green lizards (‘fraid we squashed a few of those, they’re so small), a pig, and a horse. Outside many of the little huts were makeshift stalls offering cacti, tortoises, pestles and mortars, and parrots. Think hunter-gatherer goes commercial.

Salta was fun, we had a rather “gringo” new year, actually it’s the first time we’ve been at an Argentinean festival without any Argentineans present, although we did gather outside with the neighbours for the traditional setting light to fireworks and tissue-paper balloons at midnight:

We also caught up with some good people who we don’t get to see that often, including a Welsh friend who Joni quickly promoted through the ranks of adopted uncles good for climbing on. It was nice to have the car in Salta too. Previously reliant on public transport, I’d done the city museums and coffee shops to death and beyond, so we enjoyed discovering some of the lakes and hills which are easily accessible by car just a few kilometres beyond the fumes and grime:

Now back in humid mozzie-infested San Francisco, I’m head-down in summer scheme, Martin’s head-down in UK tax-returns, and we’re starting to try and think about what this year might hold for us and where we should be concentrating our energies when we next come up for air.

I sent an SMS to our landlady the other day which read:
“Can you come at 7:00 p.m. to collect the rent as, until then, Hazel is in Quebracho Herrado”

However, what was actually received was:

“Can you come at 7:00 p.m. to collect the rent as, until then, Hazel is in the desire of your heart sweetie.”

She then received another text simply saying “Quebracho Herrado”

I am scared to send texts now!

Health Warning; Those with possible allergies to poor-quality home movies of someone else’s kids, may be advised to sit this one out.
I’ve meaning to get round to putting these clips up for a couple of weeks, so they seemed like a suitable boxing day project which should at least please the long-distance grandparents.

The following two and a half minutes represent a scale model of the two and a half hours we spent at Joni’s nursery Christmas party; divided roughly evenly between hoiking him up onto the inflatable slide, and catching occasional glimpses of him as he rushed to and fro on the bouncy castle. Apparently there were other activities on offer, but we couldn’t tell you a lot about them.

And the next one, apart from being Joni on his trike, was a little experiment to see if I could add sound. The music is one of our favourite songs by Raffi Actually, it’s a good job we like it, because as Joni’s favourite CD we get to hear it most days. Getting the music off the CD and editing it to fit the video was quite a learning curve. I’ve been mightily impressed by the Nero suite that I found on Martin’s computer, from which I used Startsmart and Wave to create the sound. Unfortunately Virtual Dub then scrambled it, which is why it is now all over the place. Apparently it’s a known bug and the young geek who developed Virtual Dub (just tried to abbreviate it to VD but this is a family show) says he hopes to fix it for the next version.

Joni loves seeing himself on video, he can watch the same short clips over and over again for really quite a long time. Possibly he thinks he’s been catapulted to stardom along with his real super-heros “Thomas” (the Tank Engine) and “Sormaseep” (Shaun the Sheep).

It’s ten o’clock in the morning on Christmas eve and we are hoping to start and finish our Christmas shopping in the next two hours, only hampered slightly by the twin circumstances that it is pouring with rain and we haven’t yet talked to the people who we are sharing Christmas dinner with to decide who is bringing what. One of the things that I like about Argentina is the hassle-free Christmas, particularly in the lower-middle echelons of society.
The last few days on the other hand have been fairly manic. Those paying close attention might remember the summer scheme with disabled people that I was involved in last year. That started again on Monday so I have been there all week. This year there is an added bonus in that I have managed to obtain a place for my little friend from the hamlet who I wrote about a few blogs ago, which has also brought its own complications. The local governor had agreed that the village would provide the transport, and then at the last moment decided that he wasn’t very interested after all. This is a fair summary of my experience so far with this governor. A friend said “these people use their money to buy their political position, and then use their political position to get more money”. So maybe I just shouldn’t expect anything, except that the guy is hard to bypass in a small community, especially if you’re trying to access resources. Anyway, the upshot of all that is that my first task every morning is to drive into the back of beyond to collect said kid, and my last job is to return him home afterwards. This doesn’t bode greatly for my campaign for the kid to go to school next year, although I will at least have the law on my side for that round of negotiations.

Anyway, Monday, we arrived, to discover that kiddo needed a health form in order to be allowed in the pool. Not just any old “history compiled by the parents” form, but a full medical completed and signed by a doctor. Swallowing the desire to point out that he probably takes a bath most days to no ill effect, we piled back into the car and went for a tour of San Francisco’s hospital. After making us wait an hour, we were sent on to a different department whose secretary informed us that there were no more appointments available for today. So I went into pleading mode, and the secretary, younger and less Doberman-like than some of her colleagues, suggested that we went upstairs to argue our case with the duty doctor. Carrying seven-year old up two flights of concrete steps no mean feat; (this is a hospital, what do they do with the beds and wheelchairs?) we waited outside the doctor’s office. She, bless her, took one look and said “I know this kid what do you want me to sign?” and filled in the form with barely a poke of the patient. So we made our second (more successful) arrival at the summer scheme a mere ninety minutes after the first.

Worth it? Roaring. This little boy who has barely left his house in his life so far, was anything but intimidated by being part of a larger group, even though they are all more able and mobile than himself. He piled into the middle of the football game with full abandon, and as for the water; ecstatic. The other kids, all with learning difficulties, also went out of their way to include him with friendly greetings, and playing splash with him in the pool. All of which also bodes well for him if he makes it into school next March. The final hurdle for that may be his mum, ironically, for it is also she who is pushing for him to go to school in the first place. She has been accompanying him to the summer scheme this week, until yesterday she said that he couldn’t come every day, as she hasn’t got time to come with him every day. Which I took as an opportunity to suggest that maybe I should try taking him on my own, an idea which she didn’t take to at all, saying that he wouldn’t want to come without her. In fact from what I have seen, he is so well integrated that he rarely even glances across to her during the whole of the morning. However, since his birth-day seven and a half years ago, of the very few places he has been to none of them have been without mum, and I suspect that it is going to take a piece of relationship-building longer and more sensitive than me suggesting it might be a good idea, to bring about that next step of progress.

Meanwhile I’m trying to think of something original and Christmassy to finish with, but really I can’t improve on “The word became flesh and came and dwelt among us”, which is probably just as well. Have a good one.

Possibly because I occasionally buy huge quantities of fruit to make jam, or maybe just because I ride a bike and mend my own clothes, the guy in the fruit and veg shop seems to have me boxed as a domestic-goddess/ earth-mother. He is usually waiting for me with tips and ideas for recipes, and he often throws in a freebie of something he’s trying to get rid of and thinks I should be able to use lots of.
My child on the other hand lives with me, and therefore possibly has a more realistic picture. We were sitting in idle companionship on the front doorstep watching the world go by as one does on a sunny evening in Argentina, when he turned to me and said dispasionately:

“Mummy, cut the grass”.

He was right, it was quite long. So long in fact that the bane-of-my-life grass cutting machine starting smoking half way through and I had to turn it off and finish the worst bits by hand with a pair of sheers. Another couple of years and I’ll be teaching Joni to use the stupid thing himself.

I’ve got a potential humdinger of a blog pending, but I keep getting side-tracked by other things…. Or maybe I’m taking refuge in the distraction of the other things. Anyway, today’s side track is from Ekblad’s “Reading the Bible with the Damned” (2005) which is an interesting little publication for anyone working with folk outside of mainstream culture.
The bit that caught my attention was his end-times discourse where he talks about the destruction of principalities, powers and passions. Along with the usual list of death, disease, hate, social, structural and political powers, and ideologies all doomed to destruction, Ekblad also includes anything that looks like an institution including all the Christian ones; all denominations, all mission organisations, all NGO’s, all para-church organisations.

On my first reading I thought “that’s a bit harsh”. On my second reading I quite enjoyed the idea of certain Christian organisations being consigned to a vast eschatological shredding machine, in a vindictive but fictitious sort of way, like playing a computer game. It wasn’t till a day later on my bike that I suddenly realised what he means, and why he is right.

Institutions are something like folders on a computer; they don’t actually carry any weight beyond that of their content; an empty folder is zero kilobytes; an institution without people is a name on paper. In the grand scheme of things institutions don’t exist other than as entities defined by human beings for ease of organisation. In the final instance what will be left will be the people. When the lamb opens his book of life, the names therein will be people, not institutions. When all the buzzwords, building projects, flow diagrams, meetings, fundraising, smart targets, strategies, leadership elections and form-filling finally crumble, the only thing left of an institution will be any tangible contribution that its members might have made towards building the Kingdom of God.

I’m not about to write a heavy-handed “application” section, not least because I want to go to bed, so let’s just suggest that for some institutions whose vision may have become reduced to “we grow to exist and we exist to grow”, it might be time for a rethink around where those resources might ultimately be leading to.

The house went ominously quiet prompting a search which confirmed that we were in fact short of one whole toddler, but the garage strangely appeared to have suffered a minor flood….

Following the trail out to the patio, all was swiftly revealed….

Poor child’s parents clearly don’t provide him with sufficient food and drink.