Shaken. Again.

2 days ago, our city was again struck by a major earthquake. 5 months ago, a 7.1 magnitude quake struck in the dead of night, miraculously resulting in no casualties. We patted ourselves on the back, brushed off our knees and started to rebuild, thinking that we had suffered and survived 'The Big One' that all NZers grow up expecting sometime during their lifetimes.

This time, though the quake measured less in magnitude (a 6.3), it was centred a few kilometres from the city centre and was only 5km below the surface.

Dozens have been killed. Possibly hundreds. Being such a small city, everyone knows someone dead or feared dead. 2 degrees of separation and all of that. There are 200 people still unaccounted for. 2 days on, people remain trapped beneath the rubble of their workplaces, cafes and homes, while sniffer dogs and their masters (co-workers seems a fairer term) scour the debri. Amazing stories of survival emerge. We watch, glued to the TV, as Armani-clad business people emerge from literally pancaked buildings, covered in dust and bloodied, their loved ones hysterical with relief from their point of vigil. The media anger us with their intrusion into the carnage, but we still watch, turning off the TV only when our children ask another awkward, unanswerable question, or when the tears become too much to hold in.

By some crazy stroke of 'luck', soldiers, both foreign and local were in the city completing exercises at the time. I use the word 'luck' loosely, because it's hard to speak of such a thing when 30 minutes from your doorstep there are people dead and suffering on the streets. What is luck?

But we're okay. The kids are a bit nervy, but so are we. Our beautiful historical city has effectively been destroyed. Basic infrastructure is mostly beyond repair, so primary services like running water, power and sewerage are either not functioning or severely rationed. Disease is feared, as raw sewerage flows into rivers and leaches up from below the surface, blending with silt and sand to form a stinking sludge.

This isn't supposed to happen here. Surely our well-heeled selves in fair Christchurch should be exempt from such horrific acts of nature. Surely these things only happen in third world countries, where we can just click our tongues, flick World Vision $100 and absolve our consciences from any personal responsibility or grief. Disasters on this scale don't happen to real people, do they?

Our historic Anglican cathedral, long seen as the symbol of our city, and indeed a symbol of resolute Cantabrian spirit following the last quake, is a pile of rubble. 20 people are believed to be dead in its ruins, but it is unsafe at this stage to attempt to retrieve the bodies.

I can't bring myself to post pictures. is where you will find many, if you haven't already been glued to it.

Some time next week, I'm going to have to go back to work. I'll have 24 children asking hard questions. They will know people who have suffered immensely. Many will know people who have died. What will I say? How on earth can we carry on with writing our Beach Education trip recount, our mathematics goals, our swimming programme? In years to come, these children will open their Year 4/5 exercise books, see the date of February 22, 2011 carefully printed in sharp pencil and underlined in red ink, and marvel that it was a normal day until 12:48pm. Now it is viewed as anything but.

Somewhere there is a line between experiencing and acknowledging stark horror and loss and just getting up and soldiering on. Who knows where that line is, for this generation of New Zealanders who have been so blessed until now never to have had to suffer heart-breaking times.

Silly old Fox. Doesn't he know?

There's no such thing as a gruffalo!

No idea what I'm talking about? You obviously don't have preschoolers!

http://www.gruffalo.com/

We had an invasion of Mr Whineypants today. Nothing was good enough for Caleb, but anything was cause enough for a good ol' tanty. That child has a temperament of extremes - when he smiles (which to be fair is most of the time) the whole world smiles with him. When he turns on the grizz, we all run for cover!

Anyway, I sent him to bed after lunch after a morning of contrariness. Not surprisingly, he was unimpressed. He declared he wanted to make a gruffalo when he got up. He was expecting me to make excuses as to why it wasn't an option, but I called his bluff and said "What a great idea. We'll get out the craft box and find the things we need". He looked at me in shock, scowling that he missed a certain opportunity for another tantrum, and then declared "No. I want to make a gruffalo CAKE". Refusing to be out-grizzled and allow him the excuse for a wobbly, I told him that was an even better idea, and we'd get straight to it when he woke up. I will admit that I was eye-rolling and cringing inwardly, but please don't give him the satisfaction of knowing this information.

We had a busy day, but squeezed in a trip to the supermarket to buy edible gruffalo-ness. The kids helped me write a list of things we'd need, and we had a great lot of fun at the supermarket selecting the perfect elements for our creation.

* Orange eyes - dried apricots
* Purple spines - jelly beans
* Teeth and tusks - milk bottle lollies
* Horns - bananas

I opted out of a body, as making a small gluten and dairy free cake requires a great deal of sorcery. Making a large one is nigh on impossible. And expensive.

So anyway, cake was made and kind of successful. I iced it and allowed them to add the eyes, teeth and other bits and pieces. They loved it and he's not too ugly!



Please note the PowerPuff Girls hair clip in my hair and the evidence of bowl licking on Caleb's face. Nice, huh?

THE cake

This is it. The cake upon which much praise and adoration has been heaped upon by the many that have partaken of its chocolatey perfection in recent weeks.

I may have mentioned the ludicrous surplus of courgette / zucchini that we have been suffering under over the last month. I am actually OVER them. If I ever suggest growing them again, hit me with a nasty ol' marrow. HARD. That ought to knock some sense into me. If another person suggests making some more chutney, or how lovely a zucchini fritter is of a Sunday morning, I will be the one doing the marrow-striking. You have been warned.

Anyway. A friend of mine **waves at Fiona** gave me some recipes for dealing with said surplus, and one of them was this. It is so good that I have made many. I have even frozen copious amounts of grated zukes so that I can make it in the off-season. If there ever is an off season. It seems wrong to wish powdery mildew on your own garden, but SHEESH! Stop the prolificness!!

Will stop waffling now. Here 'tis.

Fred's Favourite Chocolate Cake

125g butter
1c brown sugar
1/2c white sugar
3 eggs
2 1/2c flour
1t vanilla
1/2c yoghurt
1/4c cocoa
2t baking soda
1t cinnamon
1/2t mixed spice
1.2t salt
3c grated zucchini
1/2-1c chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 170deg. Line 25cm square tin with baking paper. Cream butter and sugars. Add eggs one at a time with a spoonful of the measured flour. Add yoghurt and vanilla and mix well. Sieve in dry ingredients and add grated zucchini. Stir until just combined - do not overmix. Pour into tin and top with chocolate chips. Bake for 45mins.

Try it. It even works when you don't measure stuff - I've tried it. I suspect, due to the moistness, that it would also be an easy gluten free conversion.

Cinderella - as told by Sophie

This obsession with Cinderella is getting a bit worrisome. I think I could recite the Disney version of the movie verbatim, complete with choral interludes, as could everyone else in our family. Nothing pleases Sophie more than watching this piece of cinematic brilliance while changing clothes to fit the story line (there are set 'servant', 'Mark I ball gown', 'Mark II ballgown' and 'wedding' outfits) and singing / lip synching the words.

It was made in 1950 - seriously, it was! I think that's the only reason I allow it to be played so often. Olden days TV isn't bad, surely? The world wasn't corrupted by odd-looking Asian cartoon with scary white-circle-filled eyes, anyway, and that's good enough for me.

In addition to watching Cinderella, Soph loves a good old squabble over the correct Cinderella story. We have screeds of fairy tale books lying about here, and after requesting to be read one, she will proceed to interrupt, argue and demand that we revise the story to add in the bits that God (aka Walt Disney) originally intended. Such as Lucifer the cat **snigger** and the heart-wrenching scene when the sisters strip Cindy of her precious pink gown and baubles just before they leave for the ball, leaving her a sobbing wreck in the garden.

Today, following our current focus on retelling stories and events in order, Sophie and I made a book of the 'correct' version of the story. She dictated and I wrote, furiously trying to keep up with her ramblings. She has a wonderful grasp of the language of stories, and needed few (if any) prompts for detail. She is very proud of her efforts, although she demanded a bit of assistance with the illustrations.

She has an odd habit of swapping hands when she writes or draws something on the left side of the page, which results in left eyes and limbs always looking strange. She won't be persuaded, so I guess I just have to wait for her to figure out that she isn't wired that way and adopt right-handed status like the rest of her family instead of playing at trendy ambidexterity.

Anyway, here 'tis!