Confession: I had never made a pavlova until about 3 weeks before I moved to France.
And I call myself a Kiwi!
I am now on a one-woman mission to make the best goddamn pavlova you have ever tasted. Which is why I am sitting on my kitchen floor typing this so I can watch over my cooking pavlova like a new mother. (What I am also seeing is that my house keeping skills leave certain things to be desired; it pays to never look closely at the nooks and crannies around one’s oven…)
I wanted to make a pavlova that would transport me to a golden sand beach framed with Pohutakawa trees somewhere in the Bay of Islands. A pavlova that would re-ignite the infamous debate with our Tasman neighbours. A pavlova that Pavlova Queens from Invercargill to Kaitaia would be proud to claim as their own.
The kitchen timer/cellphone just rang; oven switched off. I’d like to say I can relax now but I still have to get this baby to Annemasse in one piece. Wish me luck….
48 hours later
Pavlova made it to Annemasse, just. Pippa, Barbara and I devoured the pavlova for afternoon tea and got the ball rolling for the rest of our heart healthy weekend!
That evening we headed to Geneva for a night in England: Mr. Pickwick Pub! Wales was playing England so Elle and I painted Welsh dragons on our cheeks in red nail varnish!
Our dragons weren’t quite enough for Wales but it was a good night nonetheless-even the freezing walk home across the border!
Saturday afternoon I took the train back to Bonneville to pick up my ski gear. I didn’t want to risk the safety of my pavlova by carrying skis as well. Instead, just risk the safety of my bank balance by taking lots of trains… Elle, Barbara, Pippa and I headed over to St. Julien late Saturday evening ready for a super early start Sunday morning. After spending a fitful night on an air bed where they only thing that fell asleep was my leg, we took the ski bus to La Clusaz. It was a beautiful day for skiing-we even lounged on deck chairs!
When I am skiing though, anything is possible! We couldn’t expect the day to slip by without a bump or two along the way. I escaped with only a minor cut to my hand. We were walking (with skis on…) back to the village of La Clusaz and we suddenly hit road. To be honest, labeling the track on the piste map as a green slope is slightly deceiving! When the walkers outnumber the skiers I’m pretty sure that’s a sign the skiers may be in the wrong area… So my skis hit bare road/mud and then so did the rest of me. It looks pretty darn ugly but it’s not too bad now after much care and attention from Elle, the poor woman who were trying to enjoy the sun at their piste-side Chalet and the club chairwoman! I also added several new words to my vocabulary! Everything has a silver lining…
All in all, a great weekend. Though, I think I still have a long way to go before the wives of the Invercargill RSA and the Kaitaia Lawn Balls look fondly upon my pav.