CAFE DEATH STARE

I love eating out in cafes. I love the coffee, the food, the atmosphere, and the delight the wait staff take in attending to my every need.

Today, however, my lunch time experience was disappointing, to say the least. And, as I am not in the mood to say the least, I will say the most, which was that it was unpleasant, uncomfortable, and, frankly, a little terrifying.

I arrived at the cafe before my friend, Lana, who had asked me to pre-order her a coffee. Sadly, by the time she arrived the waiter had not taken my coffee order, so she joked goodnaturedly with him about the fact that I had let her down.

The waiter didn't get her humour at all, and wandered off in a state of confusion, which I cannot condemn, because Lana's humour can be hard to understand.

I snapped this pic of our waitress mid-stare

But then he took our order, which included a baguette (for me) and poched eggs for Lana. Yes, the menu said 'poched' eggs. Which is fine, really, because I can forgive a typo. A poched egg is an egg by any other name. Except that when Lana ordered her poached eggs, and I muttered 'poched' under my breath, the waiter looked monumentally unimpressed. Perhaps he simply believed the scrambled eggs were a better choice, but either way, it was a loveless moment.

Still, the worst was yet to come. Because when my baguette arrived it was the size of a newborn - like, a proper newborn human, not one of those minuscule newborn kangaroos that look like jelly beans for the first weeks of their lives. Lana's eggs, however, were teeny tiny. I mean, the eggs were regular size - not, like, newborn kangaroo size - but they were perched on one piece on toast, and it was a pretty fucking small piece of toast at that. Seriously. That toast could not have fit a newborn human's handprint, let alone filled an adult sized human's stomach.

So, having a horror for unfairness and adversity, I beckoned to the waiter.

"Can she have another piece of toast?" I asked. "That one is teeny tiny."

Well, he looked shocked. Truly. I might as well have asked him for newborn kangaroo on a plate of mashed yeast. There were some disapproving looks, some rustling in the kitchen, and then a waitress who we had never seen before flounced out, dropped the toast on the table, and issued Lana with a death stare capable of freezing full sized mammals of all description in their tracks and shattering them to pieces. It was like looking into the eyes of a psycho killer. There was just blackness there. Dark pools of anger and revenge.

Lana did not finish her toast. She was too frightened. I finished my baguette, because no mere confrontation with a murderous waitress can dampen my appetite. And, to be honest, it was a delicious baguette. Much, much better than the poched eggs.

All in all, it was an unsettling experience, and I am still recovering. As for Lana, well, the food poisoning hasn't kicked in yet, but we are monitoring her progress by the hour.

Have you ever had a bad restaurant experience? And would you eat poched kanga on rye?

The one subject I have never before discussed.

I've been writing online for about six years now. And in that time, I have made it a rule not to talk about weight or diets. Apart from a Sunday Life piece I wrote in 2002 entitled 'Thin Body Fat Brain', I have never gone there. Ever.

Until now.

You see, Lana and I had one of our little on-camera chats and we got to talking about diets. And the thing is, I am fervently anti-diet. I have been for the past 16 years. But - as Lana points out in the video - people don't like hearing a slim person talking about weight issues. Because, you know, SLIM. What can I know if I'm slim? Only overweight people can understand weight struggles, right?

Except that I was overweight. For a long, long time. Not the kind of 'Happy At Any Size' overweight. I really didn't want to be overweight. I wanted to be slim. And I dieted and lost weight and then regained it and dieted and lost weight and regained it and so on and so on ad infinitum until I was 31 years old.

And then I stopped dieting. Forever. And I lost about 10 kilos and have never gained it again. I dealt with my food issues, not by following some kind of restrictive eating plan that tells you what to eat and when and makes you crave all the things you're not 'allowed' to have, but by working out how to eat when I'm hungry and stop when I'm full and not eat for reasons that have nothing to do with physical needs. Reasons like boredom. Frustration. Anger. Sadness. Celebration. Depression. Or simply Because It's There.

It was a process. It took a while. I did a lot of work on myself and my relationship with food. And I got there. And now I passionately believe that diets don't work.

Except I'm wrong, in a sense, because diets do work. All diets do. If you stick to a weight loss regime, you'll lose weight. And this is easy, if you're a person who doesn't actually have issues with eating. If you've gained weight on holidays or during pregnancy, for example, but fundamentally have a healthy relationship with food, you'll lose weight on a diet and probably keep it off.

But most of us have issues with food. And certainly the vast majority of overweight people who struggle to lose weight have issues with food. And so diets aren't going to work long term unless we fundamentally change our relationship our food.

Anyway. You can watch Lana and I argue about it here. And you can decide for yourself.

How we came to be

When I was 38 weeks pregnant with my third child, and my sister suddenly died, I was a mess, as you can imagine. I was having all sorts of health problems and suddenly plunged into grief and I had two young children to care for, and it was without a doubt the darkest, most oppressively difficult time in my life.

Friends rallied around, of course, and I will be forever grateful. But in that hideous period, the kindness of two near strangers stood out. One, a teacher, volunteered to bring both my kids to the school gates for the remainder of the term so that I wouldn't have to walk into the school. She knew how difficult it was for me to face people, and I will never forget her sensitivity and generosity.

The other, the class parent for my daughter's year, arranged a food roster for me. Every single night for weeks I had a hot meal on the table for my family thanks to her. I'd never met her, but that woman made a profound difference to my ability to cope.

Fast forward eighteen months, and I am sitting on the grass at a class picnic with my now toddler on my lap. I am chatting to that class parent, properly thanking her for all she did to help me. The conversation segues into a discussion of social media. I explain that I'm on Twitter (I'm feeling quite proud because I already have a couple of hundred followers) and wonder if she's ever heard of it.
"Kerri, we've been chatting on Twitter for months. I'm Sharpest Pencil."

The woman was Lana Hirschowitz. Until that point I had no idea that the hysterically funny person I'd been tweeting online was the very same woman who arranged meals for me after my sister died.

My worlds collided.

Since then, Lana and I have spent a ridiculous time communicating, across every medium one can imagine. We talk on Twitter, in public and (far less politically correctly) in DMs. We talk on Facebook, on Instagram, in emails, and in texts. We talk on the phone and we catch up in person. I have many friends who I adore, but Lana is the only friend who lives in all of my communities - the online, the Jewish, the school, and the anxious.

Of course, being South African, Lana is as different to me as cheese is to a polar bear. Her accent is irritating and she's bossy and she doesn't like most of my clothes. She is a dog person and I am a cat person. She is also a cat person, but whatever. And we disagree on nearly everything, which is weird because we also agree on nearly everything.

But our conversations are hilarious, and often bizarre, and for fun, we thought we'd share them with you.

This is the second in our serious of #5minutes with Kerri and Lana. We are in bed. Don't ask why. Just go with it and look at those ginormous pills.

Enjoy.

An Open Letter to Westfield about a Thrilling Proposal

Anyone who knows me will be aware that Westfield Bondi Junction is my spiritual home. I spend hours there, either doing the grocery shopping, grabbing a coffee, getting my acrylic nails repaired after I bite them off, or just wandering aimlessly, absorbing the seething humanity.

But there is something missing from Westfield. It's got the shops and the cafes and the movie theatre and the supermarkets and the high end boutiques and the people who stop you and try to rub hand cream on you even though you're carrying bags in both hands and walking quickly towards the exit.... But it doesn't have a cultural centre.

It doesn't have Culture.

And this is where I come in.  I can be Westfield's Writer in Residence. I can bring Culture to the mall. I could be set up at a desk on a little platform in the middle of the centre - perhaps surrounded by a small picket fence - and write away on my laptop. People can stop and watch as I write, marvel at the creative process, breathe in my literary energy. They can ask questions and I will answer them, inspiring and supporting other writers to stretch their wings and let the words fly. And I, in turn, can be energised and nourished by their presence (and get free Wifi and coffee, and the occasional chocolate snowball from the cafe on Level 2).

Of course, it's not just Westfield Bondi Juntion that needs Culture. Every Westfield could have its own Resident Cultural Person. Other Writers in Residence, or perhaps Artists in Residence, Musicians in Residence, even Interpretive Dancers in Residence (in fact, I could probably double as an Interpretive Dancer in Residence when the writer's block kicks in).

Westfield would benefit from the injection of art (and from the hoards of people flocking to see us in action), and we would benefit from being around those who inspire us - The People. (Also, there are much better sandwiches at the Food Hall than there are at home.)

If you agree, or are interested in applying for your own position at Westfield, please comment below, or hit Westfield up at @westfieldau. Support the cause! Bring art to your local mall! And make sure I get my egg mayo sandwiches every day!

35 Billion Marshmallows

Tomorrow is my daughter's batmitzvah. That is a Jewish ceremony marking the passage from childhood to werewolf. If you were a werewolf. As my daughter is human, it will mark the passage to womanhood. As I am her mother, it will mark my passage to Really Old. It's very exciting.

There will be two events to mark this massive occasion, both of which I have organised alone, using 'alone' in the sense of 'with considerable assistance from my mother because I have no idea how many bottles of soda water we need'. There will be a lunch party for 70 adults, attended by family, all my closest friends, some of my parents' closest friends, and one person who got invited because we had to ask them*, and then there will be a kids' party for 70 kids, which is about 65 kids more than I would like to see in the one place at the one time, but that is only because kids are really loud and messy.

I cannot even tell you how much preparation has gone into this. Aside from the normal concerns like food, beverages, speeches, seating plans and music, there are about 25,000 tiny details that have needed arranging. Pink tights for the 6yo. A shirt for the 15yo (and let me tell you, it is not easy finding a shirt for a half-man, half-boy, one-eighth-Walking Hormone [whose mother can't add fractions]). Acrylic nails for me because god forbid the guests runs screaming when they see my shabby fingers. Balloons. Table decorations. Serviettes (so the guests can wipe their mouths). More serviettes (because my friends are particularly messy). Superglue (so that I can stick on the acrylic nails which keep flying off in different directions). And marshmallows.

I Wrapped These. ALL OF THEM.

Yes. Marshmallows.

You see, it is traditional at batmitzvahs to throw lollies at the child after they have finished their Bible reading in the synagogue (which is what comprises the actual ceremony). Someone (usually a sibling) passes out baskets of lollies to the congregation, and then at the appropriate moment, they come flying from all directions in a shower of sweetie wonder.

Well, my particular Rabbi is deeply concerned about the OH&S issues surrounding flying lollies. Apparently some batmitzvah kids have been injured by a boiled sweet to the forehead, and though no actual concussions have been recorded, it is only a matter of time before Traumatic Brain Injury by Candy makes its way into the medical journals. So the verdict is... NO LOLLIES FOR US.

But I will not be deterred. No. My daughter WILL have her sugar shower, without aggravating the Rabbi or risking hospitalization.

And so I have individually wrapped about 35 billion marshmallows to be flung after the ceremony. 35 billion. No wonder my nails keep falling off.

I love my daughter so much. She is the most beautiful, kind, sweet, loving child in the world. I don't know where she came from but I am so very proud she is mine.

Mazeltov to my special girl. And everyone else, please, have a marshmallow. They're individually wrapped. And one may even have a nail in it....

*And if you're reading this, no, silly, it's not you. It's the other person.

Rehab - Part 2

continued from Part 1...

I climbed into my bed at Lilianfels and had a little nap. The bed was so comfortable and the pillows so soft and the lack of children so indisputably evident that I almost wept (again). And when I woke up I made myself a nice cup of tea then got back into bed and read about 17,000 books.

Okay, I read only one book, but it had a lot of pages.

The soup and crumble from lunch was still making its presence felt, so I decided I needed some exercise, and went out for a little walk. Five invigorating minutes later, I was suitably spent, and headed back to the hotel, and got back into my bed.

There was a knock at the door. It was a man. He was bearing a tray of chocolates. THIS tray.

ALL THE CHOCOLATES

"Would you like to choose a chocolate?" he asked.

JOKING! "These are all for you!" he said.

Seriously?

"Yes! All of them!" He put them down on the table. "Enjoy!"

Moments later there was a second knock. It was the lovely Sue from reception.

"So, did you find a man to give that second key to?" she asked with a bawdy wink.

JOKING! "We'd like to offer you this complimentary bottle of wine," she said.

I *may* be drinking in bed

OH! How divine. Really?

"Yes! Enjoy!"

My god but I was having a good day. It was clear what I had to do next. I took off all my clothes, did a little happy dance of Oh-My-God-I'm-Alone-With-Wine-And-Chocolates, and hopped into the bath. And there I sat, reading my book and scoffing chocolate strawberries and drinking cab sav and feeling a bit like Paris Hilton.

If, you know, she ate. Which she probably doesn't.

It was heaven.

I was in there. For a long time. Sigh...

After about six hours, when I was pretty much percolated, I was ready to do something energetic. So I got out of the bath and got into my pyjamas. That exhausted me, so I got into bed again. Eventually I found the strength to reach for the room service menu, and after a few more hours, I managed to crawl over to the phone. I ordered my dinner, then collapsed, panting, on the bed. It had really taken a lot out of me.

There was a knock on the door and my meal appeared on a tray. It was tiny and very disappointing.

JOKING! Look at it!

Now THIS is a burger

I ate it in bed watching some rubbish on TV and making little snuffling piggie noises as I delicately crammed my burger and chippies into my face. Awesome.

And then I went to bed. Except that I already was in bed, so I moved into a somewhat more horizontal position, and closed my eyes. With blobs of tomato sauce still on my chin, and the odd chip in my hair. And I fell asleep. I slept for a long time. A looooong time.

When I woke up, it was morning. And Day 2 of rehab began....

TO BE CONTINUED...

When Food Is Love

My paternal grandmother, Ada, was not a great cook. I don't have many memories of her meals, but I have been assured by family members that they were not exactly haute cuisine. But I still remember her for her food. Or rather, for her biscuits. Which weren't all her biscuits.

Ada always had Spicy Fruit Rolls in the pantry. Always. And my sister and I ate them because, well, they were there. I would never have bought Spicy Fruit Rolls for myself. I would have bought something chocolate. Preferably triple coated chocolate with a chocolate cream filling and chocolate chips. Double chocolate chips. But Spicy Fruit Rolls were there and so we ate them. And we loved them, just like we loved her.

Little Pillows of Love

Ada also made a log. It's not the most appealing name for a dessert item, and, to be honest, it never really appealed to me much. It was a dense, biscuity concoction with coconut and sultanas and always scratched the back of my throat. But people loved that log. It was famous. Ada's Log. It even made it into a recipe book once, under the title 'Slice by Ada Slog'. That's how famous it was.

Imagine how famous it wold have been if it was chocolate.

My other grandmother, Mim, ate rye toast with cottage cheese for breakfast every single morning. With a cup of tea, not coffee. I prefer wholemeal bread, but when I was with her, I wanted rye. And now, when I think of her, I crave rye toast with cottage cheese.

My sister loved steak. I don't cook steak much at home, but every time I eat steak at a restaurant I think of her. I think of her, and I enjoy the steak even more because I am enjoying it for both of us.

I don't know what foods my kids will remember me for. Maybe 'Ultimate Milk', which is a special chocolate milk I make them as a treat before bed. Or 'Perfect Toast', which is toast with just the right amount of Nutella. Or schnitzel, which doesn't have chocolate but tastes excellent anyway. Or spaghetti bolognaise, which is my favourite comfort food and one of theirs, too.

There is so much of life we take for granted. The tastes. The smells. The sounds. The sights. Sometimes, it takes a loss for us to be reminded of what we had. Or the sight of a packet of Spicy Fruit Rolls on the supermarket shelf. Or a cup of tea with cottage cheese toast, first thing in the morning.

What foods bring back special memories for you? 

Now THIS is Cuisine

One of the great pleasures of our regular trips to the Central Coast is the Empire Bay Tavern. It's fairly unassuming from the outside, with groups of leathery-looking locals sucking on fags after a hard day's work. But once you get inside, well... it's still fairly unassuming, being stark and unadorned and kind of blokish*. Men hang in the bar drinking schooners and watching Fox Sports, and firemen come around offering lottery tickets and meat trays.

It's hardly haute cuisine.

But I love it. My GOD but I love it. Because the food is bloody awesome.

Call me unsophisticated but I love simple food. Cheeseburgers and chips, steak and chips, fish and chips, schnitzel and chips, or chips and chips and chips, are my all time favourite dishes. I can go out to a fancypants restaurant and have a nice time, but I am at my happiest eating a giant burger somewhere with sauce dripping down my chin and cheese stuck to my nose**. Or eating a steak bernaise and using the chips as a spoon to mop up all the sauce.

I'm salivating right now.

This is a BURGER. Even I know that.

And the atmosphere of a restaurant is important. I have eaten at places where I am - quite literally - frightened of the food, and even more frightened of the waiters. When it takes a degree in gastronomy just to be able to understand the waiter's explanation of the dish (not to mention identify the correct utensil with which to eat it) I become intimidated. I live in fear of accidentally eating the inedible plate decoration, or drinking with a spoon when I should be sipping directly from the bowl, or ordering a dessert wine with my incomprehensible entrée.

The tavern takes me away from such concerns. I am comfortable there, getting food on my face and eating with my hands. The kids can run around in the playground, we can all share the little packets of vanilla ice cream that come after the children's meals, I can get a glass of cab sav for about a dollar, and I can sit back with the self confidence that comes from knowing that I understand every dish on the menu. Because all they offer is burgers, steak, fish and schnitzel. Oh, and chips chips chips and chips.

And really - what else could one possibly need?

*not that there's anything wrong with that.
**okay, so that's not essential to my having a good time, but it does tend to happen a lot.

You Won't Believe What I Ate Last Night...

Last night I ate a stock cube. Seriously. And not one of those small Maggi ones, either. I ate a giant, squishy Massel chicken stock cube, straight out of the wrapper. It was horrible. I mean, chicken stock is great in soups and casseroles, but pretty gross by itself on a fork. But I couldn't help it. I was craving that stock cube like the deserts crave the rain. (Except that the stock cube also made me crave rain. Or at least water.)

Now, the obvious conclusion to reach is that I am pregnant. And when I am pregnant I do crave strange foods. When I was pregnant with my son I bought so many spinach and feta pastries from the local baker every day (three to four, to be precise) that I became too fat embarrassed to go into the store, and had to learn how to make my own.

However, I am certain I am not pregnant. This is because:

1. My kitchen has been surgically closed;
2. I am not nauseous and dizzy and weeping for no reason at all;
3. See number 1.

No, I am not pregnant. In fact, I am as far as one can get from pregnancy without being menopausal. I am craving weird foods not because I am pregnant, but because I am not.

Yes, once gain PMS rears up its ugly head. It happens all the time. Once a month, actually. Every. Single. Bloody. Month.

I don't need to keep a chart of my menstrual cycle because I know exactly where I am based on the foods I am craving. Early in my cycle I eat my normal, boring diet. When I am ovulating I become quite extraordinarily hungry, and need about seventeen meals a day (at least three of which are based on chocolate). Clearly, my body is preparing for a potential baby by packing in enough energy in three days to last me nine months. Clearly, my body is stupid.

Mmmm.... DINNER

And then I hit PMS, and I head down to the salt mines. Oh yes. Salt salt salt salt. I eat stock cubes and drink cup-a-soup and eat Vegemite with a spoon. I chomp on Feta and swallow olives and ask for extra anchovies in my salad. And I get fluid retention and grumpy as hell and turn to alcohol to ease the pain.

You'd be in pain too if you'd been eating stock cubes.

So next time you are grumpy with PMS and cursing your hormonal surges, spare a thought for me. I am sitting at my kitchen bench eating stock cubes washed down with gin and tonic. It ain't pretty.

What does PMS look like for you?

Betrayal... And Forgiveness.....And Olives...

I love my friend Lana. I do. I cherish her friendship, I cherish her unconditional support of me, and I cherish the fact that she nearly always pays for drinks when we go out. (I tried last night, I really, truly did, but she beat me to it. She's sneaky that way.)

However, last night Lana betrayed me in a fundamental way, which left me shocked and desperate. Even now, 16 hours later, I am struggling to reconcile my love for her with her extreme disloyalty. It is hard. I hope one day I will get through this.

We met for a drink at a wine bar near our kids' school, as the kids were busy at a school disco. (For the record, my five year old can dance like nobody's business. The child has moves on her never seen by human eyes before.) We drank a jug of sangria, and split a bowl of olives, and caught up on each other's lives. It was heaven.

I didn't notice anything was wrong. I thought that we were as close as ever. We went back to school and I collected my kids, and chatted and laughed with some of the other parents. All was fine. Or at least I thought it was.

(mouth shown not author's own)

But then I got in my car, and looked in the rear view mirror. And I saw it. As clear as daylight, only black, which is not at all like daylight, but rather like night - very, very black night.

A big piece of olive stuck between my two top teeth.

I was devastated. And horrified. Because Lana, my dear, dear friend Lana, had not informed me that I had olive between my teeth.

I felt sad. I felt betrayed. I felt hurt. And then I sent her a message asking how she could have done such a thing.

"Sorry," she replied. "I was trying to find your ears."

And just like that, I forgave her.

You Want Schnitzels? Go Pound Yourself.

My husband is a very easy man to please – gastronomically, anyway. He loves every meat, as long as it’s schnitzel, and every vegetable on earth, if it’s potato, and fried. And even though I hate cooking at the best of time, and schnitzels are the messiest, splatteriest, most annoying things to make, my greatest joy is pleasing my husband*. 

So every now and then, I will buy a mountain of chicken, and a huge pile of veal, and fry up enough schnitzels to last the year. Or at least feed my husband for a week or two.

Last night was one of those nights. I prepped the kitchen, pouring a mound of flour on one plate, a mound of breadcrumbs on another, and a bowl of whisked eggs in the middle. Then I added my secret ingredient , love (using ‘love’ in the sense of ‘combination of herbs, spices and salt’), and began pounding the meat.

Totally (not) my schnitzel

Now, let me tell you: I don’t like pounding the meat. Bits of chicken spray gets into my hair, and tiny shreds of veal get up my nose, and the whole thing is sickly carnivorous and gross. And then my five year old needed a bath, and my husband took ages to come and get her, and it was totally unfair because I was cooking him bloody schnitzels and the very least he could do was take one third of our joint offspring off my hands.

So I kept on pounding the meat, hard. Like, really hard. I wasn’t just pounding that meat. I was pounding my husband, and the bits of chicken spray in my hair, and the veal in my nose, and the whole unfairness of my life, of having to spend hours messing up my kitchen only to spend hours cleaning it up again when everyone around me just hung about taking it easy. I pounded and pounded until the kids became alarmed and my husband appeared before me.

“What are you doing?” he asked warily, looking as anxious as if I was wielding a mallet in my hands, which, of course, I was.

“I’m making you schnitzels,” I yelled.  “And you’ve forgotten about the bath!”

“I just ran it,” he said carefully. “Um... I think the chicken is ready.”

I looked down. The piece of chicken was in tatters. There would be no schnitzel for this particular bit of bird. There wasn’t even enough left for a nugget.

Chastened, I continued to prepare the rest of the meat. I dunked and I dipped and I rolled and I fried, and then I presented my family with a nutritious meal (using ‘nutritious’ in the sense of ‘containing trace amounts of protein amongst lots and lots of oil’). And then I sat down at the table with my own nutritious meal of Gin and Tonic and a slice of cheese (because I never wanted to look at schnitzel again), before rising seven minutes later to start cleaning.

It took one and a half hours. And another glass of gin.

My husband can be a very easy man to please. But next time he wants pleasure in the kitchen, he’s going to have to bite the bullet, and damn well please himself.

*Okay, so it’s maybe not my greatest joy, but it’s certainly up there in my top fifty.

Nutella? I Call BULLSHIT

A couple of years ago, when I was releasing When My Husband Does The Dishes, I contacted the Australian distributors of Nutella. Given that there were dozens of references to Nutella in my book, dozens of references to Nutella in my blog, and hundreds of references to Nutella in my tweets (and that I was so famous for my Nutella addiction I was being sent Nutella recipes, images and information almost daily), I thought that perhaps they would like to sponsor my launch.

My request went through to marketing, who seemed interested in the idea. I was in discussions with them right up until the last minute. And then, a couple of weeks before the launch, they changed their mind. Apparently the way that I portrayed Nutella in my musings - as a big jar of chocolatey fantabulousness that one digs into with a spoon with animal abandon - was not in line with their policy of promoting Nutella as a 'healthy breakfast option'.

Yup.

Well guess what Nutella?

NOBODY BELIEVES THAT.

Last night I saw the latest ad for Nutella on TV. It is full of delightful images of morning, and healthy, glowing people, and sunshine, and attractive, sporty men. And I watched it and I threw my Nutella-encrusted spoon at the TV  because yet again the Nutella folks are lying to me.

THIS IS NOT HOW WE EAT NUTELLA, people! In fact, this is not WHO eats Nutella! The ad is full of men (post surfing, in their business suits, pulling a coffee) and a smattering of happy kids, eating Nutella on wholesome bread and toast. The only women in the ad are either serving breakfast to their children, or giggling alongside their Nutella-scoffing boyfriends. (Two of the chicks manage to score a single bite of their boyfriends' Nutella toast, but it is quickly snatched away. Clearly one bite is all they're allowed. Perhaps the boyfriends are worried they'll gain weight?)

I am so tired of the Nutella propaganda that bears no relation to the truth. For once, I would love Nutella to release an ad that is real. Pre-menstrual women weeping and shoveling Nutella into their faces with a spoon. Post-menstrual women eating Nutella for dessert. Gleeful pre-schoolers painting with Nutella all over the kitchen. Teenage girls gorging on Nutella crepes in a cafe. Mums eating their kids' leftover crusts with a three  inch topping of Nutella. Nutella fudgsicles. Nutella brownies. Nutella microwave mud cake. Nutella on ice cream. Nutella as the treat food it really is.

If Nutella is a healthy hazelnut spread, then I am a cave woman who hunts for food. Except that I'm not. Okay, so I may have the tiniest remnants of cave woman DNA in me, but I am a 21st century Jew who buys instant noodles and cans of peaches. Similarly, though Nutella may technically have a few hazelnuts in it, it is essentially a chocolate spread that we eat when we're depressed or need to celebrate or are feeling fat or one of the billion other reasons we women eat chocolate. We don't eat it because it's healthy, because it's not. And and we certainly don't feel virtuous when we feed it to our kids, because it's chocolate (although we do feed it to them anyway, because they love it and it shuts them up and we are crap parents).

So Nutella, please come clean and start telling the truth in your advertising.

And when I launch my next book, I would really love to hear from you.

The Accidental Drunk

So last night I accidentally got drunk. And when I say that, I don't mean that I accidentally drank too much and ended up inebriated (though of course that's exactly what happened, because there's really no other way one can get drunk, but it was far more complicated than that, and it really wasn't my fault, and... and...  perhaps I should just stop the preamble and get into the story).

As many of you will know, I do tend to have a little drinkie most nights on occasion. Come 5pm 7pm, I am tired from my long, hard day as a Busy Working Mum, and am ready to unwind with a glass of something mood altering. A gin and tonic, a vodka and tonic or a glass of cab sav is enough just to take the edge off my brittle corners and relax me for the evening. I don't get drunk. I don't lose control. I just feel..... ahhhhhhhh.

Of course, there are occasions when I decide to drink a little bit more, but these are few and far between*, and never, never in front of my kids. Trust me - I am unstable enough without alcohol; I don't like to impose my intoxicated self on my offspring.

Sangria. Who knew?

But last night was an accident. You see, last night as usual The Architect and I had no plans, so we decided to take the kids to dinner at a local restaurant. The kids ordered burgers, The Architect ordered something soupy with seafood, and I ordered a healthy chicken salad and a half litre of sangria.

Now, normally I can drink sangria till it's coming out of my ears. A half a litre will barely give me a buzz; it's like pink lemonade, only vaguely ethnic. So I poured myself a huge glass and drank it down on an empty stomach, pronounced it delicious, and then poured another.

And then suddenly the room started to spin. Oh god, I thought. Salt. I needed salt.

"CHIPPIES!" I cried, and fell on my daughter's plate, cramming them into my mouth handfuls at a time.

"Oh dear," said The Architect wearily. He could see the signs.

I leaned in to him earnestly and took his face in my hands. "I don't think I can drive," I told him conspiratorially. "THEY'VE. SPIKED. MY. DRINK."

"It's called 'alcohol'," he said. "Come on kids. Finish your dinner. Mummy's drunk."

"What's the matter?" I asked him, poking him repeatedly in the ribs. "Don't you love me anymore? That makes me so sad. You have to love me! TELL ME YOU LOVE ME!"

"Yes, yes," said the poor man. "Try to calm down."

"I AM CALM!" I cried. "I'M JUST A BIT DRUNK!"

"What's wrong?" asked my son.

"DRUNKETYY DRUNKETYY DRUNK!" I told him, and giggled. My son shrugged.

"Can I have a milkshake Mum?" asked my daughter.

"After a burger and chips?" I exclaimed. "SURE!!!"

The kids beamed. It made me happy. And when I'm happy I want ice cream.

"I WANT ICE CREAM!" I cried. "WHO WANTS ICE CREAM?"

"We want ice cream!" yelled the kids.

"HOORAY!" I cheered.

We finished our meal and The Architect bundled us out of the restaurant. I left my bag inside but quickly remembered when the waitress reminded me. And then The Architect drove us home and I giggled again as I walked inside.

"That was FUN!" I declared. "Now I just need a QUICK LIE DOWN and then I'll PUT THE KIDS TO BED!"

I collapsed on our bed and fell immediately asleep. It was 8.15pm. I woke up this morning at 8.30am, feeling  vibrantly refreshed and craving Vegemite toast.

The Architect, however, looked exhausted. Funny. I thought it was a really relaxing night.

*truly, Al and Val - I hadn't had to ask anyone to take my pants off for me in years

I'm Sure I Can Blame My Parents For This

When I go to my parents' house I fall asleep on the couch. Every. Single. Time. I can't help it. It's a reflex reaction, a Pavlovian response honed over years of walking in the door and handing over my children to their grandparents. I feel unencumbered and unburdened, youthful and vibrant  (or at least, the kind of youthful and vibrant that likes nothing more than a quick cup of tea and a nice lie down).

The system has worked well for me over the years. There is just one tiny flaw. On occasion, I end up at my parents' place with my children when my parents aren't there, and on these occasions, I find it almost impossible not to fall asleep. Which is a problem considering that my children are very much awake, and are quite capable of causing considerable havoc even with the briefest window of opportunity.

Cake Shown Not Blogger's Own
(it doesn't come out of the oven fully iced)

Take yesterday, for example. I had workmen at my house so went to hang out at my parents' house with two of the kids. My parents were out, so I took out some toys for the kids and sat on the living room floor to play.

But the soporific effect of my childhood home was too much for me. Within moments, my eyes got heavy and I could feel myself drifting off.

"Mum!" I woke up with my 11 year old was poking me in the ribs. "Can you turn on the oven for me? I'm baking a cake for Nana and Papa!"

"Sure," I mumbled, and stumbled half conscious to the kitchen. I turned on the oven, stumbled to the couch, and was immediately fast asleep.

About half an hour later, I woke to the sound of alarms and the smell of smoke.

"MUM!" my daughter was shouting. "THE CAKE IS ON FIRE!"

I jolted alert and ran to the kitchen. And yes, the cake was, in fact, on fire. It was fascinating. I mean, I knew cakes could burn, but I didn't realise they could actually burst into flames like a sweet,  flour-based bonfire.

I turned off the oven and tried not to panic. How, I thought, does one extinguish a cake-based fire? More importantly, I wondered, would said cake still be edible?

"THROW WATER ON IT MUM!" my daughter screamed. But the cake smelled delicious so I decided just to blow the flames out, much as you would with candles. And it proved effective, though did take considerably more energy than blowing out candles on an actual birthday cake. And about fifteen minutes longer.

So then we sliced the top off the cake and sampled it, and it was, in fact, delicious. My parents came home and didn't notice anything at all, apart from the acrid smell of smoke throughout the whole house, and little piles of charcoal all over the kitchen floor.

And later when we returned home, my daughter offered slices of her cake to the workmen.

"It caught on fire," she told them, "but it still tastes good."

I do love my parents' couch.

Women In Cars? THAT IS NOT NEWS.

So yesterday the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald screamed some alarming new information.

Commuting Puts Women's Heath At Risk!!!

Apparently a) the more hours you spend in your car the more your health suffers, and b) women are now more at risk because their increasing representation in the work force means that they too are commuting to work. The main result of their long hours in the car is, apparently, obesity, because they are more likely to eat fast food that cook a healthy meal (not surprisingly, since it is impractical to whip out a wok in a vehicle).

Now, I totally concur with point a). Spending long hours in the car (as opposed to, you know, 'short hours') does have a significant, negative impact on your health. But obesity is not the only issue to be concerned about.

Commuting is DANGEROUS for women

Spending long hours in the car puts women at risk of:

• Snot-on-sleeve syndrome (because you can NEVER find tissues in the car when you need them); 
• Light bladder leakage (if you are listening to something funny on the radio, or just have a spat of demented laughter for no reason at all);
• Heavy bladder leakage (if you drink too much coffee before leaving the house and can't find a toilet on the F3 (which you won't, because there is none);
• Extreme thirst (because you will have forgotten a bottle of water); 
• Extreme hunger (because you will have forgotten a snack);
• Extreme nausea (because you will be overcome by hunger and thirst and stop at Maccas for a meal - and they are everywhere, even on the F3);
• Extreme nasal itching (because inevitably if you are in bumper to bumper traffic, and people are looking down at you in your car, your nostril will become itchy out of fear that you will have to scratch your nostril and people will think you are picking your nose); 
• Extreme boredom (because driving is boring); 
• Extreme road-rage (because people are idiots);
• Extreme poverty (because petrol is ferociously expensive);
• Even more extreme poverty (because you will eventually pick up a fine for speeding / driving in a bus lane / driving in a T2 lane without passengers / running a red light (EVEN THOUGH IT WAS ORANGE) / talking on your mobile while driving (BECAUSE YOUR STUPID BLUE TOOTH FAILED TO WORK THE ONE TIME THE POLICE WERE WATCHING) / just being on the roads when clearly you are not fit to have a license. 

But seriously, SMH, this has nothing to do with women joining the workforce. We women have always been on the roads for (long) hours and (long) hours a day. Because we spend half our bloody lives schlepping around our children from school to sport to dance class to music class to therapy (oh hang on, that's just me?) to play dates to swimming to chess tournaments (chess is a sport, OKAY?) and back again. We are in the car ALL DAY LONG. This is NOT NEWS.

What would be news, on the other hand, is a child who sits happily in the car for long hours, without asking for a snack, needing to do a wee, or hitting his younger sister on the head. That, SMH, would be worthy of a headline.

But until the laws of everything change, that, sadly, is never, ever going to happen.

Why I'll Never Be Invited Anywhere, Ever Again

As a busy mum blogger, I received many invitations from PR companies to attend many different functions. Usually I refuse, because I am not so interested in laundry powder or extra-strength deodorant, no matter how revolutionary they are.

Occasionally, though, I get an offer I cannot refuse. Yesterday, for example, I was invited with my entire family to dine at a restaurant about 45 minutes out of Sydney. What made this offer even more appealing was that we were to be transported there by Hummer. And although I have my own car, a fancy shmancy super long car with disco lights and a mini-bar just blew that right out of the water.

So of course I said yes. Which the PR company may very well be deeply regretting.

The Architect, three kids and I drove to the city, where we were to meet The Hummer. The Architect dropped us off and parked the car, and we were ushered into the vehicle. Five adults were already inside - a PR rep and his friend, a Mind Food reviewer, and another food reviewer and her bestie.

"Hello!" I waved to all breezily, as I slid onto the padded couch and right off the end onto my bum. Yes, being a newbie to The Hummer, I had miscalculated the length of the couch and had fallen onto my arse in front of five complete strangers.

Yup. On my arse.

Not an auspicious start.

The Architect arrived and we drove off. The kids drank water from the mini-bar and I got stuck into the champagne, which helped ease the mortification of my fall. That is, until I put my glass down into one of the car's glass-holders, there was a slight lurch, and it tipped over, all over the mini bar, all over the floor, and all over my kids.

Awkward.

"Sorry!" I called out to the five adults. "Won't happen again!"

Two minutes later, the four year old's drink did exactly the same thing, only this time a little bit splashed onto the pants of one of the adults.

"Sorry," I said again, less certainly this time. I drank some more champagne.

At the restaurant, 42 Bannerman in Glenhaven, we were seated away from our Hummer companions, for which I was profoundly grateful. A chance to start afresh. Be reborn, if you will. Make an excellent impression on a completely new group of potential friends.

We ate the delicious bread and incredible olives, exquisite quail and tuna, and then the first entree of pasta arrived.

"Spunky!" my daughter exclaimed loudly. Our table companions looked up.

Because yes, the pasta was indeed a ragout of rabbit. Presumably not our rabbit, as he had been eaten by a fox, but someone's else's rabbit.

"I can't eat Spunky!" she cried in horror.

"Can't you just pretend it's chicken?" asked our host.

The pasta, however, smelled delectable. Now, I haven't ever eaten Spunky rabbit, and I couldn't bring myself to begin. I did, however, eat around the rabbit, pulling the buttery pasta out of the bowl and leaving the, er, 'scampering chicken' on my plate.

It was heaven.

Shortly afterwards an opera singer began a performance, filmed by a photographer. At this point, my four year old decided that it was time to run in and out of the restaurant repeatedly, and what better place to run than between the singer and the camera filming him. It was mortifying. I do, however, look forward to seeing the footage of the event, as an magnificant tenor performs solemnly in Italian, while a little girl in a pink tutu and Dora tee shirt races around him.

Sadly, my children lost the plot before the final course was served, and demanded that The Hummer take them home right now. Our delightful host, who was sitting right opposite us, pretended not to mind that we were bailing before the end of the party. I, on the other hand, didn't bother pretending not to mind, because I wanted my main course and I did not want to go home. Unfortunately, in this instance, the children won, not because I was bending to their will, but because they were loud, and I was preserving what little dignity and reputation I had left.

We did, however, manage to grab three huge bowls of vanilla bean and nutella gelato before we left. Because there was no way I was going home without that.

So we got back in The Hummer and were deposited back in the city, tired and a little tipsy* and still wondering what main course we had missed out on.

And then The Architect forgot where he had parked the car. But that, my friends, is another story.

*that would be me

Welcome To My Fridge

I have cupcakes. About seventeen thousand cupcakes. I tried to put them all in the fridge and freezer but they seem to be breeding, multiplying, spilling over into drawers and cupboards, turning up in the most unexpected of places. Bathrooms. The front garden. A little nook under my desk.

And it's not just cupcakes. I have sandwiches. Platters and platters and platters of them. The entire family will be able to eat sandwiches every day for a month, which is fabulous, except that the sandwiches are all chicken, and - having attempted to eat my way through a quarter of a platter today - I can tell you that chicken sandwiches get old very quickly. In every way.

The better news, of course, is that we also have boxes of Magnums - Mini-Magnums, to be precise, which are the perfect size for a treat, provided that you eat three of them at once. We also have scones, lemon tarts, and about seventeen kilos of chocolate cake, as well as litres and litres of soft drink, bottles of pink champagne, and several thousand sachets of herbal tea.

The cause of all of this largesse is my son's barmitzvah, which took place on Saturday. It was a small celebration held at home, but instead of catering for around sixty tiny little Jewish people, the caterers became confused and brought food for the 2012 Australasian Sumo Wrestling Awards (or some other sport which involves having a giant appetite for cupcakes, ice cream and lemon tarts).

Ironically, despite having bucketloads of sweet foods, I don't have any real food in the house - no fruit, no vegetables, no meat, no cheese. After all, I didn't have time to shop for a week before the barmitzvah, so busy was I with preparations and worrying about what to wear. But I'm not concerned, because we have about twenty five billion calories per cubic metre of fridge space, so we can derive all our energy from sugar for at least a year and a half. 

So if anyone wants a sweet treat please feel free to drop on by. I can offer you a variety of delicious options, washed down with a beverage of your choice.

Just don't expect any milk in your tea. But if you want pink champagne, we've got you covered.

What I Ate. As In, REALLY....

The other night I was having drinks with a couple of girlfriends.

"You know what I hate?" asked one friend. (I'll call her Coupon, although clearly there is no-one in the world with such a silly name.) "Those stupid magazine articles which get people to say exactly what they've eaten in a day and then a nutritionist assesses their diet."

I was shocked.

"I love those articles!" I said. "I love hearing about what other people eat! And I love the nutritionist's feedback! It's fascinating!"

Coupon shook her head. (Seriously, what a ridiculous name.)"But they all eat mung beans and drink protein smoothies! I mean, who the hell eats mung beans or protein smoothies? They have to be lying. They're scared of getting in trouble with the nutritionist!"

Well, I couldn't argue with that. I, for one, hate mung beans, and the only smoothies I enjoy come with ice cream and chocolate and a swirl of cream on top. And if I don't eat them, surely no-one else would, either. They must, indeed, be lying.

So in the spirit of journalistic integrity, I decided to do my own 'What I Ate' column, including a full critique by a nutritionist.

Because someone out there has to tell the truth.

Oh, except that I don't have a nutritionist. So the critique may just have to be from me.

What I Ate On Sunday

7.30am - I ate an orange (because I like them) and a piece of toast with vegemite. Okay, toast with peanut butter. Crunchy!

8.00am - Boo didn't finish her vegemite toast, so I ate that too. With, er, some extra peanut butter on the top. Crunchy!

9.15am - Grabbed a cappuccino during Boo's swimming lesson. A skim cappuccino. Possibly with sugar. Just one sugar, though. Or maybe two.

11.00am - At a playcentre for a birthday party and starving. (Drinking coffee makes me hungry.) There was no adult food available so I was forced to steal a slice of pizza from the kids' table. This slice was so fantastically good that I was forced to steal another. And then eat Boo's leftovers, too.

4.00pm - Home. Decided I needed something healthy so I ate the remainder of last night's green salad. It was a little limp.

5.00pm - Drinks with friends. I had water. And, er, a gin and tonic. And, er, a glass of Cab Sav.

6.00pm - We were hungry. Ate a selection of breads and dips, and several tasty pieces of something fried. Crunchy!

10pm - Home in bed. Drank a soothing cup of tea. Okay, it wasn't tea. It was a cream of chicken cup-a-soup. I just love those delicious noodles!

Nutritionist's critique:
What can I say? I love those delicious noodles too! Well done, Kerri. You did good.

Chatting In My Undies

The other night, I participated in a ‘Meet The Authors’ evening at a local school. My kids don’t go to the school, but I was happy to go as a) I will take any excuse to get out of the house, and b) there was going to be food that I hadn’t prepared.

I was exhausted when I arrived at the school, but I pepped up the minute I saw the spread. This school was truly a top school. Oh, I have no idea what kind of grades the kids get, but my god they put on a good spread. I tucked in heartily, cramming smoked salmon blintzes and pesto ciabatta into my mouth.

I eyed the (very nice) red wine with longing, but refrained as I make it a rule not to drink before giving an author talk. Alcohol gets me very relaxed very quickly, and am likely to say something like ‘You should buy my book because it has a purple cover’ or ‘I write because I’m a show off’ when I am even slightly intoxicated.

Okay, so I wasn't quite this bad, but still....

I was appearing with a couple of other authors, including the novelist Nikki Gemmell, whose latest book, With My Body, is almost entirely about sex. We had all been asked to prepare a short excerpt from our books to read, so I figured that as Nikki would have to read something about sex, I may as well do the same. I prepared an extract from When My Husband Does The Dishes... called ‘Sleep Is Better Than Sex’ and sat happily on stage picking pesto out of my teeth, waiting for my turn to read.

Then things took a turn for the unexpected. The wife of the rabbi at my synagogue walked in, and sat in clear view in the audience. She wasn’t even a mother at the school! Now, I can talk about sex in front of practically anyone, but to a woman who is Holy By Proxy? Not so much. I was thrown into uncertainty. But still, it got worse. Nikki stood up to read her excerpt, and it wasn’t about sex at all. She read an utterly tame passage from her book about motherhood – quite possibly the only segment not about sex in the entire thing. Looked like I was going to be all on my own. I felt like I was about to be thrown to the lions.

Still, there was nothing to do but press on. Up I rose, and headed with trepidation to the microphone.

“This chapter is entitled ‘Sleep Is Better Than Sex’,” I said, and the entire room sat up straight. They laughed all the way through and applauded loudly at the end. I sat down in relief, and felt so happy that I relaxed a little too much, and ended up answering ‘Because I’m a show off’ when asked why I like to write. I may as well have just had the wine.

Afterwards, a girlfriend who was in the audience approached me.

“It was great, but you have to keep your legs together when you stand up,” she said. “The whole room could see your undies. Still, at least you were wearing some.”

I poured myself a huge glass of wine. I’m never doing an author talk again.

Hilarious

I've had a rough couple of days (don't ask) and so I thought that instead of feeling sad I'd think about happy things. Even more specifically, things that make me laugh. A lot. So I have compiled a list. Please add your own!

Things That Make Me Go Ha!

• Playing charades with nearly-four-year-old Boo. It goes something like this:Boo: Stands up in front of us, and makes some inexplicable sign with her left hand. Us: "Movie? Book? TV show?"Boo: "No!" Holds up three fingers.Us: "Three words?"Boo: "Yes!"Us: "Dora The Explorer?"Boo: "No!" Holds up one finger.Us: "Spongebob?"Boo: "No!" Holds up five fingers.Us: "The Simpsons?"Boo: Thinks for a minute. "Yes!"Us: "Hooray!"

• The cable TV show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant", about women who had no idea they were pregnant till they started giving birth. I particularly loved the 20 year old who assumed she'd gained 25 pounds because she was eating so much junk food (you know, after the condom broke), and the 46-year-old mother-of-two who assumed that she was going through menopause and that her stomach was growing because of a 'tumour'. Oh, and I adore the re-enactments of the births with actors who are mysteriously far, far better looking than the real women themselves, and the 'newborn' babies who look like they've been at pre-school for a year.

Boo. Don't mess with her.

• The iPhone app that puts tattoos all over my kids.

• The outfit my husband dressed Boo in when I had to rush out of the house early before (think frilled pink summer dress over long sleeve navy jumper, worn fetchingly with purple sandals and Dora The Explora socks).

• The cost of replacing my car door handle after it fell off in my hand (though admittedly I was laughing through my tears).

• My husband's face when I explained that his daily morning 'coffee' was probably responsible for his bizarre, recent weight gain, given that it is a 'White Choc Rasberry Grande Frappucino'.

• Penises. Have you ever looked up close? They're hilarious. I don't know how men walk around with those things.