One Quarter Kiwi

In my closet hang 20 dresses*. Four of them are cocktail dresses, four of them are suitable only for summer, two of them can only be worn in the colder months, and ten of them can be worn all year round, depending on what I combine them with. Lots of them I wear for both work and play.

Inside my wardrobe - yes, it is arranged by both color and style, how good of you to notice!

This is more 'dog bites man' news than anything else, unless you knew me during my university days, when I owned maybe two dresses. I was very keen to dress like an authentic student, possibly believing I was bound to get higher marks as a result (cue image of a lecturer poring over one of my essays, musing to himself about how my slovenly appearance must mean I'm actually a deeply thoughtful genius, and marking accordingly) and I worked part time in a kayak shop, and that meant lots of jeans and t-shirts. Not much call for dresses**.

But now I'm making up for lost time, and I wear dresses often. And where go clothes goes - ta da! - New Zealand design. Now, I don't know whether I've made this clear enough, but I kind of adore New Zealand, especially its creative output. Especially especially its fashion output.

Overseas readers, unless they pay much attention to international fashion, and have done so since 1999, may not have any immediate associations when they think 'New Zealand fashion'. New Zealand readers may not also, of course. My associations are there, but they are attached to 1999 - when the 'New Zealand Four' showed at London Fashion Week - and for me, at least, they ring false to a certain degree. New Zealand fashion, at that time, was referenced with gothic imagery and words. Dark, interesting, moody. And lots of New Zealand designers still work to this aesthetic, but, as this article from the NZ Herald notes, it's not so much the case anymore. It's an easy shorthand, but one that New Zealand can't, and shouldn't, use anymore. Just look at this, for example:

The New Zealands. 'Scuse wrinkles - I don't iron until I need to

Those five dresses make up the New Zealand section of my dress collection. Five out of twenty may not seem much, but I think one quarter Kiwi's quite impressive, considering that when I left New Zealand I didn't really wear dresses. All but one of them have been bought since I've been abroad, despite the fact that for the same price, or even cheaper, I could get something lovely from a British or American designer, and that's not just because I'm a loyal Kiwi. It's because there's something special about NZ design, and it's not just about those associations created in London 13 years ago.

As a collection, those five dresses of mine are actually backing up my point in a pretty bloody poor manner, considering the surfeit of black. But they all have something in common besides the dark shades (and the wrinkles) and that is that they are all fun, black or not. They're also all really well constructed and they all fit excellently, but mostly, they are fun. They feature fabric folded into interesting shapes, and random buckles, and pockets, and multicolored spots, frills and pleats and bows. Yet somehow, they always stay on the restrained side, never letting any one feature get so full of itself that it defines your entire outfit.

And that is what New Zealand fashion is, in my opinion, and while we're at it, it's a pretty strong reflection of our shared culture and identity. All of the designers* of those dresses are doing brilliantly within New Zealand, and most are doing very well globally also. No doubt the fit and construction has a lot to do with that, but the appeal - which is pretty much always based on something much more esoteric - lies in the simplicity based on the complicated, the wit based on the intelligence, and the fun, the constant yet quiet fun.

*I actually own 21****, but one - my wedding dress - currently resides in my mother in law's closet. I haven't counted it because it's not here, and also because, although I really love it and I've thought long and hard, I can't work out another suitable occasion to wear it at.

**Not long after finishing university I was invited to a posh dinner, the sort that really calls for a nice dress of the sort I didn't own. As I was preparing to move overseas I didn't want to buy one, so borrowed one from a friend - a friend who had been...how to put this...blessed with a rather more 'womanly' figure than me. I had to get my new boyfriend to help me stick the top and back down with double-sided tape so I would remain decent throughout the posh dinner.

***From l to r: Kate Sylvester; Icebreaker; Kilt; RPM; Hi There by Karen Walker

****Ahem! I took a couple of days between writing and publishing to make sure this was edited properly, and in that time, somehow the total went up to 22. The title of this piece is now a lie. Don't worry, I'm blushing as I write this.

Why I Walked Six Miles for a Pie

I've got a funny accent, a hybrid New Zealand-English affair that has caused great amusement amongst my family and friends whenever I've been home ("Say plum. Oh my goodness say it again! Okay now say cabinet. Tee hee hee!"). You get the idea.

I've never really got why it's so humorous - I lived in London for four years and had as my friends a group of the most English English people you can imagine, it would be more unusual if I still sounded like Lyn of Tawa* - but it's never worried me, not the accent or the amusement. That is, it never used to worry me. It's a different story since I moved to America.

When I came here, it was with the proviso that I would not develop an American accent. I have nothing against them, but American accents are like hydrangeas - fine for other people, but not for me. And for over a year, that was no problem. But, it turns out American accents are insidious, a bit like hydrangeas. And I'm very susceptible to accents. So for the last six months or so, I've noticed a few small changes - the occasional 'r' rolling when I'm used to treating them as if they weren't there, the odd vowel being drawn out for longer than strictly necessary. And every time I hear it it makes me sad, because even though this place is a fantastic home, I have another home too, and it's a really long way away.

The bright side is that this place is positively teeming with Kiwis, clever, witty, sarcastic, enthusiastic Kiwis, most of whom have managed to hold onto their accents, and their cultural references, and their food preferences. And a few of them have decided to do the rest of us a favor and cater to that. And this is where DUB Pies comes in.

DUB Pies (stands for Down Under Bakery - they're nice to Australians too but we know the truth) is a special place, an almost holy little corner shop where you can order a pie safe in the knowledge that nobody's going to offer you something fruity**. Sadly, it's not on my corner, but resides in Brooklyn, close to Prospect Park. Yes, that Brooklyn, the one over a bridge***.

Because we had fellow Kiwis in town visiting, and because we all had the day off, and because we all like eating, we decided it would be a swell idea to make our way there for a pie - something I've been trying to do for, ooh, about a year and a half now, but something that's proved to be really hard, because I pretty much never go to Brooklyn****. And because it was a beautiful day, and that bridge that it's over is quite the stunner, we decided to walk the bridge part of it. And because we hadn't eaten, we went for brunch first, and because we were then so full, we decided to walk the bit to the bridge as well, and because we were all still really full, and wanted to make sure the pies would be appreciated to the degree they deserve, and were quite keen to get out of a relatively scary looking part of Downtown Brooklyn as quickly as possible, we decided to walk the rest of the way to the pie shop as well.

And that is why I walked six miles for a pie.

It was worth it.

Although I do still have the remnants of a blister on my foot. I was not wearing sensible walking shoes*****.

Yep...still worth it.

I haven't been back since, but I know I will be, probably when it's warmed up a little and I can go and eat my pie in the park it's right next to. I'll buy a flat white****** and a custard slice******* also, and I'll lie in the sun and close my eyes and tune out all the funny accents and pretend I'm in New Zealand.

*Non-Kiwis, click the link and all will be explained. Then all non-Kiwis and Kiwis alike, please be reassured that I never actually sounded like that.

**Not some sort of awful slur - all American pies are fruit-based, or fruity, if you like, whereas Kiwi pies are full of delicious delicious meat.

***For the record, there are three bridges that go there and multiple subways. It's not that hard to get to. I'm just lazy.

****Nothing personal, it's just the Manhattan bubble, making it hard to remember there are other boroughs/cities/states/countries.

*****Full disclosure: I don't own sensible walking shoes.

******Coffee.

*******Like a mille-feuille, only not posh.

A Fashionable Life

I've started this post several times now, jumping from one subject to another, seemingly completely unable to get a grip on what I want to say. I know what I want to write about - fashion, and style, and how they differ from place to place and time to time, and whether they're completely redundant in the dead of winter, when anything nice you put on just has to be covered up by a big coat anyway*. But every time I've started I've got to a point where I've read back what I've written, rolled my eyes and deleted the whole lot. For some reason, I'm having trouble putting thought into words - something that usually doesn't affect me, thankfully, and so is annoying and grump-making when it does.

Thinking about it overnight, I concluded that part of my problem is that I keep doubting whether I have anything to say about fashion that anyone might care to read. I'm far from an expert, after all, despite wearing clothes pretty much all the time. And even though I've always enjoyed fashion, I'm pretty sure there are times fashion has not always enjoyed me. The experiments with hippy chic**, black hair and wearing one color from head to toe particularly come to mind.

But then - isn't three quarters of the fun with fashion being able to experiment, and not taking yourself too seriously? And I know I'd rather be honest about who I am, and I can retrospectively recognize that at times I have been a bad dresser. Most people have. That's why magazines get stars to look back at their red carpet choices, because it's always fun to see that they are, in fact, just like us, regretting past fashion follies***.

So that's where I'm beginning - from an upfront place where I explain that even though I may not have always been awesomely fashionable, and possibly am still not, I like fashion and I like style and I like talking about it, and I'm going to. Because all of that is fun. And so was my long, tie-dyed skirt (at the time - I'm actually blushing as I write this, I swear), and my black hair (for about five seconds, before I realized that I looked more dead than anything else, and spent hundreds of dollars and the better part of a year returning it to my more natural shade of mousy browny-blond), and even my same color from head to toe dressing, which came in one outfit style and two color choices and was completely awesome. If I could get away these days with wearing leggings, an oversized jumper, slouch socks and hi-top sneakers, all in a vibrant shade of pink, I would. My glasses had pink on them too, I think. Looking back, I'm prepared to say that was the best part of being 8.

So with all that in mind, what am I wearing today? How am I enjoying the world of possibilities that is open to me in my decently sized wardrobe?

Oh.

Should have thought this one through.

I could lie, but I promised to be completely upfront and honest about, ooh, four seconds ago.

Today, on a bleak, grey January day, with sleet and snow falling outside, the heating pumping inside and nowhere to be, I am sporting Ugg boots, leggings, a Hollister t-shirt, and an Abercrombie hoodie.

We're off to a bad start, but stick with me. Some days, it doesn't snow, and some days, I have meetings and places to be, and some days, most days in fact, I want to look pretty and have fun with my outfit. Some days, I just want to stay inside and read my newspaper and write my blog, because that is rare and is also a lot of fun, and this happens to be one of those days. Better luck next time - I promise I'll make an effort, just for you.

Au revoir (that's French you know, very chic) and a bientot!

*I'm feeling January's bleakness, and am on a bit of a countdown out of winter - only 58 days until spring!

**Not so much chic, actually - that's a bit misleading, I'll admit.

***And drinking coffee! And putting petrol into their car! And holding their kids' hands! I don't read Us Magazine regularly, but I'm always so relieved when I pick one up at the gym and realize that famous people also need fuel (for their cars and themselves) and I'm not missing out on some sort of magic world where coffee is unnecessary (ick, sounds like a dreadful place).

We Begin at the Beginning

And the beginning is breakfast. Or, if you're in a New York weekend, brunch.

I always used brunch to refer to a breakfast/lunch amalgamation (see also: linner) held in between the times you would usually eat those two meals. The in between is important - that's what makes it brunch. You can have brunch at 10:30am, or 11am, or 11:30am. You cannot, however, have brunch at 1pm. That is lunch, even if you're eating breakfast food (which is not to say you shouldn't do that - all day breakfast is possibly the sweetest phrase in the English language to me).

Lots of New York restaurants, however, proudly offer a weekend brunch, right next to a sign announcing they open at 1:30pm. I've been noticing this pretty much since the day I moved here, and it's been bothering me for about as long, so the other day I made a point of asking a born-and-raised American about it (I did look for a born-and-raised New Yorker but they're really hard to find) and he kindly explained it all.

Apparently, in New York, brunch now bears no resemblance to the two words that it stems from, and is no longer a replacement for both your breakfast and your lunch. Rather, it is a fourth meal, something that fits comfortably between breakfast and (a late) lunch, or even after both if you're really dragging your tail. It also often acts as a kick-off for the forthcoming night, with mimosas (Buck's Fizz to the rest of us) setting the scene for the alcohol that is to follow. It's still a beginning, just not as I know it.

That made limited sense to me, but I smiled and nodded regardless and walked off, knowing I wouldn't be changing my brunch habits. They had worked for me for the last year and a half, after all.

And then two things happened that really underlined the sense in the New York brunch theory to me. Two brunches, in fact, the first falling in the last few days of 2011, and the second in the first few of 2012. They both started out similarly - H1 and I leaving our apartment with nothing more than coffee in our bellies, ready to set foot into the big wide world and eat some brunch - and continued in similar veins, with our usual, reliable, delicious brunch spot bypassed due to its extremely rude and random choice of Christmas opening hours.

On the first occasion we were with two friends, in for the week from London, and all four of us were quite ready to eat. Turned away by choice one, we moved to choice two, then decided the line was too long, and moved swiftly on to a place we had always noticed but had never tried before - Friend of a Farmer, in between Gramercy Park and Union Square. It's on an adorable street in a great area, is always packed, does good coffee and great eggs. It was fabulous, and our built up hunger let us enjoy it even more. You don't have that sort of hunger if you've already eaten breakfast, and hence, you don't get the same level of enjoyment.

The second occasion, however. Oh, the second occasion is quite another story. Buoyed by the success of our last attempt at trying something new, and lured by a Groupon deal, we bypassed all three of those brilliant brunch spots that we're so fond of, and made our way to the East Village. Home of Hype Lounge. Hype Lounge is a bar and restaurant, and to be fair, it may well deserve the hype in the wee hours. At 11am (aka a suitable brunch time) however - not so much. The decor looked cool, but it was a little dark. Really quite dark. So dark that we couldn't see our food, which may have been planned. The coffee was awful. The smoked salmon made me nervous, so much so that I stopped eating it. The eggs were watery. The fruit was...squishy...and not in the way fruit should be. We should have gone elsewhere, but we were hungry, because our brunch was the beginning. If we had already eaten, that wouldn't have happened.

But if we had already eaten it would not be brunch. I really can't stress this enough.

I've taken away three lessons from this.

1. When it comes to brunch, I'm right, and the rest of New York is wrong.

2. When it comes to something as important as brunch, don't try new stuff unless you really have to - and even then, tread carefully.

3. Always carry protein bars in case of brunch-based emergency.

I respectfully suggest that all readers apply them to their own hybrid meal situations and issues, and if in New York, eat at Friend of a Farmer. You'll never regret it.

Food. Fashion. Fun.

Cast your eyes towards the top of the page, if you would be so kind...specifically the middle, underneath the title. That should tell you all you need to know - or at least give you a rough idea, because, of course, I see no need to use three words to say something when I could use 300.

I had a good think late last year about the things that really make me happy, and even wrote a list. Number 1 was H1, but (though I hate to admit it) I did have my doubts about how long I could get any engagement with a series of posts about my husband. Far better to just let him cameo from time to time.

Coming in at the top of the 'stuff' category was - you guessed it - food and fashion. I love to eat, and I love design - all design, particularly fashion (I also like furniture and websites, but that would be a pretty dreadful tagline. I'd be better off writing solely about H1). Lots of people like both those things, and there are lots and lots and lots of great blogs about those two subjects out there. Lots. But I like them, and rightly or wrongly, I feel authorized to write on them. I both eat, and wear clothes, every single day. And I will be actually writing about them.

Many food and fashion blogs focus on the visual - beautiful images of wonderfully put together meals and outfits to provide an instant inspiration - and that's awesome. But this is not going to become that sort of blog, because I like to write, I like to analyze, I like to top it off with a healthy dose of irreverence, and most of all, I'm a really, really terrible photographer.

I'm also not dropping the 'Kiwi in a foreign land' theme altogether. It's an integral part of who I am, after all, and has been for a long time now - I can't just let it go. I love being a Kiwi, and I love New Zealand, and all that it has to offer - in design, in fashion, in food, in activities, in scenery, in fun. So there'll be a lot of that hanging around the edges, framing everything I write.

Finally, I promise you fun. I hope the last post didn't cause any unnecessary worry. I can still poke fun at myself, and I will, right here in this public forum, every time I need to (so yes, frequently). I promise to inform and to entertain, just like your own personal, very shallow, BBC.

Let the adventures begin...!

A Change of Direction

Noting all those little extras that so often go unnoticed in the day to day chaos of the average city life...

When I wrote those words, I had no idea I was predicting my future. How very prescient of me. I would start offering my psychic services, but New York already has quite enough of those, and at an average price of around $10 I'm not sure it would really be worth my while.

The signs everywhere, advertising the presence of psychics, used to be one of those little extras that I noticed. They stood out to me when I first arrived, and not just because they tend towards the neon end of design. Because they were different, they were foreign. I was foreign.

I'm still foreign - kind of. I have the accent but so do lots of people - nobody in Manhattan is actually from here, of course. I am in many ways just another New Yorker, rushing around all day and half the night, sharpening my elbows so I can make it here. Yup, nothing too special about me.

And because of that fact, because this city is crammed to bursting point with millions of other young people with a certain amount of brains, nous, talent and connections, I am no longer funny. Don't get me wrong - this isn't a pity post. I still make my husband laugh, and my friends, and my parents (yes, that's right, my mum thinks I'm cool). But when it comes to writing I've had a chronic case of writer's block, caused (I believe) by the 'I'm so great!' attitude that America generally, and this city more specifically, makes you cultivate. It's hard to spend all day working to convince people you're awesome then write about how you're really not, and all my best material comes from self-denigration. In London, where sarcasm rules, I'm funny (if I do say so myself). In New York, where they like to think sarcasm rules, I'm not (because, whisper it, it doesn't. NYCers are rank amateurs compared to Londonites).

So - I could just stop writing this blog, and for a couple of months there, it seemed like I would - had already, in fact. I stopped writing, and the blog stopped being written (wouldn't it be great if it did it by itself?!). However, I'm kind of vain, and I think I have something to say, and I think you all should hear it, and looking back over the last two and a half years, I appreciate the memories and the happiness and the nostalgia Condiments gives me. I also appreciate the improvement it's forced upon my writing, and I'd definitely like some more of that. Always good to get better at something you enjoy. And I enjoy this.

So, Condiments stays, but with a change of direction. Part one of the makeover takes place this Friday. Look forward to catching up then.

Happy New Year!