The Definition of Wealthy When You're Five...

This morning as I wrapped Charlotte in her brand new purple minky dressing gown, thoughtfully bought for her by Daddy for pyjama day at school I couldn’t help but admire it.

“You know Charlotte,” I said, “You’re very lucky to have a Daddy who buys you really nice things like this lovely dressing gown.”

“You mean I’m really lucky to have a Daddy with stupid amounts of money,” she corrected. 

She talks like she’s five going on sixteen but at least wealth in her mind is measured by Daddy’s ability to afford a brand new dressing gown at a moment’s notice and not our actual financial status.

You can tell this photo was taken by Daddy because first up he's using the standard flash but, more obviously, our children are standing on the dining table.

An Angry Word on Suicide and Death

Today I have truly had enough of some of the brutal, unsympathetic people wasting space on this planet.  I’m officially losing my faith in humanity.  Earlier this week we had this;  http://www.tvtonight.com.au/2011/07/can-of-worms-apologises-to-parents-of-suicide-victim.html

Now a couple of years ago I probably thought people that commit suicide were cowards too.  And then the young nephew of a friend killed himself.  In the days immediately following on from this horrible event, people would shake their head and tell this poor man (and indeed, the parents of this young man too) that his nephew was a coward and it was a shame he couldn’t just “face up to” his life and problems.  He was heartbroken and, righteously, furious.  “Imagine,” he said, “what thoughts were going through this poor bastard’s mind that drove him to this.  Why can’t people have sympathy for him?  Why can’t they have sympathy for his family?”

Why indeed.  We seem so caught up in the anger and pain of being left behind that we never stop to think what goes through the minds of people driven to kill themselves.  When I nursed Charles through his suicidal bout of depression* it finally hit me – people who suicide aren’t necessarily trying to escape.  They’re not running away from their problems.  They genuinely think they’re doing a world the favour by removing themselves from it.

Charles was not thinking about the loss his kids would suffer and how that would shatter them for years.  He wasn’t thinking about how I’d feel making my way through life without my partner, probably too damaged to ever try love again.  He wasn’t thinking of the mother that carried him and gave him the life he was wiping out in the first place.  He was thinking that he, and his depression, were a burden he was imposing on everyone.  He was sure that without him we could all be happy again.  Not to mention the huge whack of life insurance that meant we could live like kings.  It was a sick way of thinking but not a cowardly one**.

Now today we have the death of Amy Winehouse.  There are so many words we can use to describe Amy.  To me she always seemed a bit bewildered and lost.  Like she couldn’t understand that she was famous or why she should be so.  I personally think the death of anyone at 27 is a tragic, tragic thing that should give us all pause for thought.  It should provoke sympathy.  Empathy for her family and friends.

Instead we’ve got people making jokes on Facebook and calling her a trashbag.  What the fuck is wrong with you people?  Where is your humanity?  If you died suddenly would you want people saying this crap about you?   Where is your respect for the dead?

You do not have to like Amy’s music or respect the things she did with her life.  But the classy, decent, human thing to do when someone passes away is to offer your condolences and then shut your mouth.  I cannot believe that I even have to write something like this because it should just be a given. 

* Before anyone writes to me about the nature of putting personal things on my blog let me assure you that I have discussed this with Charles and he is absolutely, 100% behind me on sharing what happened to us – if only so people can wake up to the realities of depression and suicide.  Time to stop using the word “coward” and reconnect with your humanity people.


** Anyone who knows my husband would know that cowardly is the one of the last words in the English language that describes him.  Even when it comes to spiders.

Traffic Rant

You'll probably only really understand today's post if you're a Canberran subject to the fiasco that  is the ongoing efforts to upgrade our bush city's roads.  So if you've never been privy to the joys of the ACT's most recent "planning", you should probably just move along and go back to the posts about my kids and their cute little idiosyncrasies.  If you have been privy to these joys you probably don't want to read this either - it will probably just remind you how angry you are and you'll wind up punching the monitor or snapping your keyboard while you sob with frustration.  

If you want to continue, you should be aware that this post has its foundation in deep resentment and slowly festering bitterness that is gradually fermenting into a solid commitment that will see me spending the rest of my life attempting to secure some form of compensation from the government for all the lost hours their efforts have cost me.  I have vague ambitions of tax fraud and drug running but nothing has been set in stone yet.

Still with me?  Excellent!  I’ve been enduring the roadworks that separate home and work for a long time now.  Years, in fact.  Three years ago, before my son was born, I could make it from home to work in 20 minutes – 30 tops in peak hour.  Now after three years, countless “upgrades” and “improvements”, I’m up to 50-60 minutes during peak hour and I’m officially over the whole thing.

Originally, given the intriguing bundle of roads the Glenloch interchange became, I felt a certain respect for the designers.  They must be geniuses, I thought, I don’t know how they managed to get it so four major roads meet and no matter which one you’re on you can go down any of the three without a traffic light or a roundabout anywhere!

I kept waiting for the moment when the witches hats, weird tapes and signs would come down, the bottlenecks would clear and suddenly the glorious vision would be realised and it would all just magically work.  But it’s been three years now and it’s all still there.  There is no end in sight and, if anything, things are getting worse, not better.  Today, after totally doing my block about it on Facebook, I did a little search on FB for “Glenloch interchange”.  Here’s the screen shot*.

Not…one…single…person…in all of Canberra (well it is Facebook so I guess we could say the world) likes that bloody blight on our lives. 

Then there’s the King’s Avenue roundabout.  Perfectly functional, if a little slow at peak hour.  But functional.  Now, six months on and God knows how many bingles due to the constant changing of routes**, we have massive queues of people blocking traffic in almost every direction every single morning and evening God sends.  There are merging lanes.  There are traffic lights.  There are great sweeping arcs of cars poised for movement the instant the lights go green.  But there is never, ever a clear moment where you can just sail through and get to where you’re going on time.

All this confirms for me is that there will be no moment when it suddenly all works and makes sense.  I will never be making it to work in half an hour or less again.  It also indicated to me that whoever was in charge of designing all of it got so excited they couldn’t think straight***.  I am doomed to a horrendous run to work for eternity unless I leave the house at 6am and finish work just after lunch sometime.  We all are.

I am so fed up that I am seriously considering either spending the dosh to buy up somewhere close to work or giving up work entirely and moving to the country.  Frankly, if I wanted an hour’s commute, I would have lived in Sydney or Melbourne.

*  If this is ever brought to the attention of the government responsible you can be assured that “liking” the interchange on FB will be mandatory for all employees.

** Not to mention heart attacks born of pure frustration and soul-destroying rage.  Anyone else ever wondered why it took seven minutes to drive half a kilometre when there’s not so much as a dead rabbit to slow people down?

*** It is either the same biscuit responsible for Westfield Belconnen or a similar one cut in the same kitchen.

Parent Teacher Interviews!

Charles and I just sat through our first parent-teacher interview.  When Charlotte first started school, I was looking forward to this moment.  None of the angst of worrying about what your teacher might say about you to your parents when you’re not looking.  This time I’d be on the safe end of the proceedings.  Reality came crashing home with the form we were given to nominate our preferred interview time.  Would we like a three-way interview involving Charlotte as well?

Hell no, we want the dirt and the dishing of it may not be as blunt if she’s there too.  Wait.  Dirt?  Suddenly all my fears as a parent came crashing in.  I’m sorry Mrs B but it appears your daughter is as dumb as dog biscuits (unlikely given her history).  I’m sorry Mrs B but we’ve rapidly come to the conclusion that your daughter is a genius…unfortunately it appears to be the “evil” kind.  Frankly Charlotte frightens us and we think it would be best for everyone if she were home schooled (far more likely).  Or worse case scenario – have you noticed anything…unusual about your daughter?  I only ask because the class hamster keeps dying and we happened to notice…

Yes there are many things you don’t want to hear as a parent in your PT interview.  Amazingly none of it came up.  Charlotte is polite, friendly, eloquent.  Her work is always done, of a high quality and usually rainbow flavoured.  She reminds her teacher of her own kindergarten-aged daughter.

The only moment of parental embarrassment came when we were asked whether we had concerns and we mentioned her atrocious, almost illegible handwriting.  We described how appalling it was for a good two minutes while the teacher’s brows slowly knit together in confusion.  She stared at us like we were morons for a few beats and then picked up a sample of Charlotte’s work, flipped to a page of writing and held it up.

“Um…well she writes on the line, she has good spacing and you can clearly see what the words are…”

We stared in open-mouthed awe at some pretty darn good writing really.

“…so I’m not really sure what to say,” Mrs P concluded, “Except that I think she’s pretty good for a kindergarten kid.”

We blushed, shuffled our feet, muttered dark things about not trying much when at home and then backtracked as fast as possible.

Once at home we discussed how well she'd done and asked her, given how lovely her handwriting is at school, why it's so bad at home.
"Because," she sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes, "I'm not at school!"


God help us when she makes it to high school.

My Son the Dormouse and his Big Boy Bed

My daughter is like my husband when it comes to sleeping.  She could be in an uninsulated tent in the darkest hour of an Antarctic winter and she would still insist on sleeping with the covers kicked off in as few clothes as possible.  James is more like me.  Cotton lined polar fleece jumpsuit, polar fleece blanky on top and polar fleece blanky underneath and please turn the heating up, thank you so much. 

His Grandma presented to me, a few months before his birth, a “quilt”.  Why am I using the inverted commas?  Because this quilt was made with polar fleece and had so much fluffy batting that it was about as thick as a mattress and the consistency brings to mind the clouds the Care Bears are sleeping on in their animated cartoon series.  It’s not so great as a cover but as something for baby to lie on – ideal.

James has been sleeping on it since he was old enough for me to chance it (I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that Grandma’s delicious soft mattress-quilts are not SIDS and Kids endorsed given their smothery-type qualities).  He used to literally sigh with pleasure when we lowered him onto it and many nights were spent practically comatose with the quilt puffing up around him so he was almost totally ensconced.

Anyways, long story short we’ve been weaning him off the Grandma mattress quilt in preparation for his big boy bed.  But he clearly still prefers the soft touch because this is what we found after we recently gave him a junior pillow to start sleeping with;

Yup, he’s turned sideways and gone to sleep dormouse-style on top of the pillow. 

On to bigger things.  Literally.  We’ve been talking about getting our little Viking a more suitable sleeping arrangement for a while now.  After all, his sister was two when we debuted the Pooh Bear bed (a gift from Nanny) and it wasn’t a moment too soon.  She’d been trying to climb out of the cot at all opportunities for a good six months and we were flirting with trouble - it wouldn't have been too much longer before the lack of a proper bed cost us a trip to triage.

James has not been trying to escape quite as actively as his sister used to but he is taller and even I could see that soon we would have had to put him into bed diagonally so he would fit.  I acknowledge how shameful it is to procrastinate the buying of a proper bed for your son because "he sleeps all curled up anyways".  I digress.  I was not keen to spend $700 on a brand new king single from a bedding store (mattress not included).  Making it myself was cheaper at around $200 but I still would have needed a mattress and the whole lot still would have been about $500.  Enter All Classifieds, my new addiction.  King single ensemble, brand new mattress - $95.  SOLD.

Problem – it’s a bit high and there’s nothing to hold him.  Well why don't we check All Classifieds?  Brand new guard rail - $15.  Can we come see it?

Yes – but it’s $15, RIGHT?

*confused* Um…yes we did see that in the ad.  (I’m guessing he got a bunch of people ringing up and offering him $10 and it’s a deal or something).

In the end?  SOLD!

So now our little guy had a king single bed with brand new mattress and a brand new guard rail to keep him from falling out for about a fifth of the cheapest we could do it brand new and no additional resources were raped, pillaged or plundered in the acquisition of this fine bedroom suite.  Mind you, while we've downgraded from the Care Bear Cloud Quilt arrangement, you might like to take note of the fact that he's still laid out on a Grandma polar fleece special.  There are only so many changes a Viking Dormouse can tolerate.  And here he is all nested up in his brand new big boy bed;

Cheese-making Result = WIN

Recently I was lucky enough to participate in a cheese-making course held at a place called Small Cow Farm in Robertson.  The course was conducted by the lovely, lovely, lovely and extremely knowledgeable Carole Willman from Cheeselinks.  Carole knows just about everything there is to know about cheese and other dairy products and she made cheese-making seem easy, accessible and fun.  If you get a chance to do a course with her, I highly recommend it.


Anyways, on this particular course I learned how to make triple cream brie, tomme (a farm cheese pronounced Tom), goat’s cheese, ricotta and paneer.  At the end of the course I came home with my share of the spoils – about 400g of brie and 300g of tomme ready for curing*.  I fudged some of the processing recommended in my cheese-making guide and winged it.  The brie I left out longer than recommended (over two weeks instead of a week to ten days) to get a stronger flavour and the tomme I didn’t cure at all – wrapping it and refrigerating it straight away instead.

Today, some three weeks after I made them, I unwrapped them both and cut them open to test them.  It’s earlier than it should be for eating (usually you'd wait at least a month) but in the brie’s case all this means is a firmer texture and in the tomme’s case…well that was a much more interesting result.

First of all let me say that I think, given how much good cheese costs, that we’ve been deluded into thinking that it’s incredibly complex to make and that nothing we do ourselves will ever come close.  I certainly don’t think either Charles or I were expecting my cheeses to be any good**.  So when we unwrapped the brie and the scent wafted up, we were both pleasantly surprised.  Carving it revealed quite a chalky texture but the flavour…the flavour is incredible.

I quickly unwrapped the tomme – which is basically a codeword for simple farmhouse cheese that comes in many forms.  It was a mild yellow and not as firm as I’d expected.  Slicing it open revealed a cheese that smelled and looked exactly like a Havarti.  And boy did it taste like one too.  Mild, rich, creamy.  Divine.

The cheese course has been a raging success.  I could see in Charles’ eyes that he’s a total convert.  I will now convert the fridge in the garage to a cheese-making curing fridge and begin experimenting and expanding.  One thing’s for sure, I’m never paying $90 a kilo for French triple cream brie again.

*Left at 10-15°C instead of being refrigerated.

**It didn’t help that the mould was quite thick when I brought it out of the curing container – Charles was convinced it was way too fuzzy and dubious when I told him that wrapping and refrigerating would tame it.

River Cottage Inspired Roast Beetroot Salad

Recently I’ve discovered the incredible, if weird, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and River Cottage, his farm and the show it inspired.  Hugh is obviously passionate about going back to the roots of farming when you basically produced everything you needed – keeping a variety of animals and a veggie garden big enough not only to feed your family, but also to lay aside preserves and sell some for profit. 

Hugh is all things fresh, organic and carbon neutral.  He’s a big believer in bartering for the things you need and he often gets out there to learn new skills, documenting his successes and failures for the viewing public.  He also makes me homesick to be back on the farm churning out my own produce, free from the stream of flavourless crap dished up as “fresh” by most supermarkets.  Hugh is the only chef I’ve ever watched on television who has truly inspired me. 

Today’s little recipe is inspired by an episode of River Cottage Everyday where the focus was on vegetables.  I’m a big fan of fresh beetroot but I can only stand it fresh – so this is the time of year for it and this is definitely the recipe for it.  Thanks Hugh!

Ingredients

Rocket

Fresh Beetroot (I used four a bit bigger than tennis balls – smaller is sweeter and more tender)

Fresh cloves of garlic (I used eight)

Extra Virgin olive oil

8 x 3 inch sprigs Rosemary (cut the tips of the plant off because they’ll be softer and more flavoursome)

Balsamic vinegar (I used raspberry wine vinegar)

Brown sugar

Pepitas

Goat’s cheese (I used the South Cape spreadable stuff)

Method

Cut the leaves off the beetroot, peel and then cut into thick wedges.  In a tin (I used 23x23cm for the four beetroot I had and it was a good fit) splash in enough olive oil to cover the bottom.  Throw in the beetroot.

Crush the cloves of garlic with the flat of your knife blade, break apart a little with your fingers and spread over the top. 

Cut the sprigs of rosemary into 1-inch-long lengths and spread over the top.

Drizzle over everything a bit of olive oil, some vinegar and a fine sprinkling of brown sugar.

Cover the tin with alfoil (shiny side in) and bake at about 200°C for 45 minutes.

Take tin out of the oven, stir everything loosely with a spoon to recoat with oil and put back in the oven, uncovered, for another 15 minutes.

Wash the rocket and shake/spin/pat* dry.  Place roasted beetroot on top.  Add your goat’s cheese – either cumble it with your fingers or, if using the spreadable variety, rake the tines of your fork lightly over the cheese to break it up.  Sprinkle with pepitas, a quick drizzle with some more olive oil and that’s it!

*  I bought myself a salad spinner a couple of months ago and don’t know how I survived this long without it.  Which makes me a salad snob.  If I were you I’d only spin but if you’re not a purist by all means pat it or shake it dry.