We are, all of us, byproducts of our experiences and upbringing. Growing up I had a mother who knew how to make everything fun, whether it was by keeping us home when it snowed for snowmen and hot chocolates or by running covert missions as a spy family at the weekly supermarket shop (points were given for getting things in the trolley without her noticing...marks were deducted if those items were not on the official list). My Dad was less about the play and more about the deep thinking and life philosophy - although in between instilling a love of Fleetwood Mac at high volume and explaining our place in the world he still managed to teach me how to play space invaders with my car on the long trip between our farm and town. I acknowledge that I am not at all normal but I believe I was doomed to my existence by virtue of who my parents were and what they taught me.
Today was a study in one particular lesson that has always been with me. Queuing up at the State Bank when I was about eleven, I watched as the man in front of us was awful to the bank teller. Nothing that would provoke anyone to intervene, but just condescending and nasty enough to make her feel small and bring tears to her eyes. My Dad skipped a few tellers, letting others go ahead, so he was her next customer. He smiled winningly, called her by name and shook his head, sympathising over the incident with the guy before us. Then he asked her how she managed to look so good in the bank uniform and whispered conspiratorially that he always likes being served by her because she's so damn good at her job. By the time we left the tears had left her eyes and she was laughing. As we walked out he stopped me in the street and asked me if I could imagine what it must be like to stand on my feet all day in a uniform and high heels, doing pretty mundane work for very little pay. I shook my head.
"Now imagine," he said, "How much worse that job would be when the people you have to serve with a smile are arseholes. Always remember this Rebow; no matter how bad your day is, someone else's is always worse. Don't ever add to their misery by being an arsehole, no matter how badly you feel yourself."
This morning was not good for me. I woke up feeling pretty low and after having a bit of a cry I decided to pull the big girl panties up and get on with the chores for the day. And that includes the weekly food shop. I do not like malls. I do not like shopping. But I am conscious of the life lessons from my Dad, which included noticing how no one at the mall ever makes eye contact and no one ever smiles*. Consequently, I do not shop like a normal person. I like to throw my headphones on (low enough that I can hear people talking to me over the music), dance through the aisles, smile at the dead-eyed children strapped into their strollers and trolleys, and make stupid faces at people who look like they need a laugh.
I also like to skim my trolley. You know, skip along and then when you get a clear run straighten your arms and fly over the ground without touching it with your feet. I've been in trouble for this on more than one occasion by one Coles staff member (who we will call Mike**) who haunts the produce section and seems to think I'm a lawsuit waiting to happen***. Mike was ready with his frown today when I came zooming through but I smiled winningly at him and told him I'd just crashed into someone in Aldi and he'd given me his number and asked me on a date. I grinned broadly, asked Mike if he wanted to be my next crash victim and assured him a broken ankle would be worth it. He couldn't help himself, he laughed and I scooted away before he could deliver his dire predictions of spilt moo juice and financial ruin.
Next was the deli where a dozen people waited while two people went their hardest and fastest. The mood was generally...tetchy. Why can't Coles put more people on****, it's always busy on a Sunday, this is ridiculous... A byproduct of the music while I shop is that I don't mind waiting so much, time to practice my grinds. And when it was my turn I saw that I was going to be served by Chris, who is almost always there on Sunday. He called my number and I threw my hands up in the air and cheered. "Yeah! My turn! And I got CHRIS!!!"
I got a few hidden smiles and interesting looks but Chris was grinning and that was good enough. As he got my stuff together I apologised for being an idiot and said I liked being served by him because he always smiles and he's always nice to me. Plus, he gives my children samples when they're with me (although I have never had the heart to tell him that unless it's cheese they just smile politely and wait for a moment when they can covertly stuff it into my pockets or down my top). I assured him I did not imagine that the feeling was mutual because he probably thinks I'm nuts and is slightly scared of me, and that's okay.
"Nah," he grinned, "Do you know how boring it gets here? It's really nice to have someone who's actually nice to chat to for a change."
WINNING. And my final triumph came at the checkout with a particularly young looking guy called Brad. Brad was looking a bit dead so when it came to my turn I pulled my phone out and keyed up the stopwatch function.
"Sixteen items and one bag, Brad. Your colleague Michelle did that in three minutes and twenty four seconds last week. Think you can beat her?"
He stopped and frowned slightly.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Trolley Tetris," I sighed, rolling my eyes, "Are you up for it or not? All that stuff in one bag, payment processed in under three minutes and twenty-four seconds."
He looked a bit bewildered for a second while the two kids aged about eight and ten waiting in line behind me started to giggle. Brad looked over my items, looked at the bag in his hand and then his vision cleared and he frowned in concentration.
"Challenge accepted!" he breathed, yanking the handle of the bag through the holder and getting to it like a well-oiled machine.
The kids behind me started to bounce on the spot and I started cheering him on, counting the time as he went.
"Oh no!" he cried, seizing the final item, a bottle of wine, "I'm not eighteen! We have to go to the front counter!"
"That's okay just clear the payment docket!"
"TIME!" he yelled, slamming his hand down on the button to print my receipt.
"Three minutes twelve seconds, new record!!!"
We whooped like idiots; Brad, the kids and I, before loading my stuff in the trolley to head down to the front service desk.
"Congratulations Brad, you're not even eighteen and you're now the Coles Trolley Tetris champion. How do you feel?"
"Pretty awesome, is there a medal?"
"Sadly not," I sighed, "But we're in discussions for sponsorship with management so who knows? There's hope for the future."
"Yes there is," he smiled, handing my docket over, "We might even look into getting a Best Customer Ever Award. Thanks for that, you made my day."
I cannot help but feel that at some point I will either be committed or asked to stop shopping at Coles. I don't see anyone else dancing, cheering, skimming trolleys or otherwise engaged in anything but insular behaviour. Time to think about your place in the world and your impact on those around you people. Get your headphones, grab a trolley and get some skin in the game. And, if I am committed, do me a solid favour and show this blog post to the hospital so they let me out again. I'm not crazy, just waging a war on misery. Chiefly my own.
* Particularly in December but I think we all get a hall pass for this one. Too much tinsel, too many Mariah Carey carols, toy-hungry tantruming toddlers and don't even get me started on the advertising banners.
** Names have been changed so people don't get into trouble.
*** Variously - I may crash and break myself, I may crash and break someone else, I may crash and break expensive broccoli or milk, etc.
**** People never stop to ask themselves whether they would be willing to pay an extra $2 a kilo for their deli goods if it meant there was one more person behind the counter so they were served in two minutes instead of three. What is up with that?
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Guide to Surviving Depression
It's been a rough, rough, rough trot and I'm by no means through it yet...but I'm doing so much better of late that it must be time to tempt fate. Dah-dah-dah! Presenting my guide to surviving depression. I am by no means a guru but I've been through it, I've supported people through it, here's my take.
1.) The big one. Accept that it's happened to you. I know. You never get sad. You're very social. You are the one people go to for help. So why is it that for the last two weeks you've been hiding under the covers, sobbing because your sheets have faded more than your pillowcases and they no longer match? Why are you ignoring the phone and only answering the door when the cops come around because people at work are concerned that you don't show up anymore and sorry Sir/Ma'am just checking that you're...um...okay? You've got the big D my friend and hiding won't save you. You're also not going to just pull yourself together in the next 24 hours with the assistance of a triple shot of espresso. Time to accept it.
2.) Decide to survive. Those who haven't had depression are thinking "duh". Those that have are thinking "huh, easier said than done." Here's the reality - suicide is as low as it gets on the depression curve and it's a very real threat. Make a conscious decision early on that you are going to survive and go on to be a person who goes outside the house, maybe even to a place where you're gainfully employed and where you will spend a whole day not caring whether your bedding matches, what other people think about you or whether you're going to die alone.
There have been many, many moments in the last six months where I have thought to myself that I do not want to be like this for the rest of my life and that I would rather die here and now than feel like this forever. The only reason I didn't? Because I decided right at the start when it all started sliding downhill that that wasn't ever going to be an option for me. And neither was staying in bed. So first decide to live and then decide to get better. And then do something about it.
3.) Do something about it. I know. You're consumed by waves of apathy. It's overwhelming. But you've got to start somewhere. Get help. For some, this will take the form of lovely little pills that will make ramming your car at high speed into solid concrete seem like a somewhat less attractive option. It worked for me over ten years ago. It didn't work this time. A week into taking very low doses of the same drug I realised I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep and *ahem* couldn't do other fun stuff I really, really enjoy. The pills had to go. Instead I elected for the physical challenge - exercising my body into the ground so I could sleep at night and getting a counselor to deal with the mental stuff cluttering up my day. Whatever you do, don't ignore it, it's not going away.
Ooo, while I think of it, some other things to remember on this interesting little journey. Insider tips, if you will;
1.) Your subconscious is a nasty little psychopath, knows all your secrets and is not on your side. I read this theory when I was studying psychology about how a person's mind will store traumatic information about things they fear and/or have experienced, keeping it out of their immediate awareness until they are mentally equipped to deal with it. Then, when they're strong enough and at a place in their life where they can deal with it, their mind will unlock the information in the form of memories and dreams, allowing the person to come to terms with their issues. It's a lovely little theory and total BS.
If you have depression your giggling psychopathic subconscious is going to line up all yours fears, everything you're afraid of - even the stuff you thought was long-buried or stuff that you didn't even know existed and then it's going to use them like paint on a canvas to carefully illustrate your own personal Lovecraftian horror in live, technicolour-action. This is no impressionist effort - we're going full on renaissance realism where the detail and symbolism will take your breath away. Congratulations, you now have anxiety issues too. Cheer up, there will come a day when you remember that you really don't care what anyone thinks of you and the chances of being bent naked over the podium of your former high school's hall in front of everyone you've ever known and smacked by *insert name of individual* for being a very naughty girl while every single dirty little secret and deed you ever participated in* gets recited by *insert name of individual* are slim to none. So stop sobbing your guts out into the mismatched pillows - it was only a freakin' dream and trust me, the subconscious has more. This time spider/snake/bogey-man related.
2.) Cut yourself some slack. I never actually got post-natal depression but watching some of the mothers that did I couldn't help but wonder whether it was related to the sudden change of gears without the benefit of a clutch. One day you're running a magazine, jet-setting all over the world to meet new and interesting people in a range of fabulous outfits - hair and makeup done to perfection. The next you forgot to get out of your pyjamas because you're so damn tired, even though they're covered in what you hope is mashed pumpkin...but you forget. Because you're so damn tired. The definition of success in the first four months of both my children's lives was this - we're all still alive at the end of the day and I had time to shower and change my clothes. Anything after that qualified me for sainthood in my opinion.
Depression sucks all your energy away. Unrealistic goals and expectations won't do anything but make it worse. So dial the benchmark for success down to something that's achievable and don't be afraid to negotiate with yourself. On my worst days I could not find the energy to make my daughter's school lunch - but I made deals with myself that her lunch order would be healthy and that I would find the energy to make her a healthy dinner.
3.) You really aren't a bad person. No, really. I've spent a long time working to become the person I am. I've faced the things I don't like about myself and made an effort to change them. Generally this means I'm pretty confident and happy with who I am. It also means I tend not to give a flying flibbertygibbet whether other people like me or not. Depression giggled a lot at that and then screwed up my confidence and tossed it to the psychopathic subconscious for a blistering round of emotional hackey sack. In the end I was so paranoid about what other people thought of me, particularly those I really love, that I seriously considered severing ties with everyone, moving to a foreign country on my own and living as a hermit. What the hell is up with that??? Here's the deal - unless you actually have the remains of people you offed buried somewhere, chances are that you're not that bad. Yes, really.
4.) Set yourself up to succeed. Aside from cutting yourself some slack and getting help, surround yourself with people who are of benefit. If my counselor had been the sort to hold my hand, say "there, there" and sympathise with my plight, I would have strangled him with his own leather thong necklace quicker than you can say "here's the tissues, dear". It's not the sort of thing I need to hear** because that sort of approach simply doesn't help me. Mostly throughout this journey I needed to not be around people. The people I did choose to be around were around because they knew what to say and when to say it. It's hard to pick those people until you're in the mess of it. Ironically the people I loved being close to the most were almost as broken as me because then we could make truly sick jokes about our misery and just giggle. Sane, happy people tend to just look at you in horror when you do that.
5.) The hardest thing of all - be selfish. I've been at the end of the list for so long I forgot what it was like to be a priority in my own life. But you can't save anyone from drowning if you don't know how to swim yourself. I realised pretty early on that I had to recharge my batteries before I could resume the roles and obligations I'd happily been filling for so long. It hurt to say no to things I would have said yes to once. It hurt to tell people I just couldn't be there or I wasn't able to do that. It hurt to decide that going to taekwondo two nights a week was more important than putting my kids to bed myself. It's bad enough burdening those around you with your misery - it's worse to impose on them to do your work while you go and sort yourself out. Even if you've happily shouldered their burdens for them when they were down and out. Rather than think of it as selfishness, think of it as investing in your recovery so you can be there for the people you love a little further down the track.
As I said at the start, I am by no means better. But the anxiety and misery last for shorter times and the periods in between are longer and longer. I find myself in the quiet moments being content or happy for no reason instead of despairing. I've become better at looking after myself and doing the things I need to do to stay healthy and happy. Every day my guilt over that gets less although it's definitely still there. I still don't know who I'll be at the end or what I'll be doing with my life. I feel like I'm on the cusp of major changes but I don't know what they are yet. And I'm okay with that too. Should you ever find your feet on this path, be kind to yourself people. You are loved and needed here on earth, even if you feel broken now. And if you hang on for long enough I promise there will come a time when you feel whole again.
* Whether you were really into it or just trying it on for size because you really, really, really liked this guy and he didn't seem like a weirdo until right now when he asked you to do this.
** And it's okay if you're the sort that does. Although if you are, who are you and what on earth are you reading my blog for???
1.) The big one. Accept that it's happened to you. I know. You never get sad. You're very social. You are the one people go to for help. So why is it that for the last two weeks you've been hiding under the covers, sobbing because your sheets have faded more than your pillowcases and they no longer match? Why are you ignoring the phone and only answering the door when the cops come around because people at work are concerned that you don't show up anymore and sorry Sir/Ma'am just checking that you're...um...okay? You've got the big D my friend and hiding won't save you. You're also not going to just pull yourself together in the next 24 hours with the assistance of a triple shot of espresso. Time to accept it.
2.) Decide to survive. Those who haven't had depression are thinking "duh". Those that have are thinking "huh, easier said than done." Here's the reality - suicide is as low as it gets on the depression curve and it's a very real threat. Make a conscious decision early on that you are going to survive and go on to be a person who goes outside the house, maybe even to a place where you're gainfully employed and where you will spend a whole day not caring whether your bedding matches, what other people think about you or whether you're going to die alone.
There have been many, many moments in the last six months where I have thought to myself that I do not want to be like this for the rest of my life and that I would rather die here and now than feel like this forever. The only reason I didn't? Because I decided right at the start when it all started sliding downhill that that wasn't ever going to be an option for me. And neither was staying in bed. So first decide to live and then decide to get better. And then do something about it.
3.) Do something about it. I know. You're consumed by waves of apathy. It's overwhelming. But you've got to start somewhere. Get help. For some, this will take the form of lovely little pills that will make ramming your car at high speed into solid concrete seem like a somewhat less attractive option. It worked for me over ten years ago. It didn't work this time. A week into taking very low doses of the same drug I realised I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep and *ahem* couldn't do other fun stuff I really, really enjoy. The pills had to go. Instead I elected for the physical challenge - exercising my body into the ground so I could sleep at night and getting a counselor to deal with the mental stuff cluttering up my day. Whatever you do, don't ignore it, it's not going away.
Ooo, while I think of it, some other things to remember on this interesting little journey. Insider tips, if you will;
1.) Your subconscious is a nasty little psychopath, knows all your secrets and is not on your side. I read this theory when I was studying psychology about how a person's mind will store traumatic information about things they fear and/or have experienced, keeping it out of their immediate awareness until they are mentally equipped to deal with it. Then, when they're strong enough and at a place in their life where they can deal with it, their mind will unlock the information in the form of memories and dreams, allowing the person to come to terms with their issues. It's a lovely little theory and total BS.
If you have depression your giggling psychopathic subconscious is going to line up all yours fears, everything you're afraid of - even the stuff you thought was long-buried or stuff that you didn't even know existed and then it's going to use them like paint on a canvas to carefully illustrate your own personal Lovecraftian horror in live, technicolour-action. This is no impressionist effort - we're going full on renaissance realism where the detail and symbolism will take your breath away. Congratulations, you now have anxiety issues too. Cheer up, there will come a day when you remember that you really don't care what anyone thinks of you and the chances of being bent naked over the podium of your former high school's hall in front of everyone you've ever known and smacked by *insert name of individual*
2.) Cut yourself some slack. I never actually got post-natal depression but watching some of the mothers that did I couldn't help but wonder whether it was related to the sudden change of gears without the benefit of a clutch. One day you're running a magazine, jet-setting all over the world to meet new and interesting people in a range of fabulous outfits - hair and makeup done to perfection. The next you forgot to get out of your pyjamas because you're so damn tired, even though they're covered in what you hope is mashed pumpkin...but you forget. Because you're so damn tired. The definition of success in the first four months of both my children's lives was this - we're all still alive at the end of the day and I had time to shower and change my clothes. Anything after that qualified me for sainthood in my opinion.
Depression sucks all your energy away. Unrealistic goals and expectations won't do anything but make it worse. So dial the benchmark for success down to something that's achievable and don't be afraid to negotiate with yourself. On my worst days I could not find the energy to make my daughter's school lunch - but I made deals with myself that her lunch order would be healthy and that I would find the energy to make her a healthy dinner.
3.) You really aren't a bad person. No, really. I've spent a long time working to become the person I am. I've faced the things I don't like about myself and made an effort to change them. Generally this means I'm pretty confident and happy with who I am. It also means I tend not to give a flying flibbertygibbet whether other people like me or not. Depression giggled a lot at that and then screwed up my confidence and tossed it to the psychopathic subconscious for a blistering round of emotional hackey sack. In the end I was so paranoid about what other people thought of me, particularly those I really love, that I seriously considered severing ties with everyone, moving to a foreign country on my own and living as a hermit. What the hell is up with that??? Here's the deal - unless you actually have the remains of people you offed buried somewhere, chances are that you're not that bad. Yes, really.
4.) Set yourself up to succeed. Aside from cutting yourself some slack and getting help, surround yourself with people who are of benefit. If my counselor had been the sort to hold my hand, say "there, there" and sympathise with my plight, I would have strangled him with his own leather thong necklace quicker than you can say "here's the tissues, dear". It's not the sort of thing I need to hear** because that sort of approach simply doesn't help me. Mostly throughout this journey I needed to not be around people. The people I did choose to be around were around because they knew what to say and when to say it. It's hard to pick those people until you're in the mess of it. Ironically the people I loved being close to the most were almost as broken as me because then we could make truly sick jokes about our misery and just giggle. Sane, happy people tend to just look at you in horror when you do that.
5.) The hardest thing of all - be selfish. I've been at the end of the list for so long I forgot what it was like to be a priority in my own life. But you can't save anyone from drowning if you don't know how to swim yourself. I realised pretty early on that I had to recharge my batteries before I could resume the roles and obligations I'd happily been filling for so long. It hurt to say no to things I would have said yes to once. It hurt to tell people I just couldn't be there or I wasn't able to do that. It hurt to decide that going to taekwondo two nights a week was more important than putting my kids to bed myself. It's bad enough burdening those around you with your misery - it's worse to impose on them to do your work while you go and sort yourself out. Even if you've happily shouldered their burdens for them when they were down and out. Rather than think of it as selfishness, think of it as investing in your recovery so you can be there for the people you love a little further down the track.
As I said at the start, I am by no means better. But the anxiety and misery last for shorter times and the periods in between are longer and longer. I find myself in the quiet moments being content or happy for no reason instead of despairing. I've become better at looking after myself and doing the things I need to do to stay healthy and happy. Every day my guilt over that gets less although it's definitely still there. I still don't know who I'll be at the end or what I'll be doing with my life. I feel like I'm on the cusp of major changes but I don't know what they are yet. And I'm okay with that too. Should you ever find your feet on this path, be kind to yourself people. You are loved and needed here on earth, even if you feel broken now. And if you hang on for long enough I promise there will come a time when you feel whole again.
* Whether you were really into it or just trying it on for size because you really, really, really liked this guy and he didn't seem like a weirdo until right now when he asked you to do this.
** And it's okay if you're the sort that does. Although if you are, who are you and what on earth are you reading my blog for???
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Happy Birthday To Me
My birthday has, for the last few years, sucked for one reason or another. So this year I approached it with more than a little trepidation. I wanted to give it the best possible chance of success but given the myriad of ways it's been miserable in recent years I was aware that it's almost impossible to formulate a successful plan given that the universe is a creatively cruel and unusual place...and my birthday seems to be the cosmic focus of the cruelness and unusuality*.
So this year when Charles suggested going down to my Dad's farm for the weekend, I only had a brief moment before I realised that here was the perfect opportunity to throw off tradition and thwart the expectation. Go down to my Dad's farm. Assume nothing will be done on my birthday but lying on a couch and occasionally rising to haul my children out of the pond. How on earth can that possibly go wrong?
As a birthday present (because he was forbidden from buying me anything) my Dad treated us to dinner at the local Chinese the night before my birthday - this worked well for me. 30 June isn't the date that's cursed, after all. And it was bliss. Great food, great atmosphere, had a blast. Home again and off to bed. And then things took an ugly turn. My sleep was broken by the sound of my small, distraught son depositing everything in his stomach onto his pillow. A quick check of the clock as I threw him into a warm bath confirmed my worst fears. Four minutes past midnight...happy birthday to meeeeee!
And so I spent the night cuddling a sick boy, waking up every hour and trying to get him to imbibe juice laced with Panadol. By morning I was tired, sore and not really in the mood to party. But I was optimistic. Panadol had downgraded James from a hot, writhing ball of cyclonic fury to merely grumpy toddler status. We could still save this. We headed into town for some lunch and a spot of birthday shopping. And this is where it all turned around.
I've been looking for a winter coat for months now but apparently thin felt is this season's only option material-wise and jacket patterns are designed for people shaped like bricks. Since I refuse to fork out mega bucks to look like a felt-covered brick I've been gadding about in jackets three sizes too big. Target Country was about to change all that because they had a gorgeous cream parka with fur-lined hood marked down by 25%. And then when we actually got to the counter it was marked down further and I wound up paying a paltry amount for a jacket full of win. Things were looking up.
My little girl, almost seven and obsessed with secrets, surprises and spoiling people, has clear ideas about how birthdays should be. Mama's was not living up to it. So I dropped super-broad hints about wanting my own mug for Opa's house and she darted off to the local variety score to pick something appropriate for the princely sum of $2.
Next we had to address James' particular fetish and that means cake. Unwilling to spend much on something I don't really care for we headed to Woolies and here's where inspiration took hold. I settled on a $5 sponge cake with cream filling. The kids looked thoroughly disappointed in my miserable choice of cake until I announced the plan - I would coat it in chocolate ganache and they could decorate it any way they liked. The happy was palpable and they quickly armed themselves with sprinkles and icing animals.
Back at the farm, my babies got to work.
James, sick as a dog, was in his element. No small boy can be expected to contain his saliva around chocolate ganache and cream...so watching him work was like watching Typhoid Mary bake scones for morning tea and I was convinced we were all going to catch whatever it was he was packing, but there was no way I was going to kill the only good thing that had happened to him since we landed.
They worked for ages, applying the dedication reserved for master cake artists commissioned by the queen. The concentration levels were through the ceiling. Never before has the application of purple sprinkles been the subject of such intense and careful attention.
Finally prepared to call time, the icing on this cake was not the icing itself but being allowed to place the candles themselves anywhere they liked.
Best birthday cake EVER.
* A small part of me wonders if this interesting anomaly is related to the fact that my birthday is 1 July - the start of the new financial year. Perhaps the concentrated animosity of 22 million Australians suspicious of legislative financial change that is enacted come 1 July has created some sort of ripple that is messing up my many happy returns? Also? I am aware that unusuality is not a word. But it bloody well should be.
So this year when Charles suggested going down to my Dad's farm for the weekend, I only had a brief moment before I realised that here was the perfect opportunity to throw off tradition and thwart the expectation. Go down to my Dad's farm. Assume nothing will be done on my birthday but lying on a couch and occasionally rising to haul my children out of the pond. How on earth can that possibly go wrong?
As a birthday present (because he was forbidden from buying me anything) my Dad treated us to dinner at the local Chinese the night before my birthday - this worked well for me. 30 June isn't the date that's cursed, after all. And it was bliss. Great food, great atmosphere, had a blast. Home again and off to bed. And then things took an ugly turn. My sleep was broken by the sound of my small, distraught son depositing everything in his stomach onto his pillow. A quick check of the clock as I threw him into a warm bath confirmed my worst fears. Four minutes past midnight...happy birthday to meeeeee!
And so I spent the night cuddling a sick boy, waking up every hour and trying to get him to imbibe juice laced with Panadol. By morning I was tired, sore and not really in the mood to party. But I was optimistic. Panadol had downgraded James from a hot, writhing ball of cyclonic fury to merely grumpy toddler status. We could still save this. We headed into town for some lunch and a spot of birthday shopping. And this is where it all turned around.
I've been looking for a winter coat for months now but apparently thin felt is this season's only option material-wise and jacket patterns are designed for people shaped like bricks. Since I refuse to fork out mega bucks to look like a felt-covered brick I've been gadding about in jackets three sizes too big. Target Country was about to change all that because they had a gorgeous cream parka with fur-lined hood marked down by 25%. And then when we actually got to the counter it was marked down further and I wound up paying a paltry amount for a jacket full of win. Things were looking up.
Next we had to address James' particular fetish and that means cake. Unwilling to spend much on something I don't really care for we headed to Woolies and here's where inspiration took hold. I settled on a $5 sponge cake with cream filling. The kids looked thoroughly disappointed in my miserable choice of cake until I announced the plan - I would coat it in chocolate ganache and they could decorate it any way they liked. The happy was palpable and they quickly armed themselves with sprinkles and icing animals.
Back at the farm, my babies got to work.
James, sick as a dog, was in his element. No small boy can be expected to contain his saliva around chocolate ganache and cream...so watching him work was like watching Typhoid Mary bake scones for morning tea and I was convinced we were all going to catch whatever it was he was packing, but there was no way I was going to kill the only good thing that had happened to him since we landed.
They worked for ages, applying the dedication reserved for master cake artists commissioned by the queen. The concentration levels were through the ceiling. Never before has the application of purple sprinkles been the subject of such intense and careful attention.
Finally prepared to call time, the icing on this cake was not the icing itself but being allowed to place the candles themselves anywhere they liked.
Best birthday cake EVER.
* A small part of me wonders if this interesting anomaly is related to the fact that my birthday is 1 July - the start of the new financial year. Perhaps the concentrated animosity of 22 million Australians suspicious of legislative financial change that is enacted come 1 July has created some sort of ripple that is messing up my many happy returns? Also? I am aware that unusuality is not a word. But it bloody well should be.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
A Lesson in Etiquette
For those who know me personally you'll know that I have many passions in my life and one of those passions is burlesque. Like so many things in my life it was Kat who introduced me and I went to my first class knowing barely anything about it. I remember how horrified I was at the moves, the seduction - oh my how I blushed the first time I tied someone to a chair and shimmied my breasts in front of them. But I quickly grew to love it and the reason I loved it was not just because of the way it makes me feel but because of the way I was introduced to it. The awesome Ms Deb Delicious was my teacher - a woman so talented just watching her takes my breath away. Better, she is beautiful of soul as well as of figure and she told us all that we could dance and be beautiful. I believed her and it turns out she was right.
I am not a woman who has ever really had a lot of girlfriends. My experience with others of the fairer sex was not positive going through high school and I tend to just get along better with guys in general. Burlesque was the first time in my life where I landed in a room full of women who I genuinely liked. No bitchiness, no nastiness, just loads of giggling, compliments and intimacy. It was bliss. We start each class by describing a sexy and an unsexy moment we've experienced during the week and boy the things that we talk about! New boyfriends, new girlfriends, sickness, favourite clothes, bitchiness...the list of sexy and unsexy things is endless and revealing.
Burlesque has not been anything like what I expected from that very first day and it has come to mean a lot to me and to change me in unexpected ways. You hear what they say about society poisoning our minds about our bodies but until the first moment where you genuinely fall in love with your body and what it can do you don't realise that you've secretly bought into the idea that you ought to look like a barbie doll and resigned yourself to a lifetime of ordinariness. Burlesque made me wake up to myself. It made me feel good about myself. It gave me confidence. I came to realise that it doesn't matter what shape you are, what colour your hair is or how big your breasts are; someone, somewhere thinks you are the hottest thing since the sun first burst into the sky. And that hotness is only magnified if you believe in yourself and carry yourself with confidence. Burlesque is the reason I have moments where I believe I am beautiful and desirable. It has given me self-confidence beyond any understanding of the word I ever had before I started to dance.
My burlesque school is small and intimate. None of us look like Playboy models. None of us are professional dancers. What we are is a group of smart, animated women who gather to practice our bumps and grinds, make our costumes, giggle and gossip. For me burlesque is a sacred space. I go there and share my tragedies and triumphs through my sexy and unsexy moments. I've cried with these women in some pretty dark moments and they've held me. I've danced with them and admired everything about their beautiful faces, minds and bodies. I've loved every damn minute of every class I've ever been to and it's not because I get to take my clothes off and gyrate - it's because these fantastic women love me just as I am and wouldn't have me any other way.
A few weeks ago the girls gave an incredible performance and I was there with Kat to cheer them on. They were so funny, sexy and brilliant. I screamed myself hoarse. It was an incredible, amazing show that left them all high. I know how much it took for some of them to get up there and do it - reveal themselves, put it out there, dance their hearts out in daring costumes for people they don't even know. They deserved to be lauded and applauded purely for trying. The fact that they were so damn good at it was icing on the cake.
Unfortunately not everyone feels the way I do. Today I found out that some people on Facebook decided to write horrible things about our little group and its performers.
To me, it's water off a duck's back. Ironically these classes and the beautiful Miss Deb are the reason I care not a jot for these people or anything they have to say. Nothing can touch the love I have for these women or the confidence I have in myself thanks to them. But watching poor Miss Deb struggling to hold back her tears while she talked about it today made me powerfully angry. Generally I think that people who have to say those sorts of things about others do so because of a flaw in their own character. Insecurity, jealousy, whatever it may be and I don't think any attention should be given to them or the poison they leak into the world.
But you hurt someone I care a great deal for and so I've decided to write this post so I can say this...
There are not enough people in this world willing to give their all and bare themselves to others in the hope of achieving connections and building relationships. It takes guts to put yourself on a stage in a skimpy costume, dance your heart out and trust that the audience will treat you with respect. It is bloody hard and a damn sight braver than sitting on a computer criticising the work of others from a safe emotional distance.
I like to think that this behaviour was a thoughtless moment in time - a product of distance between the person who wrote those things and the people they were writing about. Let's close that distance and put it in a nutshell folks - you broke the heart of a beautiful woman who has brought nothing but joy and confidence to countless women who really needed it - some of us in our most desperate hour of self-loathing and need. You need to have a good, long think about that and reconsider your actions and their impact on others. And, just in case you still don't get it, I've dumbed it down to a level you might actually understand;
For the rest of you? If you do ever go to see a show, cheer your guts out...not just for the awesome moves and the beautiful bodies but for the bravery of those who are willing to put it all out there for your viewing and entertainment pleasure. Be a positive force in this world people.
I am not a woman who has ever really had a lot of girlfriends. My experience with others of the fairer sex was not positive going through high school and I tend to just get along better with guys in general. Burlesque was the first time in my life where I landed in a room full of women who I genuinely liked. No bitchiness, no nastiness, just loads of giggling, compliments and intimacy. It was bliss. We start each class by describing a sexy and an unsexy moment we've experienced during the week and boy the things that we talk about! New boyfriends, new girlfriends, sickness, favourite clothes, bitchiness...the list of sexy and unsexy things is endless and revealing.
Burlesque has not been anything like what I expected from that very first day and it has come to mean a lot to me and to change me in unexpected ways. You hear what they say about society poisoning our minds about our bodies but until the first moment where you genuinely fall in love with your body and what it can do you don't realise that you've secretly bought into the idea that you ought to look like a barbie doll and resigned yourself to a lifetime of ordinariness. Burlesque made me wake up to myself. It made me feel good about myself. It gave me confidence. I came to realise that it doesn't matter what shape you are, what colour your hair is or how big your breasts are; someone, somewhere thinks you are the hottest thing since the sun first burst into the sky. And that hotness is only magnified if you believe in yourself and carry yourself with confidence. Burlesque is the reason I have moments where I believe I am beautiful and desirable. It has given me self-confidence beyond any understanding of the word I ever had before I started to dance.
My burlesque school is small and intimate. None of us look like Playboy models. None of us are professional dancers. What we are is a group of smart, animated women who gather to practice our bumps and grinds, make our costumes, giggle and gossip. For me burlesque is a sacred space. I go there and share my tragedies and triumphs through my sexy and unsexy moments. I've cried with these women in some pretty dark moments and they've held me. I've danced with them and admired everything about their beautiful faces, minds and bodies. I've loved every damn minute of every class I've ever been to and it's not because I get to take my clothes off and gyrate - it's because these fantastic women love me just as I am and wouldn't have me any other way.
A few weeks ago the girls gave an incredible performance and I was there with Kat to cheer them on. They were so funny, sexy and brilliant. I screamed myself hoarse. It was an incredible, amazing show that left them all high. I know how much it took for some of them to get up there and do it - reveal themselves, put it out there, dance their hearts out in daring costumes for people they don't even know. They deserved to be lauded and applauded purely for trying. The fact that they were so damn good at it was icing on the cake.
Unfortunately not everyone feels the way I do. Today I found out that some people on Facebook decided to write horrible things about our little group and its performers.
To me, it's water off a duck's back. Ironically these classes and the beautiful Miss Deb are the reason I care not a jot for these people or anything they have to say. Nothing can touch the love I have for these women or the confidence I have in myself thanks to them. But watching poor Miss Deb struggling to hold back her tears while she talked about it today made me powerfully angry. Generally I think that people who have to say those sorts of things about others do so because of a flaw in their own character. Insecurity, jealousy, whatever it may be and I don't think any attention should be given to them or the poison they leak into the world.
But you hurt someone I care a great deal for and so I've decided to write this post so I can say this...
There are not enough people in this world willing to give their all and bare themselves to others in the hope of achieving connections and building relationships. It takes guts to put yourself on a stage in a skimpy costume, dance your heart out and trust that the audience will treat you with respect. It is bloody hard and a damn sight braver than sitting on a computer criticising the work of others from a safe emotional distance.
I like to think that this behaviour was a thoughtless moment in time - a product of distance between the person who wrote those things and the people they were writing about. Let's close that distance and put it in a nutshell folks - you broke the heart of a beautiful woman who has brought nothing but joy and confidence to countless women who really needed it - some of us in our most desperate hour of self-loathing and need. You need to have a good, long think about that and reconsider your actions and their impact on others. And, just in case you still don't get it, I've dumbed it down to a level you might actually understand;
For the rest of you? If you do ever go to see a show, cheer your guts out...not just for the awesome moves and the beautiful bodies but for the bravery of those who are willing to put it all out there for your viewing and entertainment pleasure. Be a positive force in this world people.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Who I really am
It feels like a long, long time since I wrote anything here and that's because it has. I've been ignoring the emails, the IMs and the phone calls although I am very grateful to know there are (or were) regulars who love reading my blog. It's not that I've had nothing to say it's just that first of all I'm too busy to say it and second, life has been dark for some time now and I'm the sort of person who believes that people go to a blog to escape their own misery, not to vicariously experience yours. Plus, I never was into self-pity.
I know I've largely dropped off the map the last few months. No social engagements, few obligations...all my energy has been channeled into keeping me and my small family going. You can't be cooking pumpkin soup for sick relatives when your kids are wearing the same school uniform for the fifth day in a row. When you're running from school drop off to work, to the shops, back to the schools and then home to tackle four hours of domestics on your own you quickly realise your energy has to come from somewhere other than food and sleep alone. So I've been using any time I can beg, borrow or steal to do things that make me happy and I also took the liberty of getting a counselor (more on him later).
Anyway, I remember in one of our sessions I told my counselor (whose name is Jonathon) that my biggest fear is that I don't know who I am any more. Jonathon is extremely cool and likes to ask direct questions that cut through bullshit faster than a chainsaw through butter. He immediately wanted to know why not knowing who I am concerns me. Because, I said, everything I used to do that defined me is gone. I don't know the person who's come to take the place of what got burned out and left behind. I don't know what she likes, I don't know who her friends are, I don't know what she's going to be doing next week. Frankly it's kind of scary. I feel like a shell that might become something one day, but I don't have a clue what it will be.
A good place to start is doing things that make you happy, says Jonathon and I tell him I have that one covered. Selfish is the new black apparently. He laughs and says if you're doing 90% of everything in your household anything you do for yourself isn't selfish it's mandatory. Okay, I say, anyway, here's my list, replicated here for your viewing pleasure. It includes, but isn't limited to the following;
Burlesque
Swing dancing
Lots and lots and lots of martial arts
Socialising with totally inappropriate people
Other things too scandalous to mention but can be briefly summarised as "ongoing attempts to wake people out of their suburban stupor and remind them that not only are they alive but there are more important things to do with your day than bitch about who stole your newspaper."
Jonathon blinked at me once I'd finished the list, sighed and asked me whether I realised that he always has to have at least three cigarettes and a bit of a lie down after our sessions. No, I didn't realise that, I reply, why on earth is that? He laughs and says it's not every day you meet someone who freely admits they're riding the edge of death and has rather decidedly said fuck you and fuck your anti-depressants I'm going to focus on becoming the coolest chick on the planet as my therapy and fix myself on my fucking own. (Jonathon says fuck a lot, another reason I really like him.)
I must have looked a bit bemused because he laughed, shook his head and said I might not feel like I know who I am but it's not that I'm a new person or a shell that might become a new person. Rather I've simply ceased pretending to be someone else and decided to be who I really am and no one else.
If that's true, I said, why do I still feel so miserable? And why do I feel like I don't recognise myself in the mirror?
Because, he replied, you just don't realise what you've done yet. But you will eventually and then you'll see that you've used what you call your trial by fire to burn away everything that's unnecessary, everything that's holding you back, all the bullshit obligation, niceties and formalities and now you're down to the core - which I think you'll find is tempered steel in the shape of someone you quite like being with a life that's bloody fun to live.
At the time I was spectacularly dubious, despite my respect for the chain smoking, filthy-mouthed, uber-cool Jonathon. But tonight as I sorted the washing I was thinking to myself how much time I waste getting ready to go anywhere and I realised how totally inefficient it is to order my wardrobe by tops, bottoms, pyjamas, etc. Five minutes into sorting all my clothes and my various accessories into "burlesque", "martial arts and boxing", "work" and "casual wear" I started to laugh. I'm still tired and running on almost nothing but Jonathon's right, I'm finally myself and it's someone I really like. Mother, wife, friend, daughter, arse-kicking stripper extraordinaire. And I'm back blogging. So stop harassing me.
I know I've largely dropped off the map the last few months. No social engagements, few obligations...all my energy has been channeled into keeping me and my small family going. You can't be cooking pumpkin soup for sick relatives when your kids are wearing the same school uniform for the fifth day in a row. When you're running from school drop off to work, to the shops, back to the schools and then home to tackle four hours of domestics on your own you quickly realise your energy has to come from somewhere other than food and sleep alone. So I've been using any time I can beg, borrow or steal to do things that make me happy and I also took the liberty of getting a counselor (more on him later).
Anyway, I remember in one of our sessions I told my counselor (whose name is Jonathon) that my biggest fear is that I don't know who I am any more. Jonathon is extremely cool and likes to ask direct questions that cut through bullshit faster than a chainsaw through butter. He immediately wanted to know why not knowing who I am concerns me. Because, I said, everything I used to do that defined me is gone. I don't know the person who's come to take the place of what got burned out and left behind. I don't know what she likes, I don't know who her friends are, I don't know what she's going to be doing next week. Frankly it's kind of scary. I feel like a shell that might become something one day, but I don't have a clue what it will be.
A good place to start is doing things that make you happy, says Jonathon and I tell him I have that one covered. Selfish is the new black apparently. He laughs and says if you're doing 90% of everything in your household anything you do for yourself isn't selfish it's mandatory. Okay, I say, anyway, here's my list, replicated here for your viewing pleasure. It includes, but isn't limited to the following;
Burlesque
Swing dancing
Lots and lots and lots of martial arts
Socialising with totally inappropriate people
Other things too scandalous to mention but can be briefly summarised as "ongoing attempts to wake people out of their suburban stupor and remind them that not only are they alive but there are more important things to do with your day than bitch about who stole your newspaper."
Jonathon blinked at me once I'd finished the list, sighed and asked me whether I realised that he always has to have at least three cigarettes and a bit of a lie down after our sessions. No, I didn't realise that, I reply, why on earth is that? He laughs and says it's not every day you meet someone who freely admits they're riding the edge of death and has rather decidedly said fuck you and fuck your anti-depressants I'm going to focus on becoming the coolest chick on the planet as my therapy and fix myself on my fucking own. (Jonathon says fuck a lot, another reason I really like him.)
I must have looked a bit bemused because he laughed, shook his head and said I might not feel like I know who I am but it's not that I'm a new person or a shell that might become a new person. Rather I've simply ceased pretending to be someone else and decided to be who I really am and no one else.
If that's true, I said, why do I still feel so miserable? And why do I feel like I don't recognise myself in the mirror?
Because, he replied, you just don't realise what you've done yet. But you will eventually and then you'll see that you've used what you call your trial by fire to burn away everything that's unnecessary, everything that's holding you back, all the bullshit obligation, niceties and formalities and now you're down to the core - which I think you'll find is tempered steel in the shape of someone you quite like being with a life that's bloody fun to live.
At the time I was spectacularly dubious, despite my respect for the chain smoking, filthy-mouthed, uber-cool Jonathon. But tonight as I sorted the washing I was thinking to myself how much time I waste getting ready to go anywhere and I realised how totally inefficient it is to order my wardrobe by tops, bottoms, pyjamas, etc. Five minutes into sorting all my clothes and my various accessories into "burlesque", "martial arts and boxing", "work" and "casual wear" I started to laugh. I'm still tired and running on almost nothing but Jonathon's right, I'm finally myself and it's someone I really like. Mother, wife, friend, daughter, arse-kicking stripper extraordinaire. And I'm back blogging. So stop harassing me.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Blackberry (and apple) jam recipe
*sigh* Yet more blackberry stuff. *sigh* I HATE blackberries. But I whipped up some jam at the request of the big man and the household is going through it at a rate of knots, so I thought I'd share. All jams are dead easy, this one is no exception.
Ingredients
1.5kgs blackberries, preferably fresh-picked
1 kilo granny smith (green) apples
2.5 kilos white sugar
1 cup water.
Throw the blackberries into a saucepans with the sugar and water. Peel, core and then finely dice the green apples (and I mean FINELY dice). Throw that in too* and give it all a good stir.
Bring it all up to the boil and boil the life out of it until you get the thick jammy bubbles happening. In my opinion there's nothing at all wrong with runny blackberry jam but if you're worried about it, test it out on a small dish pre-chilled in the fridge. Your final bit of work before sterilising bottles and sealing depends on whether you like your jam chunky or smooth. If you want it smooth, you're going to want to stick a bar mix/stick blender in there and give it a wizz. In our house we go chunky because I'm lazy.
As previously mentioned, I am not a blackberry fan (mainly because I'm the idiot that has to go pick them) but the reception this stuff received indicates everyone else thinks it's the bomb. There's always a small amount of jam left over after bottling and I tend to pop it in a bowl in the fridge for the household to consume over the next couple of days. This time half of it was gone within an hour as Lis imbibed it still-warm, straight from the bowl with a spoon. The rest went the next morning. It's not even a week on and they've almost finished the first 500ml jar of the stuff and Charles is getting defensive and lashing out when I suggest giving jars of the stuff away. Definitely a winner.
* It's worth noting here that for some reason granny smith apples pad berry jams out beautifully. Quite aside from the pectin in them helping the jam to reach the setting point, which can be a bit tricky with berries alone, something about the apples changes the flavour in a good way. I've noticed previously when making strawberry jam that if I make it with strawberries alone it can be a bit cloying and sweet and not necessarily taste strongly of strawberries. Make it with a 50-50 strawberry to apple ratio and the resultant jam has an amazing strawberry taste more true to the original berry and you'd never know there were apples in there. The blackberry jam was the same. The resultant jam is far more blackberry-like in flavour, it set better and you can't tell it has apples in it. Plus it means I had to pick less blackberries!
Ingredients
1.5kgs blackberries, preferably fresh-picked
1 kilo granny smith (green) apples
2.5 kilos white sugar
1 cup water.
Throw the blackberries into a saucepans with the sugar and water. Peel, core and then finely dice the green apples (and I mean FINELY dice). Throw that in too* and give it all a good stir.
Bring it all up to the boil and boil the life out of it until you get the thick jammy bubbles happening. In my opinion there's nothing at all wrong with runny blackberry jam but if you're worried about it, test it out on a small dish pre-chilled in the fridge. Your final bit of work before sterilising bottles and sealing depends on whether you like your jam chunky or smooth. If you want it smooth, you're going to want to stick a bar mix/stick blender in there and give it a wizz. In our house we go chunky because I'm lazy.
As previously mentioned, I am not a blackberry fan (mainly because I'm the idiot that has to go pick them) but the reception this stuff received indicates everyone else thinks it's the bomb. There's always a small amount of jam left over after bottling and I tend to pop it in a bowl in the fridge for the household to consume over the next couple of days. This time half of it was gone within an hour as Lis imbibed it still-warm, straight from the bowl with a spoon. The rest went the next morning. It's not even a week on and they've almost finished the first 500ml jar of the stuff and Charles is getting defensive and lashing out when I suggest giving jars of the stuff away. Definitely a winner.
* It's worth noting here that for some reason granny smith apples pad berry jams out beautifully. Quite aside from the pectin in them helping the jam to reach the setting point, which can be a bit tricky with berries alone, something about the apples changes the flavour in a good way. I've noticed previously when making strawberry jam that if I make it with strawberries alone it can be a bit cloying and sweet and not necessarily taste strongly of strawberries. Make it with a 50-50 strawberry to apple ratio and the resultant jam has an amazing strawberry taste more true to the original berry and you'd never know there were apples in there. The blackberry jam was the same. The resultant jam is far more blackberry-like in flavour, it set better and you can't tell it has apples in it. Plus it means I had to pick less blackberries!
Plum paste recipe
Plum paste is one of the quickest, easiest products to make come harvest season. You may have seen it near the cheeses at the super market with the cabernet paste, fig paste, etc. It's a very thick, sweet concoction in a small tub that goes on your cheese board and costs about $5 a pot. Ludicrous. You can make enough of the stuff to last a year and many, many cheese boards for just a little bit more than that.
Plum paste is the perfect accompaniment to the bitiest of blues and washed rinds. This is my own recipe that I put together after checking out what was out there and then having a go myself. It makes about 2.5 litres of the stuff and I recommend you bottle it in the smallest jars you can find - a couple of tablespoons is the most any cheese board needs.
Ingredients
2kg of plums
2kgs white sugar
3 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice (bottled in a pinch)
1/2 Cup malt vinegar.
Dump your plums in the sink, wash thoroughly and de-stalk. Cut the seeds out and throw the rest in the food processor along with the vinegar and lemon juice. Do it in two batches - and just blend the life out of it until it's liquid. Dump it into a saucepan and bring it up to the boil. Be aware that the mix is quite thick in this state - so keep stirring to avoid burning. It may also be quite a neon colour;
Once the bubbles start, dump in the sugar. This will make it lots more liquid and, much darker, thank goodness;
Keep stirring until it boils. The mixture here is quite thick and needs to be stirred frequently. But apart from that, just keep boiling until it gets super thick (maybe thirty minutes?) and then start bottling it up into your sterilised jars. Seal immediately. The following day when you turn the jar, the paste should not move. If it does, you're in for a reboil and seal session. That's all folks. The paste will last weeks in the fridge once opened but if you don't use a 200ml jar in a month, you're just not eating enough cheese.
Plum paste is the perfect accompaniment to the bitiest of blues and washed rinds. This is my own recipe that I put together after checking out what was out there and then having a go myself. It makes about 2.5 litres of the stuff and I recommend you bottle it in the smallest jars you can find - a couple of tablespoons is the most any cheese board needs.
Ingredients
2kg of plums
2kgs white sugar
3 Tablespoons fresh lemon juice (bottled in a pinch)
1/2 Cup malt vinegar.
Dump your plums in the sink, wash thoroughly and de-stalk. Cut the seeds out and throw the rest in the food processor along with the vinegar and lemon juice. Do it in two batches - and just blend the life out of it until it's liquid. Dump it into a saucepan and bring it up to the boil. Be aware that the mix is quite thick in this state - so keep stirring to avoid burning. It may also be quite a neon colour;
Once the bubbles start, dump in the sugar. This will make it lots more liquid and, much darker, thank goodness;
Keep stirring until it boils. The mixture here is quite thick and needs to be stirred frequently. But apart from that, just keep boiling until it gets super thick (maybe thirty minutes?) and then start bottling it up into your sterilised jars. Seal immediately. The following day when you turn the jar, the paste should not move. If it does, you're in for a reboil and seal session. That's all folks. The paste will last weeks in the fridge once opened but if you don't use a 200ml jar in a month, you're just not eating enough cheese.
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