Hello Mulberry Pie

mulberry pie || cityhippyfarmgirl

When a friend brings mulberries from their laden tree, only delicious things can come of it. Straight into the freezer they went, which is where all good juicy mulberry ideas go to fortify themselves.

Mulberry kombucha, mulberry jam, mulberry cake, mulberry pie… All finger staining contenders that need just a little prompt to be lured out.

So when your ten year old gets home from having had appendicitis, followed by his appendix removed, well that seems like a good enough reason as any.

Goodbye appendix, and hello mulberry pie.

mulberries-cityhippyfarmgirl easy-mulberry-pie-cityhippyfarmgirl

Mulberry Pie

150 cold cubed butter

50g caster sugar

1 egg yolk

1 tsp vanilla

grated rind of a lemon

300g plain flour

1 tbls cold water

2 dessert spoons extra raw sugar

Pulse butter, sugar, vanilla, egg yolk, and plain flour in a blender until it looks like bread crumbs. Turn pastry crumbs out to a clean lightly floured bench top, add cold water and knead mixture until it forms a smooth dough. (Don’t over work it.)

Roll pastry roughly between two sheets of baking paper, and let it rest in the fridge for about half an hour. Getting it out a little further, until about .5cm (or a little thicker if you like it like that).

Grease your pie dish with a little butter, carefully laying down pastry. Add fresh mulberries, and sprinkle a couple of dessert spoons of extra raw sugar over the top.

Add extra pastry pieces to decorate if you feel like it and bake at 180C for approximately 40-45mins or until light golden.

Eat with enthusiasm.

white, red and black…going gently


White coriander flower

Red strawberries

Black nose


I’m getting better at listening to myself. I don’t always interpret things the way that they could be, but I’m getting better at it. Slowly.

When the week pulls to a stop, and everything seems to have tiny dinging bells telling me to bring it all in, to go slower, to go gently. I’m listening. It probably took longer than it should have, but I’m here now.

Have a gentle weekend people.

time for another coffee…


Another round of coffees?...

Each week my daughter and I meet my grandparents in a cafe. It’s a little one with darkened corners and wooden tabletops. A cafe with a heart, and dependable caffeine. Our orders are remembered, and greetings said genuinely from tattooed baristas.

It’s our cafe.

This cafe means a lot to me as I know that our time is special. At 85 and 86 respectfully, my grandparents time is especially important. It takes a lot longer than it once did to do up shoes now, sometimes memories aren’t there where they were last put them down, and parts of the week are taken up by appointments they’d rather not attend.

I watch their eyes light up when they talk to their small great granddaughter. Bodies seemingly straighten and hearts lighten with gentle embraces.

This time is special I know that.

While my week is often spent in a flurry, this time here, I try not to hurry. No regrets right? My time to give back a tiny bit to two people who have spent my life time giving to me. They don’t need trinkets, and items to clutter up shelves and cupboards. What I can give to them is time. Time spent together, conversations that matter and the occasional baked treat from my kitchen to theirs.

Doors are held wide, cushions plumped on sitting. Ensuring a comfort that isn’t always there as age offers a fragility that can’t simply be undone or at times made comfortable.

Hot coffees are sipped, and our time is shared.

I drive away at the end of our morning spent together. Eyes watching my grandfather in the rearview mirror. He patiently waits for my grandmother on the corner, and my stomach tightens a little at the sight of a man who seems to be slowly lost into the size of his clothing. The fragility is what stabs.

“…ageing, it’s not for the faint hearted.” They say, with smiles on lips and a twinkle in the eyes.

I don’t let my mind go to the one days, the maybe’s, the what it’s. I make sure I am here, I am in the now, and next week, just like before, I’ll meet them again for coffee.

Yes, 3 flat whites and a kids strawberry milkshake please…

…we’ve got time for another coffee.



Kanelbullar…or how to twist Cinnamon Buns

kanelbullar || cityhippyfarmgirl kanelbullar || cityhippyfarmgirl kanelbullar || cityhippyfarmgirl

My children grow like weeds.

Close your eyes briefly overnight and suddenly pants are looking a little short. Dresses have become tops and shoes look a little painful.

I accept this as what children do. However it still befuddles me as to how they can constantly be so damn hungry.

From the time of grey morning light, where eyes are yet to be prised open. I often wake to small voices saying, Mama….I’m huuuungry. This pattern continues throughout the day, right up until the dark night, where it should be a time of whispered goodnights, and I love you. Not replaced, which is lovely. Just with a little addition.

Goodnight Mama….I love you….I’m a bit hungry.

And so it goes. With us being smack bang in the middle of school holidays, those hungry choruses are equally unified, amplified, and questionably justified. I’m sure I just fed you!

So with meal times at the moment having alarming frequencies, and it nearly being the 4th of October (For new readers or regular readers who need a reminder, this means it’s Cinnamon Bun Day coming up- thank you my Nordic thinkers!) I thought it might be time to finally do something about the requests I get on how to do these twisty buns.

Are they authentically Nordic? As an Australian who is yet to set foot on any Nordic soil (this is regretful of my part) I actually don’t know.


They work. They are pretty tasty, and happily, they fill up those ravenous children of mine, (albeit briefly.)

First up. The recipe can be found here from last year.

Secondly, if you don’t play with sourdough, try 2 tsp of dried yeast to replace the 1.

Thirdly, I’ve played a few times with different twists over the years. Tucking under with the end into the middle, tucking over with the middle, simple swirls or tucking the twist across the dough all seem to work fine.

Lastly, pearled sugar is what generally goes on top which can be tricky to get at times. It comes in different forms but makes it look a bit fancier, (on some here, I’ve also used Dutch coloured sugar aniseed.)

(Extra special thanks to my 10 year old camera helper.)

Stuff That Matters


Watching how the backyard garden has grown overnight takes on a mindfulness that isn’t often present for the rest of the day. Tracking bees on their pollen paths, and seeing how the calendula has unfurled overnight. Solitude is fleeting, even at 6am. I’ll grab it in handfuls wherever I can, it’s really important to me. I need it.

Passionfruit kombucha experiments. I thought it was delicious, and two out of three kids thought it was good one. The other one?…I might have to keep working on that palate of his. Keeping them healthy is a huge priority to me.

(And when not so healthy) there’s Master Tonic or Fire Cider, it’s damn good stuff and this time of year it’s almost a necessity. With half the city echoing with their coughs of the stricken down, my kids adding to the list of the afflicted, it was all a little ill timed that I ran out of my batch of the stuff. (I did a how-to over on Milkwood last year if you are keen to make your own.) Lucky for me, and thanks to a lovely instagram connection some of Hilbilby’s good stuff landed on my doorstep just at the right time. Health isn’t something that I take for granted, ever, and with the smallest coming down with an associated ear infection. I’m pretty damn thankful that I have access to really great medical advice and care when I need it.

This week I finally got to meet the lovely Fran. Fran is 100 kinds of awesome. Some of this I know from her instagram account that I’ve been following for awhile, some of this I know from her blog and some of this I know from the hour we spent together after she drove 5 hours to my place to deliver a table and not eat lunch (too busy talking you see.) I feel super lucky to have people like that jump into my life.

While this week has also had its fair share of arguments, tears, crossed wires, and crappy news (real life always exists behind the sunshine filled walls of a blog.) I’m still thankful for them. I could wish that they had never happened, (but they did) or they are happening and wishing away won’t change anything.

What I can do is, learn from them, grow from them, possibly define my own ideas and thoughts a little better because of them. At the very least I can hug my kids a bit tighter at the end of the day and I can say to dear friends, hey thanks for spending time with me today, that was bloody awesome and I loved every minute of it.

The connections, the tiny moments, the community ties, the freshly cut bread, the hugs, the long conversations…

This is the good stuff of life.

This is the stuff that matters.


Best (yet) Buckwheat Pancakes


When a gluten free diet was suggested by my well loved professional holistic caregiver, there might have been a slight whimper on my part.

Gluten, there’s no denying it. It’s delicious.

Not the actual glutenous fibres themselves but the food in which that gluten is often encased. Anyone who has been a long time reader of this blog might have subtly noticed I bake a fair chunk of the time. Mostly, because I like to keep costs down, like to feed my ravenous family with great food, and I also want to know what’s going in all those breakfasts, lunches, dinner’s, morning teas, afternoon teas, and snacks.

All sounds very wholesome and love fuelled right? Well it’s also fairly gluten based when it comes to my baking, (even if a fair chunk of it is wholemeal spelt flour based.)

So, a gluten free diet for me eh?

Well that would wipe out the two thick slices of delicious homemade sourdough in the morning then wouldn’t it?

It would probably leave out the healthy backyard vegetable salad with a tasty little pangritata on top.

It would also probably wipe out the custard tart eaten with my equally gluten loving friend with a side order of books, photography and belly laughing chitchat.

Dinner would look a little less like orechiette alle broccoli and more like…well broccoli.

But that was fine. It was just a trial to see where things were at, to see what was what and well, why was why? Something like that anyway. In a nutshell, gluten was off the menu for the next three ish weeks.

Now I knew with any changes in dietary requirements the key to success was preparation.


After a gluten fuelled “see you in a bit” honorary party the night before I started, the first day arrives and I happily head to the kitchen ready to embark on all things un-glutenous. It’s Sunday which means pancakes round these parts, and the kids laid the table out in readiness. But me, what about me? What was a poor gluten-free woman to do when it’s Pancake Sunday? Wholemeal Spelt pancakes weren’t going to cut it, and it seems my very first meal was a fail first up.

I hadn’t prepared a damn thing…and I was hungry. Step two in successful dietary changes is don’t let yourself get too hungry (especially on the first day!) as it will be easy to slip into the habits of old.

I admitted defeat. Enjoyed 5 gluten filled pancakes and declared I would start at lunch.

Now what I should have done and certainly did in subsequent meals was swap the spelt flour for buckwheat.

Buckwheat Pancakes, I’ve made these countless times over the last few weeks with varying degrees of success. Some with rice flour in there as well, some with egg whites, some with ricotta, but the best and most dependable seem to be a simple ratio of egg, flour and milk. It’s nothing crazy but for my own reference I’m putting these up, best (yet) Buckwheat Pancakes.

(Also for all future references, buckwheat pancakes and lemon curd is an entirely acceptable trade off for gluten.)


Buckwheat Pancakes

25g melted butter

1 beaten egg

1 cup buckwheat flour

1/4 tsp bicarbonate soda

1 cup milk

Whisk all ingredients together and cook in pan. Stack ’em high and eat with enthusiasm.


growing buckwheat



The Song of Spring



She’s been whispering for weeks now,

just a hint of a melody at first,

and a soft warm breath noticed at the base of the neck.

The light longer and brighter,

changing with the fastening beat of the season,

tickety tick, tickety tick…

no longer the slow deep boom of winter,

it’s a light footed dance from grass blade to flower,

notes skipping from one side to another.

This is spring and she’s drawing us out,

with promises of picnics, new garden beds and ideas,

a warbling magpie joins in with an accompanying beat,

she too knows this annual tune,

this is the Song of Spring.

…and then the slugs moved in

slugs 04 || cityhippyfarmgirl.comslugs 03 || cityhippyfarmgirl.comslugs 02 || cityhippyfarmgirl.com

It wasn’t the first time I’d had run ins with slugs, but it was the first time I had ever grown anything in this much abundance. Not a nominal amount that had been the case when it was a potted garden in the big smoke with 1-2 hours of sunlight. No here, I had much more sunlight and things (after a few trial and errors) were actually growing.

I proudly showed several heads of lettuces off on instagram, and really it had all be pretty darn exciting watching things grow and then following that up by eating them. We even toyed with the idea of there nearly being enough to cancel our vegetable box delivery. Options like that were suddenly no longer sounding completely unachievable.

And then the slugs moved in.

One evening, dusk was snaking it’s way in and I had ventured out to the compost. Suddenly I’m stopped in my tracks by a multitude of glistening bodies, slimebagging their way along my prize winning* vegetables. Cue stampede music and old school horror music piano pieces. Those little bastards? They were everywhere.

I start picking them off. I keep picking them off. I get a container, and still keep picking them off.


They are bloody everywhere. At this rate I won’t have a vegetable in sight by the end of the week. I traipse inside, slip my shoes off as they have become a little slidey from all the slug guts and declare war on the slime bags. Vowing words of action the very next day.

Except I didn’t.

I actually forgot the next day.

So when I hear a concerned voice coming in from the back door, (after a visit to the compost again) saying “…there’s a lot of slugs out there tonight!”. I write a post-it-note with a big black marker and stick it on my forehead for first thing tomorrow. Must sort that slug issue out.

slugs 05 || cityhippyfarmgirl.comslugs 01 || cityhippyfarmgirl.com

So what are your options when you have a plague of slugs stampeding across your carefully tendered urban permaculture patch?

Eggshells… you are supposed to keep them dry and the sheer amount I would need to try to make this work didn’t seem workable.

Beer traps…I have done this, but it’s simply not enough. I’d have to have a beer filled moat for this to be effective and with a wandering whippet (whom I suspect would be a bit of a light weight drinker) it’s not really a long term option either.

Ducks… I like the idea, actually I love the idea! But…I’m not there yet, and again, not sure about the whippet.

Grow extra’s… I actually do have enough lettuce to share (regrettably) with my slimebag friends, however they’ve taken more than their share and are simply not playing fair.

Slug and snail bait… nah, not going to happen.

Copper…I’d read that I could strip wires and use the copper parts as a barrier method to stop them. I didn’t have any wires, and didn’t have the time before my vegetables are reduced to stubs to go seek some to strip. A quick trip to the hardware store get’s me back home with 8 metres of copper tape. I thought about taping the beds up Mission Impossible laser style scene, but decided that’s probably overkill at this stage considering I don’t even know if these things will work. I go with the disco look instead and line the edges. Not enough of the edges but if it works**, I’ll get more and disco everywhere the slimebags lurk.

So did it work?

First night, I can’t see any slugs in the garden that had been previously looking like Bondi Beach in the middle of summer. I had wrapped the tape around all the edges. The garden beds where I had only done a portion of the tape, the bodies once again glistened in the light. So at a quick look, I’d say yes, yes it did work where I had placed the tape all the way round.

The following day was all day slug weather, the slimebags didn’t even have to wait until dusk had set, as it was so wet and bleak out there they could just munch on down, breakfast, lunch and dinner. My problem was I hadn’t finished the taping and couldn’t do it again until the garden bed edges were dry so it would adhere properly.

Once again, I go inside mumbling war cries and take off slippery shoes from slug guts.

Will the copper tape keep the suckers at bay? Not sure, to be continued folks…

In the mean time What are some of your tried and true methods for slug control? Or something you’ve tried and it didn’t work?


*Yes, I know I haven’t actually won any awards.


Love in a time of Pokemon

wattle || cityhippyfarmgirllove || cityhippyfarmgirl pokemon || cityhippyfarmgirl

I recently listened to a podcast with Alain De Botton on the topic of love. The first time I was interrupted 26 times before it came to the end. A concoction of three children and a mischievous whippet was the source of the interruptions.

Despite the stopping and starting, I didn’t turn it off.

I couldn’t turn it off.

The conversation was fascinating and I knew I would be listening to it a second time, if only to hear the lines I had missed the first time in their entirety. (I did listen again and was happy that I had. )

Alain de Botton’s way of describing our culture of romanticism, and also why you should be upfront with your own fault’s from the beginning of a relationship was quite wonderful to hear.

So is there magic in some people’s relationships? Or is it an incredible amount of work, effort and kindness that creates this thing called love of which isn’t made by two perfect single creatures with an ambition to live happily ever after.

Alains’ words had me musing for far longer than the podcast, that’s for sure.

[The conversation with Richard Fidler can be found here. Or the rather condensed version of what he talks about in his book, found here.]

But what does Pokemon have to do with love I hear you ask?

Well, over time my small people have spent many happy years with heart eyes for Pokemon. With the eldest two being marginally obsessed, the third was drawn in almost by osmosis by her older siblings. Pokemon, of course she shall LOVE it! they cried.

At the announcement of Pokemon Go, the small-sized ones pricked up their ears and declared…awwwwwesome. Can we get it on your phone Mama?

Nope, not a chance, I said without barely raising my head.

At least I didn’t really disappoint them there, they really didn’t think there was a chance at all of me actually saying yes to that, but it’s always worth a crack eh kids? And yes I still love you all, even though we aren’t getting it.

They then moved pretty swiftly straight on to the kids they knew with their own phones and the crucial app. Straight after school there is a small beeline as kids begin charging around pointing phones in trees. Hastily mumbled hellos to waiting parents and conversations continue, spoken in the garbled tongue of Pokemon.

I recently (happily) caught a conversation between two arborists up a 20 metre tree. With me unintentionally listening in on what started out as some typical tradey talk between two up-a-gumtree fellas and ending in talk of Pokemon Go, strategies on playing and the Pokémon they had managed to happily capture the night before.

I couldn’t stifle the laughing longer than a minute so had to come on inside, where my attention was instantly brought back to that mischievous whippet. All I had to do was follow the trail of chewed objects, she’d lovingly left out for me.

Luckily for me, as I picked through the wreckage of my lounge room, I already knew that any relationship was built on a fair amount of work, effort and kindness. Whether that be with the man I’ve chosen to create a family with, my three Pokemon loving children or that mischief-making whippet. Which I think, keeps things far more interesting than any happily ever after that Disney or Hollywood would have you believe.