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? 

Trampoline of Hell, Part: KILL ME NOW

I thought my days of trampoline assembly were over. I was wrong. Oh, how painfully, tragically wrong was I.

Due to some impending garden landscaping, our impossible-to-assemble trampoline was required to be disassembled and moved, temporarily, to a different location. The 'different location' is 'my parents' back garden', given that they are a) the ones who bought the bloody thing, and b) no-one else will have it as it is IMPOSSIBLE-TO-ASSEMBLE.

The Architect disassembled the trampoline with the help of our daughters. This, clearly, was far easier than the assembly, which is IMPOSSIBLE and DESIGNED INTENTIONALLY TO SEND YOU CRAZY.

I HATE YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW

I transported the pieces of trampoline to my parents' place, where they waited eagerly, tools in hand. (Okay, so my mother was drinking a cup of tea and my father was asleep on his bed, but they were sweetly eager in spirit.)

The first part of the trampoline was simple to assemble, because the manufacturers are EVIL and TRYING TO TRICK YOU. My mother and I got the base up and attached part of the mat, and then things went hideously, catastrophically wrong.

For a start, we lost the special tool you need to pull the springs that attach the mat to the base. My mother, who is endlessly resourceful, fashioned a tool out of a metal clamp, which seemed to do the trick. However, very shortly thereafter, it became clear that we were simply not strong enough to pull the springs into place. My father was summoned to come and lend some Man Power to the operation. This irritated my 13 year old son, who felt deeply offended that we had not thought to seek his help, but the entire task was clearly beyond him as it was IMPOSSIBLE.

My parents and I laboured for over an hour in the scorching summer heat, trying all sorts of techniques to get the RIDICULOUS STUPID SPRINGS into the BLOODY CRAZY-MAKING HOLES. We failed. At one point, I was lying on the grass underneath the trampoline trying to assist with navigation as my mother wept in despair above me and my father complained of chest pains.

We still failed.

After a further five minutes, my parents quit the trampoline in a cloud of rage and disgust. I looked sadly at the pile of springs and decided to take my five year old for a walk whilst my mother took to her bed and my father locked himself in his study.

I returned after half an hour, and my 11 year old daughter greeted me at the door.

"Mummy, come see what we did!" she cried.

I called my parents and we all proceeded to the backyard. The trampoline was fully assembled. My two children had assembled it. They had done the impossible. And they said it was "easy".

I hate that trampoline. I do. I really do. But I love my children. If they can assemble that trampoline, they can cure cancer and save the earth from meteors. And I feel very lucky to have them.

I wish that trampoline would go and spontaneously combust, though. I hate it.

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.

Fire in the Belly (okay, TOE)

I always look forward to visiting my parents on the Central Coast. For one thing, it is a beautiful part of the world. For another, it is wonderfully liberating to hand over my three kids to their Nana and Papa. I am able to kick back, relax, and pretend that I am, once again, a childless young woman (albeit a childless young woman who lives with her parents and their three young children).

Sadly, this particular trip did not start off auspiciously. Oh, it wasn't as bad as a recent trip to the Central Coast, in which I packed up the car and the kids, put (the wrong) petrol in the fuel tank, and had to abort the whole expedition when my engine nearly blew up.

Still, it wasn't great.

I spent the morning packing, which is not easy with two kids determined to make mess, and a third determined not to let go of my leg. I then packed up the car, packed up the kids, and drove to the petrol station, where I spent an anxious ten minutes checking obsessively that I was putting the right fuel in the tank.

After another brief stop to buy essential supplies for the journey (including chips, Coke Zero, and a four-pronged Push Pop), we embarked on the long, treacherous drive to the Coast (long because it's 90 minutes, and treacherous because... well... I was at the wheel). By the time we pulled up in my parents' driveway I was exhausted and starving, and very much looking forward to a tuna sandwich and a nice lie down.

The kids ran ahead to the front door, but I stayed behind to lug the bags inside. This is because a) I am responsible and considerate, and b) my father hadn't come out to help me, despite c) me calling me plaintively.

So I climbed out of the car, grabbed a bag, and stepped onto a nest of Fire Ants.

The pain was excruciating. I ran into the house screaming, much to the befuddlement of my parents, who are used to me being very calm and composed*. I rocked on the couch in agony, my toe blazing with (ant) fire, bullets of pain shooting up my foot. And there I remained, pitifully, for the first two hours of my stay in heaven, an ice cube clutched to my toe, and several dozen painkillers sloshing around my belly.

Happily, the rest of the day was quite uneventful. But it's only been 24 hours and in this family, really, anything can happen....

*that may be a lie

The Picture That Said ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING

Yesterday on Twitter the delightful Em Rusciano was bemoaning her recent mortification. She had gone out to the races in a black dress, having rushed out the door and not done a full mirror check. When she saw photos of the event, she realised with horror that her dress was completely see-through. And, as she wasn't wearing a bra (which would never happen to me, as I barely leave my bedroom without strapping the puppies in), the entire world could see her nipples.

Now, I've searched the internet for Em's nipples and I can't find them anywhere. Every picture I see has two perky little stars over the offending protrusions. But to be fair, flashing a couple of nipples is really not so bad. And I'd know.

I have flashed far more than that.

Let me set the scene for you. My mother used to teach art classes in her home studio to women, mainly aged in their fifties to seventies.

On this particular day, my mother was sharing photos of her newborn grandson - my first baby, and her first ever grandchild. It was a wonderful day. There was Little Man, tiny and sweet, all wrapped up in his baby blanket. There was Little Man in his Nana's arms, her beaming, him sleeping, all peaceful and full of joy. And there was Little Man with his Mummy shortly after the birth, her smiling like a radiant Madonna with her child in her arms.

The art class woman cooed and gooed over the pictures, passing them from one to the other, and marveling at the beauty of both mother and child.

The women left. My mother sighed over the photos again, looking with adoration at her grandson.

And then she saw it.

And her mouth fell open.

And she nearly fell over with shock.

Because in the Madonna photo, of me and my baby, was MY VAGINA. Oh yes. All of it. All of my vagina that had JUST PUSHED OUT A HUMAN BABY.

It was not pretty.

And she had showed it to her art class.

Sharon Stone flashed her vagina. The similarities end there.

IMPORTANT UPDATE:

After reading this post, my mother contacted me to (firmly) tell me that this is not what happened at all. The above story, she said, was a figment of my imagination. According to my mum, she only showed the picture to one person before realising what it revealed. She then immediately snipped off (ouch!) the offending corner of the photo, and continued to display it confidently to the world.

Still, art class or no art class, my post-natal vajayjay did make it into a pic.

And it was a bloody good story, besides.

Life at *cough* twenty two...

Those of you who read this blog regularly will know that I recently got reading glasses. (And those of you who don’t? I’m hurt.)

I was very surprised to find that I needed glasses, given that I am only thirty five years old*. In fact, it never would have occurred to me to even go and get my eyes checked, except that I was struggling to read. The pages of my books would swim before my eyes, my computer screen would go blurry, and the messages on my mobile phone looked like tiny ants marching across my screen. What’s more, I kept sending people texts like ‘Set you in jive’ and ‘Be yer doon’, which made people think I had a drinking problem**.

So off I went, to get my eyes tested. It turns out I do have visual signs of aging, in addition to the visible ones (which, ironically, I hadn’t fully appreciated until I got my reading glasses and could see how wrinkly I’ve become).

Despite the shock to my ego, I am happy to have my specs. Not only can I now read books in comfort, but I can work out that I am meeting my friend Karen ‘in Westfield’ and not, say, ‘in Wee fish’ (which can be very hard to find).

On the other hand, I am very unhappy to have my specs, as they are a constant reminder that I am already thirty years old***. I don’t want to be old. I want to be forever young.Now, I know that that’s not a politically correct thing to say. I am supposed to ‘embrace aging’, ‘celebrate my forties****’, and ‘feel empowered and powerful’. Well, yeah, I do, definitely. I’d just be embracing, celebrating and powering much more cheerfully if my eyesight wasn’t failing and my back didn’t hurt.

To be fair, I’m not doing too badly. I’m not grey yet (except, inexplicably, for two of my eyebrow hairs), I don’t have to pluck my chin, and I can still recall exactly what I did yesterday (if I put on my glasses and look in my diary). But I want to be younger.

My mum is no help when I discuss this with her. She scoffs, ‘You think you’re aging? What about me? I’m fifty five!*****’ But just because my mother is older than me doesn’t help me to deal with it any better. And besides, if my mother wasn’t older than me, well, we’d have even bigger problems on our hands.

Still, I am trying to accept my fate. For one thing, there’s not much I can do to halt the pace of time, other than certain surgical procedures which I have ruled out on the basis of a) cost, b) health risks, and c) the faces of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (which I have only been watching because I have been too blind to read).
And for another thing, I have a long way to go. After all, I’m still only twenty two.

*that may be a slight underestimate

**which I don’t. Noon is a perfectly acceptable time to start drinking.

***even more inaccurate

****if I was in my forties, which of course I am not....

*****this may be a slight underestimate

Travelling With Chipmunks. Do NOT Try This At Home.

It is fun to travel long distances with children. Also, there is a pig flying past my window. You should see it. It’s purple.

I have recently returned from a two week trip to the United States with my husband and three children. The trip was hours of fun and exhilaration, interspersed with moments of torture, and two days of chipmunk music.

For the first week of the holiday we were accompanied by my parents, in an arrangement that pleased me enormously. Partly, of course, I was happy to spend time with my Mum and Dad. Mainly, however, I was glad they flew with us to Los Angeles, so I could sent four year old Boo to sit with them on the plane when she began flinging herself around in psychotic exhaustion, and throwing her airline meal on the floor*.

After an adventure-filled week in California, my husband and I parted ways with my parents** and journeyed on with the kids to Las Vegas.

On my husband’s suggestion, we hired a car and took the trip by car. It is around a five hour drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, or much, much quicker by air, but who the hell would want to take the quick, easy option when you can drive five hours through the desert on the wrong side of the road with three kids in tow? I mean, that would just be silly, right?

Needless to say, I was apprehensive before the drive, until the miraculous discovery of a DVD player and two pull-down screens in our car. Fantastic, I thought. Problem solved!

I borrowed some DVDs from our American friends and popped them into the glove box ready to entertain the kids. It was a flawless plan, but for one tiny flaw. Twenty minutes onto the freeway, we discovered that most of the DVDs were Blue Ray*** and didn’t work in the standard-issue DVD player. In fact, only one DVDs worked: the ear-melting classic ‘Alvin And The Chipmunks 2 - The Squeaquel’.

So, for the entire five hour drive there, and then the entire five hour drive back, I was subjected to the excruciating sound of the Chipmunks singing Beyonce songs in falsetto, as I reminded my husband to stay on the right side of the six lane highway and not veer into oncoming traffic. Until three or four hours into the Chipmunks, at which point veering into oncoming traffic seemed highly desirable.

Still, we survived the journey, and I am sure that I will be able to get the sound of the Chipmunks out of my head eventually. After all, it’s only been a week, and, you know, if you like it then you should have put a ring on it, oh oh oh.... Ooops. Sorry. Just lapsed into song again.

Anyhow, the moral of this story is threefold. Firstly, don’t travel anywhere without grandparents. Secondly, don’t travel anywhere with children. Thirdly, Blue Ray technology is a crime. And fourthly, I know I can’t count, but I’m still traumatised from our journey.

And if you like it then you should have put a ring on it, oh oh oh.

*an act of tremendous selflessness, as I am aware that every hour with my child is a precious gift to my parents.

**which, incidentally, was planned, and not a response to them being burdened with a psychotically exhausted four year old.

***which sounds exciting and modern, but is clearly useless and stupid

Powerless

I am typing this post with extreme difficulty on my son's tiny little computer, which is the perfect size for his tiny little hands, but ridiculously inadequate for my huge ones (okay, so my hands are actually pretty tiny too, but considerably bigger than his). To frustrate and demoralise me further, the cursor on his computer is a bright green dinasaur who refuses to point in the direction I want him to point, and then morphs mockingly into a monkey whenever I manage to wrangle him into position. And when I click, he becomes a banana. This is what I have to deal with.

And all the while, my son is cheerily tapping away on my perfectly large and lovely computer in the very next room. Which HAPPENS TO BE MY OFFICE. Did I mention I'm sitting at the kitchen bench?

So why am I working under these absurd conditions? Well, the truth of the matter is, my son asked to use my computer, and I have simply forgotten how to say no. In fact, I have forgotten how to parent, fullstop. This is the sad legacy of staying with my parents at the coast for a week. I can no longer remember how to manage my own children.

When I stay with my parents, I relinquish all parenting duties. I sleep in, and let my parents get the kids up, dressed and fed. I allow my mother to make meal suggestions and helpfully grate carrots for the salad as she prepares the rest of the food. I nap during the day whilst my parents take the kids for a walk. And then I lounge on the couch watching 'The Mentalist' until my parents have enough of the children and decide to put them to bed.

Now, obviously I am doing this all for my parents' sake. It makes them feel young and vibrant and needed, to be so hands on with their grandchildren. And it's wonderful for my kids to have such a close relationship with their Nana and Papa. I am being selfless by allowing them all to interact in this way.

But I suffer for it. Truly, I do.

Because child rearing is like a muscle. If you don't exercise it every day, it withers and dies. So when I return home, I am incompetent and hesitant. I don't know how to discipline. I can't remember how to cook. I forget to do the laundry. And I desperately crave my nap during the day.

Three year old Boo approaches. "I want choccie NOW!" she says. I stare at her blankly. I know there is some appropriate parental response (like "NO" or "Later") but I can't remember it. "Okay," I say.

Nine year old Pinkela has been playing Nintendo for four hours. I seem to recall something about that being bad for her, but have no idea what to do about it. I pat her on the head and go read the paper.

And my eleven year old son has taken over my computer. I know this is unfair. I know he has his own computer and that he should leave mine alone - or at least ask permission before he takes it over. But I can't seem to get it back. I sigh deeply and resign myself to the dinasaur-monkey.

But all is not lost. For my son has just told me he's finished with my computer. I am allowed to use it now.

This parenting gig is easy, after all.

The Sun Will Come Out... Tomorrow

Hello. Welcome to my 'HOLIDAY'. Hope you're having a good one. I am. Yes, TRULY. Oh, and sorry I'm a bit shouty. It's just that being TRAPPED in a BEACH house with one's ENTIRE FAMILY in the WIND and the DRIVING RAIN tends to do that to ONE. (And yes, I know, capitalising 'one' was overkill and didn't really make grammatical or emphatic sense, but that's just the kind of mood I'm in.)

Everything is fine, I just have a touch of cabin fever. Nothing to worry about. In fact, being confined to a house with my husband, kids and parents in inclement weather is a good thing, really. As seven individuals of wildly disparate personalities (except for my husband and father, who are really quite alarmingly similar) we are forced to forget our enormous differences and get along. (Or to lubricate our differences with frequent consumption of alcohol, which, happily, is working quite well for the adults, but is clearly not appropriate for the kids.)

We are all bonding quite nicely. My father's lame jokes at my expense aren't bothering me like they used to, and his equally lame jokes at my husband's expense are sounding, well, pretty amusing really. And my mother's obviously superior raising of my children isn't rubbing me up the wrong way - in fact, I'm working it to my advantage by giving her time and opportunity to demonstrate her skills to me. As for my husband, well, I barely even notice him anymore - in the face of so much Sackville Family Of Origin crazy he has become a touch passive - and really, one can't hope for more than that at this stage of a marriage.

And the kids, well, I'm coping with their delightfully robust ebulliance extremely well. No longer am I bothered by Boo's ongoing renditions of 'Look At My Cute Bum Bum' (complete with bum flashes and points) or her insistence on administering some kind of nasal delivery technology to me via a small, green plastic bottle. Nor is her Bob The Builder Song Book irritating me at all, not even when she presses that damn button for the 756th time and the elevator version of the theme song plays for what seems like 17 minutes.

I'm incredibly proud of Pinkela, as she has been beautifully behaved, and I don't mind at all her using this holiday break to perfect the 'El Trumpeto' nose blowing technique favoured by her father and maternal grandfather. It's loud, it's proud, and when it comes from her nose by GOD it's a feminist statement. And Little Man, well, nothing he does ever worries me, not even when he does his Happy Dance Of 'You're A Loser' after thrashing me at Scrabble, though I've tried my absolute best and have sneaked looks into the dictionary and hate that stupid idiotic game anyway.

So all in all, it's been a very nice holiday break. And the fact that I'm sleeping 10 hours a night and then retiring to my room to nap for another two or three hours during the day is not at all related to any desire for space or solitude, but rather my need to recharge my batteries after a long hard year. And besides, what else am I going to do in this weather? For the love of god, people - it's FREEZING outside! WHERE'S THE SUN???? For GODSAKE! WHERE'S THE SUN??????

Er, sorry.. I'm fine now, truly. So how is your holiday going? Getting any rest? Be quick; I've been up for two hours already, I'm getting a bit shouty, and I really need to be heading back to bed....

Roughing It For Freedom (or Holidays With Nana)

So here I am at House Basic on the coast. I don't enjoy camping (using 'don't enjoy' in the sense of 'look at people who do it and scream internally "Why, for the love of god, WHY????"') so this is the closest I get to roughing it.

And it's rough. There is no internet access (or at least there wasn't until I discovered wireless broadband), no Foxtel (which hurts ), and the TV has actual knobs and an aerial. We go for walks in the park, read books, and play parlour games. It's like living in Jane Austen's England, only very slightly more advanced.

Still, it's a place of great serenity, with a lovely view, and lots of wildlife. Bush turkeys wander round, giant spiders crawl the walls, and rodents scamper across the floor. They leave their cute little mouse droppings everywhere, including inside the traps we leave for them (but only after cleverly removing the bits of cheese).

Still, despite the tremendous physical hardships, it's fantastically relaxing being here with my mum and the kids. For one thing, I get to eat vegemite toast every night for dinner while the kids eat pasta (and my husband back home is on his fifth night of pizza).

For another thing, I stop being a parent.

Yes, when I am staying with my mum, I forget I have children. No, I don't forget my kids exist - their volume renders that impossible - but I forget that they are mine. And so does my mum.

Yes, Nana asks them what they want for dinner and cooks it, reminds them to put their jackets on, and tells them to brush their teeth. She picks up their wet towels from the floor, washes their clothes, and rescues Toddler when she gets too close to the stove. I, on the other hand, doze on the couch, lifting my head only to kiss one of my kids goodnight when they are presented to me, clean and shiny after the bath that Nana gave them.

So complete is the role reversal that, on one memorable occasion when popping out to the shops Mum asked me "Will you be okay with them while I'm gone?"

So thanks for the holiday, Mum. I'll put up with the rodents, and the spiders, and even the aerial. Freedom (from kids) comes at a price, and I am more than willing to pay.

Oh, yes, and a cup of tea would be lovely! Thanks...