Naomi Bulger: messages in bottles

_You could be forgiven, if you spend any amount of time at all reading blogs, for sometimes feeling the need to express the odd bout of what I like to call “peony fatigue.”

Peonies are undoubtedly favourites of bloggers at every corner of the Internet, and these lovely flowers can show up in almost every conceivable iteration. This is especially so at the moment, as the northern hemisphere slides happily into early summer (that's peony season, folks). Blogger + peony = somewhat of a cliché, it is true. But if that is the case then I guess I’m a cliché*, too, because I adore peonies.

_I love how gloriously big and fulsome and womanly peonies are. They are delicate but not demure. Feminine but not frail. They are the Rubenesque ladies of the floral world. I love the heady fragrance they carry. And I love that when peonies are pink, they are wholly and unashamedly pink.

Last week I spent 11 hours on a hospital bed, toiling in a labour of love to bring my beautiful daughter Madeleine into the world. Around mid-morning a nurse came in, her head and torso hidden beneath a floral bouquet, overflowing with roses and lilies and an abundance of buds and half-opened peonies. They had been sent by Mr B’s team at work, assuming our baby was already born. The nurse put them on a table directly in front of me, and I focused on those flowers as each new contraction tightened.

Later that night, after I was wheeled into the ward and lay in a fresh bed with my child in my arms, overcome with exhaustion and love and wonder and shock and pain and awe, they carried the flowers into my room, too.

At 4am when I woke to feed my child, I could smell the blooms.

And at 7am when they brought in my breakfast and opened the curtains to the cold Melbourne morning as my little girl curled warm and drowsily on my chest, I saw the peonies had opened. Another birth. They were magnificent.

Mr B came in not long after and bent to sniff them. “What did you say these are called again?”

“Peonies,” I told him.

“What? Penises?!?”

“Peonies!” Yeesh.

Once the name had been clarified, we agreed that they were beautiful beyond any flower. “For the rest of her life, peonies will be Madeleine’s flower,” we said.

Madeleine and I left the hospital to come home on a windy morning four days later. The last of the yellow oak leaves whirled in gusts along the tramlines and pathways, and winter clouds scuttled across the sky in an ever-moving patchwork of sunshine and shade. I sat in the back seat with Madeleine, but I could see Mr B’s face in the rear-vision mirror. His smile was as wide as mine.

The front gate creaked as we opened it onto the herb garden that fronted our little house, and Mr B reached into the letterbox to check it as we passed through. Inside was a postcard from my new friend Kate, who I had met at a blogging conference a couple of months back, welcoming Madeleine into our family. Kate is sending out 100 postcards in 100 different Pantone colours. Guess which colour she happened to pick to send to us?

_*I read once that a cliché only becomes a cliché because it is the best way of expressing something. There could be something in that, don’t you think?

And one more thing: THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for your sweet comments and wishes on this post. I feel truly blessed to have so many friends met and unmet, near and far. 

_Emily Rose is my stepdaughter, although none of us like to use that term since it seems so cold, and doesn’t even come close to conveying the sense of family that we have. Next month, she will be 14.

Emily Rose is beautiful, intelligent, complex, passionate, affectionate and deeply loyal. She drives me crazy. Crazy with a love for her that makes me feel so proud, so possessive, so fiercely protective of her that I am churned up in a constant internal battle of emotions versus reality ("I cannot be her mother. I should not be her mother. She already has a good mother. But, dammit, I feel like her mother").

Are you a step mother or step father? Do you know this beautiful, terrible, unquenchable conflict?

Emily Rose is wonderfully creative, and she and I share a love for many projects, like photography, film, writing, cooking and craft. We also share similar tastes in movies, television and some books, something that I like to think makes Emily Rose particularly mature, rather than me immature. Disagree if you dare. We drive Mr B crazy on road trips, telling and retelling our favourite moments from Flight of the Conchords, Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Harry Potter, comparing new music we've discovered, and sharing where we’re up to in the latest Frankie mag or The Hunger Games.

But Emily Rose is also a teenaged girl, which means she comes with other attributes. She has strong opinions on everything and isn't afraid to share them. She is incredibly messy, unceasingly hungry, tireless when it comes to shopping for clothes, has about a zillion friends, and is obsessed with taking photographs of herself and said zillion friends.

_You can’t predict Emily Rose. From her father she has inherited a palpable charisma, an entertainer’s love of humour and performance, a head of stunning curls, and a furnace-like temper that’s as quick to flare up as it is to subside.

Sometimes I find it hard to navigate these extremes, both in Emily Rose and in Mr B. I’m a slow burner. Slower to rise in temper but, I am ashamed to admit, a lot slower than either of them to apologise or forgive. It takes me a lot longer to understand my own emotions, let alone anyone else’s, and the ‘thinking time’ I require in the interim teeters dangerously close to the edge of sulks (and has been known to tumble over at times).

Anyway, the thing about Emily Rose is this:

She is to blame for the splints on my hands that make it so difficult for me to type this post. For the fact that I am sitting in a rocking chair with one leg elevated and a thigh under an ice pack to ease the searing pain. She is the reason that I cast a shadow roughly the size of a garden shed, and have to pee just about every half hour.

You see, I never wanted children of my own. I liked children, I just didn’t think I could give a child the life it deserved. And I lived such a rich and wonderful life, full of love and travel and adventure, that while I knew I would miss out on one experience by not having a child of my own, I still had so much for which to be thankful.

Emily Rose changed all that. Through her I had a taste, just a little taste, of what it would be like to be loved by someone for whom you would lay down your life. Because at the same time that I was discovering that I loved Emily Rose more than I ever believed I could love anyone, she gave me her love, too.

From the day I met her, in London when she was just nine years old and her beautiful sister Meg was 14, Emily Rose welcomed me into her family. In time, that welcome turned to friendship, and then love. And the sweetness she showed me, her affection, her acceptance, completely changed my outlook on parenthood.

So when my little Baby B enters the world, she can thank Emily Rose not only for being the best big sister a baby girl could desire, but also for her very existence. Because Baby B is as much a product of my love for Emily Rose as she is of my love for Mr B.

E + me, 2008 to 2012 L-R:
At Hamleys in London; Disneyland in LA; at the Plaza NYC; at Tullebudgera Beach on the Gold Coast; by the Eiffel Tower Paris; on the Spanish Steps in Rome; reflected in a fountain in Nice; and on the tram in Melbourne just this weekend, listening to music

What to do on a cold Sunday night in with two teenaged girls to entertain and nothing good on TV? Host a cupcake decorating competition, of course.

I mixed up a batch of my favourite vanilla cupcakes and plain buttercream icing, using an adaptation from the Magnolia Bakery (NYC) recipe that I love so much. Mr B went all out at the supermarket, buying up natural food colouring, sprinkles, edible sparkles and tubes of coloured piping.

The girls were incredibly creative with their designs. There was a blue-sky rainbow scene, a glowing eye, yin and yang, and even a scooped out bowl of pasta with candy spaghetti bolognese (a tribute to the delicious spag bol we'd eaten earlier for dinner, courtesy of Deb from Bright and Precious). We were very impressed, and Mr B sure had a tough time judging the winner.

It was just lovely to sit in the other room and listen them quietly chatting with one another as they mixed up colours and textures and patterns. It's so nice that, despite being in Years 8 and 9 respectively, they still take so much pleasure in these types of activities. (And I confess we all took pleasure in eating them, later, too.) 

Autumn showers, cool mornings, my breath visible in the air when I walk the dog. Welcoming visitors from far away, exploring the shops and markets together, downing tacos and treats. Reading books under a warm blanket, cuddling cat, dog and man; taking kicks left, right and centre from Baby B.

I'm sorry I've been so absent from your blog and mine lately. As you can see, I've been spending my time in all kinds of lovely ways. What's been happening in your life? How are you enjoying the change of seasons?

Today I got stuck in our hallway for a rather scary and gloomy 25 minutes.

The doorknob to the door that separates the kitchen from the hall had fallen off and been neatly placed on the kitchen bench (on the OTHER side of the door) when I accidentally shut the door behind me, locking myself away from my phone, my computer and even my house keys (so I couldn't leave to go looking for help or to find a public phone). Channelling my inner MacGyver, I managed to dismantle the rest of the doorknob recess and get the darned thing open without having to smash the glass on the top half of the door (which at one point was an option I seriously considered). I then figured out how to put everything back together, including fixing the original problem. I am feeling somewhat smug this morning. Can you tell?

Meanwhile, here's what I've been loving on the interwebs lately:

* This post on overdoing social media
* Free iPhone wallpapers
* Customised serving trays
* The adorable Sophia Grace and Rosie, with Ellen and meeting Nicki Minaj
* This lovely digital download
* These dapper dog and classy cat habitats
* Beautiful photography for the prevention of violence against women

_In which I woke up at 4am because my body knew I had to get up at 5am.

In which I flew from Melbourne to Sydney and, when I arrived, the sun was high just like I remember it always being in Sydney and I thought all those Wettest Season Ever claims must have been imagined.

In which I had toast and tea with my parents in a cafe in my old neighbourhood of Surry Hills, and it was oh so familiar but also not.

In which I realised that yet another place no longer felt like home, but that I was ok with that.

In which my dad and I roamed around The Rocks taking photographs, and my mother exercised the patience of a saint.

In which on seeing the photograph of myself at the top of this post, I realised I really should invest in some actual maternity clothes.

In which I devoured a Thai lemongrass and basil stir-fry for lunch, and the chilli gave Baby B the hiccups.

In which my parents, just returned from China, brought back a bounty of cute outfits for Baby B, and a hand-engraved ink stamp with Mr B's and my name and the symbol for 'love' to celebrate our first anniversary.

In which my friend Sarah and I met up in Chinatown for noodles and dumplings and green tea icecream.

In which the owner of the noodles and dumpling place came outside and played his violin for the crowd while we waited for a table.

In which Sarah and I had one of those brilliant creative brainstorms during which everything fit into place.

In which I watched incredibly bad reality TV in bed in my hotel room, and it was an unspeakable luxury.

In which I caught a taxi out to Rozelle in the morning, and the driver was actually friendly and knew the way.

In which I sipped chai tea and fresh juice with my friend Cara, and we shared our lives on fast-forward.

In which the 3 Weeds was closed when we arrived, and I had to submit to the indignity of being a pregnant woman loitering on a pub stoop.

In which at 12:05pm the pub opened, and we headed toward the back where Cara and Sarah had booked a private room just for me and my friends.

In which I proceeded to sit like a fat, round queen bee for the next five hours while my friends dropped in as the afternoon suited them, to say hi.

In which my mum made a black forest cake for Baby B and it was sublime (and very cute).

In which I was thankful, not for the first time or even the 100th time, for the wonderful friendships I have, and that love trumps distance.

In which, while waiting for my plane, I realised I'd miss dinnertime and that was not a good thing while pregnant, so I ordered airport McDonalds.

In which regret became not a strong enough word.

In which all the staff at Virgin Airlines were super sweet about my baby bump, and even the security-check staff got all excited for me and Baby B.

In which Mr B was waiting for me at the gate, the dog and cat spilled out of the front door in a frenzy of love when I arrived home, and the house wasn't QUITE as bachelor-messy as I had feared.

How was your weekend?

_(Except it's not actually made with pumpkin, but butternut squash to give it a lovely, sweet flavour. Meh. Potato potahto.)

It's autumn in Australia and, although Melbourne seems to be clinging to the mother of all Indian summers, the leaves are turning gold and brown and the nights are most definitely cooler. This puts me in the mood for soup.

_I have been searching and experimenting for ages to get just the right kind of pumpkin soup for my winter mood: hearty but not too thick; creamy but not too rich; scented with autumn spices but still classic. Comforting. Homelike. I adapted this recipe from one on Good Eatin' With Lynne and I do believe I've found my pumpkin/butternut squash soup holy grail at last.

Let me know if you end up making this. We ate it with thick slices of Vienna loaf, warmed in the oven and then buttered. It was delicious.

Ingredients:

1 butternut squash
1 tbsp olive oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 fat garlic clove, coarsely chopped
1 tsp minced fresh ginger
1/2 tbsp brown sugar
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp cinnamon
2-3 cups chicken stock
1/2 cup coconut milk
Freshly ground sea salt (to taste)

To garnish:

A little extra coconut milk
Freshly ground black pepper
Fresh herbs (eg sage leaves, parsley leaves, chopped chives)

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 180 C.

2. Halve the squash and scoop out the seeds. Place the halves in a baking tray and brush them with a little olive oil, then roast until the squash is very tender. This will probably take up to an hour, although I sped the process up to half an hour by cutting up the squash into smaller pieces.

3. While the squash is roasting, prepare your other ingredients: chop the onion and garlic, mince the ginger, and place the spices and brown sugar together into a small bowl.

4. When the squash is cooked, remove it from the oven. At the same time, heat the oil in a big pot over a medium-to-low flame, then stir in the onion, garlic, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and sugar. Cover and let it cook for about 10 minutes.

5. While the onion and spices are cooking, remove the peel from the squash and toss it out, then cut the squash into smallish chunks.

6. Add the squash and chicken stock to the pot then return the lid and bring it all to the boil. Reduce the heat, cover, and simmer for 10 minutes.

7. If you plan to serve warm bread, pop it in a low oven at the end of the simmer period.

8. Take your soup off the heat and puree it in a blender. Depending on your blender, you may need to let the soup cool off just a little first, to avoid cracking the plastic. (Better still, use an immersion blender. Ahem. I don't have one, Santa.)

9. Return the soup to the pan on the lowest heat. Stir in the coconut milk. Do a little taste-test at this stage. If you think it's needed, add in a little sea-salt, but not too much. 

10. When the soup is hot enough to serve, pour it into serving bowls. Swirl a teaspoon of coconut milk in the centre to decorate each serve, grind pepper over it, then garnish with herbs.

11. Quickly take the bread out of the oven and butter it so the butter melts right in. You're done!

_And here's what you might have missed last week:

• Friends and Finders Keepers in Melbourne
  
• The nesting bonanza
  
• This band sent a monkey into space!
• Henri, the philosophical cat
• This adorable letterpress A-Z of Melbourne
• Free digital design downloads
• The first of the Dear Baby posts

That time when I was 16 and I saw a rainbow end at the bottom of the horse paddock so I ran down to see if there was a pot of gold. There was: the pure gold of looking up to see a magical band of colours begin just out of reach of my outstretched fingertips, curving up, up into the unending sky.

I danced under the end of the rainbow and my brother's friend, still at the top of the hill, said it looked like I was dancing inside all the colour.