One track mind.....

The house is quiet...well if you don't count the hum of about a million appliances and the snoring coming from the kids bedrooms the house is quiet.

My children are all rolled up cosily in bed. I've cooked dinner, fed the monsters, bathed them and forced their struggling, cold limbs into PJ's. Their hair is washed and brushed, their teeth are clean. Stories are read, they are tucked in, fears are kissed goodbye, and then....to sleep.

I then race around, rinse dishes, stack the dishwasher, wash and dry pots and pans. Clean benches, sweep the floor and fold the washing.

And all the while I hear it calling to me, softly and quietly. An oasis at the end of my day....my bed, my book and a cup of tea.

I'm nearly done and I start to slowly relax...almost there; a shower, my PJ's and then bliss.

But then, a car pulls up in the driveway, the garage door creaks open. Hubby is home....damn, damn, dammit.
  Mostly a cause for celebration, but occasionally, on nights like tonight, I crave a little alone time.

A kiss hello.  Not the usual perfunctory one however, this one lingers, and I know instantly what he's thinking. The embrace is also lengthy, it's his way of saying 'So, do you fancy a shag?'

After all these years it still amazes me that men are completely obsessed by 'it' and by 'it' I mean....Humping, Bonking, Shagging, Making Love, Getting Lucky, Doing the Deed, The Horizontal Mambo, Sex. I'm using a lot of euphemisms here - I'm a bit of a prude.

The Male's inability to multi-task means they can only focus on one thing at a time...and we all know what that one thing frequently is. But honestly, do they have to? Surely other things run through their heads? That can't be their one and only focus....can it?

Us women however are capable of about a million different thoughts at once. For instance here is an example of exactly what went on when Hubby and I had our 'little' embrace.

Me; 'I need to put the dishes away. This floor is filthy. I need to feed the dog. I wonder if the children are warm enough? Must do the groceries tomorrow. Are the doors locked? I wonder what to cook for breakfast in the morning?  Does my bum look big in this? Forgot to call Mum. Better check on the little people again.'

Him; 'S    E    X '

Me; 'I hope Miss Two's cough clears up. I wonder if she'll stay in her own bed? Should have changed the sheets. Oops, left a load of washing in the machine. I'll cook Chocolate Cake tomorrow. Hope it doesn't rain. Will the school holidays ever end? I could really do with that cup of tea.'

Him; 'S   E   X'

See what I mean?
I guess I should be flattered that he fancies me rotten. It is nice to think that his favourite activity is to roll in the hay with me. But sometimes, sometimes I would really love to crawl into bed with a fabulous, fun, riveting, fascinating, beautiful man book.
And that cup of tea of course.

WOW- Write On Wednesdays- Emma

  
 This is this week's exercise for Write On Wednesdays; Grab the 8th book from your bookshelf. Open it to page 8. Scroll down to the 8th sentence. Write this sentence at the top of your page. Set your timer for 5 minutes and write the first words that come into your head after your writing prompt.  Stop when the buzzer rings!
 The eighth book on my shelf just happened to be Jane Austen's 'Emma'. One of my favourites!
 
 Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could........
 

Frivolous chatter, insignificant chatter, chatter to cover up the awkwardness of the moment. Meaningless words to deceive those around her into thinking that she was OK...that everything was OK.

 

She really didn't expect to see him so soon after their parting. The pain was still raw and fresh. A new wound. He smiled at her briefly across the room and her face burned and smarted with the embarrassment of it all. How dare he stand there and look so handsome, so nonchalant, like he didn't have a care in the world?

 

Partaking in the useless talk of those around her to cover the rush of emotions that assailed her. Laughing at nothing in particular, and all the while his eyes burned into her, reducing her into a state of nerves and tension.

Her laughter was false, her words were idle, his presence hung over her like a shadow. And then to her horror...her complete and utter disbelief....he started to approach her. Taking slow, measured footsteps, looking for all the world like a man with a purpose. She gasped aloud, forgetting for a moment her surroundings. To her it seemed like they were the only two people in the room...in the world. She shivered, briefly experiencing a whisper of delicious apprehension........

   



Sweet Scrolls

I made these for the first time last week. They were so good that I've made them three times since then. A combination of a fluffy, melt in the mouth dough, a sweet, delicious centre and then dripping with a gooey, sticky icing. These are exactly my idea of a perfect afternoon tea snack. Just the kind of thing to curl up with at around 3pm with a good book and a hot cuppa.............Ahhhh, bliss.

Sweet Scrolls;

Dough-
1 packet of dry yeast (approx 7 grams)
1 cup of milk (warmed slightly)
4 cups of plain flour
1/4 cup of caster sugar
80 grams of butter (softened)
2 eggs (gently beaten)

Firstly combine the yeast with the warm milk in a small bowl. Leave for around 10 minutes - until the mixture goes all frothy.

Sieve the flour into a large bowl. Add sugar and combine. Make a well in the centre and add the butter, milk/yeast mixture and the eggs. Stir until you have a rough dough. Now, here's the fun part; tip the dough onto a floured surface and gently knead for 10 minutes or so - until you have a lovely smooth dough. I really enjoy this part, the whole process is something I find infinitely soothing.

Now leave your lovely ball of dough to rest and prove for a good hour or so. When you return to it, it should have nearly doubled in size.

Once your dough has expanded roll it out onto a floured surface with your rolling pin. I roll it as thinly as possible and into a rectangular shape.

Now, cut your dough into long rectangular strips.

You can now get really creative with whatever you would like in the middle of these. The first time I made a mixture of butter, golden syrup and chopped almonds. Yesterday it was a combination of cinnamon, brown sugar &butter. Today it was melted chocolate & butter. My personal opinion? The golden syrup/butter/almond version was the best.

Mix whatever combination you like the best (or create your own!) into a bowl and paint each strip with your mixture. I put it on quite sparingly as I don't want it to be overly sweet. Now, roll up each strip of dough into a spiral and then squash it between your hands. Place each little (or big - depends what size you would like these beauties!) roll onto a greased, lined baking tray.

Bake in your oven for approximately 15-20 minutes, but please check them after the first 15. It depends on your oven how quickly these cook, in mine it took 20 minutes.

Ideally they should be a lovely golden brown and should sound hollow when you tap them (like freshly baked bread!)

While they are baking, quickly make an icing to top these with. I used about 25 grams of butter mixed with 1/2 cup of icing sugar and a little warm water. Add as much or as little water as you feel you need but you should end up with a runny icing to drip over your scrolls.

Once your scrolls are cooked and have cooled slightly, drip the icing messily over the top of each one.

Best eaten straight away - with the warmth of the oven still upon them and before the little ones devour them all.

My Young Man.

There is no doubt about it, I'm a very lucky lady. Exceptionally lucky. Extremely lucky.
I have four children. Three of which I carried, gave birth to and have loved and cared for since the day they were conceived. The fourth is a different story. He's not mine. I'm not his Mumma. Sometimes I question myself, what exactly am I trying to be?

Being a Step-Mother has had it's challenges. I'm not going to paint it a rosy-coloured hue because sometimes it has been difficult. Accepting someone else's child as your own has it's ups and downs......beautiful highs.....depressing lows.

Sometimes we fight. We get angry at each other. I sometimes have trouble understanding him and he sometimes has trouble understanding me. At times I sit and wonder, Am I doing this right? Am I completely stuffing this up? Do I actually have a clue?

Where is the guide for wicked Step-Mothers? Isn't there a step by step manual somewhere that God should have handed me when I met his Father?

This morning, I had a good look at this beautiful young man I have known and loved for over seven years. He is caring and well mannered. He looks out for his younger siblings. He is eager to please. He is a good boy....No, he is an exceptional boy. His intelligence radiates. His internal beauty shines.
      His Mother & Father have defied the odds to help shape his remarkable personality together. They have been apart and yet, they have achieved this by working alongside each other, putting him first, setting aside any differences. I would really like to think that I have played a part too. I'm not his Mum. I'm not trying to be.

And I know, I know that despite the fact that he isn't 'mine', despite the fact that at times we're not always going to see eye to eye, I like to think that I have a special place in his life. He certainly has a special place in mine.

A little old lady....

On my birthday morning, amongst all the love and snuggles I received, I kept detecting a feeling of concern radiating from the lovely and sensitive Mr 5.

He kept staring at me and frowning. Worry was etched all over that wide-eyed and innocent face of his. He was distracting me from the all important tasks of opening presents and enjoying my coffee.

Finally I gave in and looked down at the little guy, who was snuggled up next to me in bed;
'What's up mate?'
'Mummy?' he asked 'How many are you?'
'I'm 32 buddy'
'Oh,' he paused momentarily before continuing 'So, you're old then'
'Well, not really buddy' I answered, slightly affronted.
'But you're getting old...you have those crinkly things' he points all over my face,
'They're called wrinkles, and I don't have that many'
'Yeah you do - they're all around your eyes and stuff'
'Oh, thanks mate, point taken'
Then the little bugger sighs. Very theatrical, very melodramatic.
'It's just too bad you're going to die soon' Is his parting statement before he rushes off to wreck havoc elsewhere.

I sit dumbstruck by the conversation I've just engaged in. I had no idea that in my early thirties I'd be entering into old age, that I'd be on death's door, but apparently, (according to the ever-knowledgeable Mr 5) it's true.

Happy Flipping Birthday to me.

Remembering.......

I remember.....

The layers of blankets are pulled up over my head. I am snuggled down, as far down the bed as I can go. My skinny legs tucked up into my stomach, my hands are over my ears, my eyes are tightly closed.

It is cold in my room, but I'm not hiding from the cold...I'm hiding from the thing...the thing in my room. I know it's there like it has been every night, hiding in the corner, waiting and watching. Waiting for me....8 years old...skinny, shy and afraid.

Although my ears are covered by my hands I can still hear every little sound as though it's amplified a hundred times. The trees moving outside, the tap dripping in the bathroom, my sister snoring softly in the bed next to mine and I fancy I can hear the thing...moving around my room, looking for me.


What will happen when it finds me, I wonder. Will it steal me away from my parents? Will it turn me into a thing just like it? My frenzied and over-active brain comes up with several different scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last.....sleep is fruitless.

Above is this weeks exercise for 'Write On Wednesday' (Oops! I'm a day late..sorry!)
The brief was to write "I remember' at the top of the page, set a timer for 5 minutes and then write....

This memory is very clear for me still. A few weeks beforehand, I had snuck out into the lounge and watched from behind the couch a movie my parents were viewing..... 'Poltergeist.' The result of my late night wanderings? Several weeks of nightmares and terrified huddling at the foot of my bed! I certainly learnt my lesson and still cannot watch a scary movie to this day!

The Frazzled Mumma.....

I've had one of those mornings....you know the ones.....the type of morning when everything that can go wrong does....the kind of morning when sanity is on a razor edge and I feel inclined to leap from this burning building before it goes crashing down to the ground.

It started off with oversleeping. I rarely oversleep. You see I have four built in alarm clocks that tend to awaken me before the sun actually rises and the world is dark, cold and immobile. This morning the alarm clocks were broken, and so resulted in me waking at quarter past 7 and then completely freaking out.

I ran around the house like a demented banshee, screaming and yelling at the still sleeping forms of my Husband and children. They didn't appreciate my wake up call and dragged their feet reluctantly.

I sculled my morning coffee and resulted in burning my tongue. This pissed me off. Coffee is something to savour, enjoy, inhale slowly and calmly. I could not appreciate it and therefore my bad mood was established.

I ruined the porridge so the children scored lumpy, claggy goop in their breakfast bowls - rather than the usual smooth and delicious offering. They moaned and complained but I silenced them with a 'look', my 'look' the 'don't mess with the frazzled Mumma look'

Lunchboxes were thrown together, I have no idea what ended up in them, possibly an arrangement of random items from the pantry. This made me even crankier than I was already....I like to take time and care with school lunches. It makes me feel like I deserve my 'good Mummy' award. It makes me feel like I'm sending them off into the big, bad world with the tools necessary to deal with whatever is thrown at them. They can beat off school bullies with a good, nutritious salad sandwich, I'm sure. But today I failed miserably....pre-packaged, plain and boring all the way....

I had to cajole them into their un-ironed uniforms, I had to bribe them to clean their teeth. I had them all lined up to brush hair when I discovered something  crawling in one of them.......Eek! Crap! Flipping Bloody Hell! Off to the shower with a head full of chemicals to kill the creepy, disgusting little bastards.

And then...into the car, strapping in the wiggly, whinging Toddler, breaking up the inevitable fight between the two eldest. I sat down, took in a couple of deep breaths and turned the key in the ignition....nothing, zero, zip...my beloved carrier of small people had died, resulting in a lot of silent cursing and slow, systematic head butting of the steering wheel.

Thank god Hubby came to the rescue, piling the monsters into his eternally reliable Falcon, a promise to come back and charge the blasted battery and off they went. Their little fair heads just discernible through the back window. For a moment I feel a tiny bit bereft at their departure and then I sigh, think of having another cuppa I can actually savour and I slowly creep back into the bomb site that is my home.

Strawberries & Sunshine

This week I'm grateful for.............

Little Miss Tornado Two has had a rough week. Temperatures, Runny nose, A nasty cough, Whinging, Whining and the yuckiest poos I have ever,ever seen.

She hasn't eaten properly in days. She has barely had the energy to play. As much as I complain about her vivacious and sparky nature, I really missed her usual exuberance.

This morning, however, she's back. Cheeky, naughty, funny. This morning she sat in the sunshine and had the first real thing to eat in days........strawberries. Sweet, juicy, yummy (expensive) strawberries. I rejoiced.

So today I'm grateful for Strawberries & Sunshine.......if only those explosion poos would stop I could write a post about that too.

To check out some other lovely grateful posts head over to Maxabella Loves.....

The Tweenager

We stare at each other across the room. Both of our eyes are narrowed in silent fury. We don't speak, we don't move, we just stare. It's a battle of wills, a fight of the mind....and she's winning. I feel myself deflating like a balloon, curling up in defeat, losing my purpose, my resolve.

Anyone think this would be a typical Mother/Daughter scene. And of course you may have made the assumption that my daughter is well into her teens. Not the case, sorry, and I'm saying sorry more to myself than anyone else. Truth be told my daughter is only 8 years old.

I'm not quite sure exactly when it happened or how it happened. It sort of crept up on me, king hit me when I wasn't looking. My beautiful, smart, funny and adoring child no longer looks at me as a pillar of perfection, she no longer regards me as all that is good and true. (Unlike Mr 5, see Wednesday's post) She sees what is really going on here; me pretending to know what I'm doing....because really I don't have a clue.

Now, I'm not saying that she's running amok. She's perfectly behaved at school, she mostly does what she is told at home. But it is all done with a mix of defiance and attitude. Her eyes roll when I tell a joke, she thinks my fairy stories are passe, and don't get me started on my random dancing and singing around the house......"Mum, you're sooooo embarrassing."

Maybe I'm a little zanier than the usual Mum? Maybe she has every reason to think I'm a touch foolish? But to be truthful every time she scowls at my antics my heart breaks just a little.

We've been through so much together. There was a time when she was all I had and I was everything to her, the centre of her little world just as she was the centre of mine.
She still is of course, my world had just grown to encompass several other little (and big) people.

My first baby is growing up, she starting to set off into the world. I'm not her biggest influence anymore. She no longer thinks I'm the most wonderful person alive. I guess I'm OK with that. I guess that it has to happen sooner or later and she may just be an early riser.
     
There are times though, when it all comes racing back, when she climbs into my lap for a cuddle and I hold her and I capture a moment when she is mine...all mine.
And I remember that time, the time when everything was black and she was the singular ray of sunshine...lighting the way.

Just Like Dad

As an exercise for "Write on Wednesdays" I had a lot of fun playing "Dialogue Detective" in and around the house. I caught many snippets of conversation amongst my children but the piece I loved the most was this endearing moment between my Husband and my five year old son......

'Daddy?'
'Yes, My boy'
'Why is your face spiky?'
'When you get to be a grown up like me your face grows hair on it'
'Spiky hair'
'Yes, spiky hair'
'But not Mum?'
'No, Mum doesn't get hair on her face'
'Mum has a soft face, Mum has a pretty face'
'Yes, Mum is soft and pretty'
'When I'm a Dad I'll have a spiky face just like you'
'Sure will mate, just like Dad'
'And I'll marry a lady soft and pretty like Mum'

Below is the same conversation but I am adding gestures, expression and scenery.

A soft light filtered from the lamp on the bedside table, filling the room with a gentle glow. On a small and heavily covered bed lay a young boy, his arms wrapped around the larger form of his Father.

The boy reached up and softly stroked his Father's cheek,
'Daddy?' he asked softly
'Yes, my boy' answered his Father
'Why is your face spiky?' the boy reached up and rubbed his Father's face vigorously.
His Dad laughed out loud, "When you get to be a grown up like me your face grows hair on it'
'Spiky hair?'
'Yes, spiky hair'
The boy regards his Father quietly and seriously for a moment.
'But not Mum?'
'No, Mum doesn't get hair on her face'
The boy pauses briefly, still rubbing his Father's face gently and thoughtfully.
He then spoke quietly...barely a whisper,
'Mum has a soft face, Mum has a pretty face'
'Yes,' smiled his Father 'Mum is soft and pretty'
The boy suddenly smiles up at his Father
'When I'm a Dad I'll have a spiky face just like you' he states proudly,
'Sure will mate, just like Dad' his Father reaches over and gently tousles the boy's hair,
'And I'll marry a lady soft and pretty like Mum' he whispers softly, with just a touch of reverence.

Lovely Lemon Drizzle Cake

This is a beautiful cake. It has a light fluffy texture that is a joy to eat and an almost delicate flavour.....it sort of dances across the palate. I love to serve this for afternoon tea with a pot of hot, heart-warming tea or even for dessert with a nice scoop of ice cream or a mound of whipped cream....mmmmm divine!
A wonderful recipe for when you have an abundance of lemons!
 Ingredients;
120grams softened butter
120 grams caster sugar
4 large eggs
30 grams poppy seeds
zest & juice of 2 lemons
250 grams self raising flour.

for the lemon syrup;
100grams caster sugar
juice of 1 lemon

for the lemon drizzle icing;
220 grams of icing sugar
zest & juice of one lemon

Pre-heat the oven to 180C.
Grease and line a spring form cake tin.

Using a hand-help beater whip together the butter and sugar until really light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Fold in the poppy seeds, lemon zest and juice and then carefully fold in the flour. Spoon the mixture into a prepared cake tin and bake in the oven for 40 minutes. Check with a skewer and add an extra 5-10 minutes if you feel it needs it (depends entirely on your oven) Allow the cake to cool slightly.

Make your lemon syrup by heating the sugar & lemon juice in a saucepan until the sugar has dissolved and it had a slightly thickened syrupy consistency.
While the cake is still warm, prick little holes all over with a fork and pour over the lemon syrup - you want this to absorb into the cake.

Next, make the icing - sift the icing sugar into a bowl and add the lemon juice and zest until nice and smooth. Pour this over the cake so it "drizzles" down the sides and hence you have a Lemon Drizzle Cake!

Enjoy!

Risky Business

Should come with a warning sign!

With the weather being absolutely bloody freezing I seem to spend a ridiculous amount of time asking (or rather harassing) my small people to dress warmly. Yesterday in particular was one of the coldest days in history; so on the return from the frozen wonderland that is my children's school we all resembled human icy poles. I then proceeded to nag persuade the children to rug up nice and warm. You know appropriate clothing for winter on the Gold Coast......beanies, jumpers, jackets, gloves, scarves, track pants and socks....most importantly socks. I have a firm belief that if the feet are attired warmly then the rest of the body will follow suit. So I coerced the children into wearing their thermal socks (despite all the whinging, moaning and groaning)

The thing about socks though is that they are slippery - especially when running down a tiled hallway at full tilt - which is exactly what Miss 8 decided she was going to do. Miss 8 seems to have developed a rather charming knock-kneed awkwardness that seems dominant in pre-teens. So, when she went for her little slide up the hallway her gangling arms and legs were all over the place and then smack! She hit the tiles face first like a sack of potatoes. Elegant it wasn't, funny it was. And terrible mother that I am....I laughed...a lot.

It wasn't until I actually picked up the poor child sprawled on the ground (and listening to her Mother's sadistic laughter) that I realised there was something wrong other than wounded pride....there was also a fair amount of blood.
    At further inspection it was discovered that the face plant into the cold and unyielding tiles had resulted in a "nice" split under the chin.

Strangely I didn't panic.....which is unusual as I am one of these parents that tend to freak out when their child is injured. No, I calmed my baby down, cleaned up her chin and Hubby quickly bundled her into the car for a trip to emergency "just in case".

Happily they were home within the hour (which is a miracle - this is GC hospitals we are talking about here) With her chin carefully and beautifully wrapped in steri strips and band aids.

And of course we've learnt our lesson...socks are dangerous - an absolute hazard - so "tread" carefully.

Driven to Distraction

 I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white against the black leather, my fingers numb with the strain. My arms are extended straight out in front of me. Rigid and tense. I flex my fingers to try and release some pressure...it doesn't help. I feel angry and almost aggressive.

The noise inside the car is diabolical. Two children sit in the back arguing loudly. They shout, yell and scream at each other. Little fists are clenched. Tears flow freely.

    The little one is struggling against her car seat. She wriggles and squirms. Short, chubby legs fly kick out with apparent frustration while she lets out a continuous high-pitched and piteous wail.

The eldest one ignores them all; I wish I could share in his detachment of the whole scene.

The scenery that flashes past on our journey is at a complete contrast to the chaotic scene within the car. The countryside is clean and vibrant with rolling hills and pretty houses dotted here and there. The sky is clear, cloudless and the brightest shade of blue. The day outside looks tranquil, peaceful. My mood is at odds with it.

As I finally pull into the school car park I am relieved but also immediately self conscious. I have had no time to take care with my appearance. My jeans are wrinkled, my jumper covered in fluff - the white showing clearly against the black. I push my messy blonde hair off my face, sunglasses will fulfil the purpose of taming my shaggy mop. My face is devoid of any make up. I secretly wish I had found the opportunity to put on a tiny slither of lipstick, maybe a flick of mascara.

I settle the children, the older ones march off to their respective classrooms. I deliver my Preppy to his teacher.

On the way back to the car I hold the littlest one by the hand. She chatters endlessly and I calmly listen to the rise and fall of her voice. We walk slowly and I finally feel myself start to relax. I breathe deeply and inhale the fresh country air - it is soothing and sweet. As I walk my shoulders loosen, the tension leaves my body.

I hum softly under my breath. Finally I feel at peace with the world.

    Post script; After having dropped the children at school I raced home to write this post, quickly typing it out before my memory evaded me completely!

The Poo To-Do

It was early afternoon and I was happy in my work. Unsurprisingly I was in the kitchen and predictably I was baking. I wasn't just baking anything mind you, it was of course Chocolate Cake. I had decided that when the older children returned home from school they would be in the need of sustenance and the sustenance they required was in the lovely, moist, sticky, fabulous form of my their favourite cake.
     I was having a lovely time, measuring ingredients, pouring ingredients and chattering incessantly to myself. I had once again disappeared into my own little world. A delightful little world; all bubble-wrapped and rosy coloured. But, suddenly I came crashing back down to earth. I had realised something....something terrible. It was quiet.....very quiet....too quiet.

Before commencing my little baking/daydream foray I had set up Miss Tornado Two in her room and surrounded her with all the things she loves best; her dolls, her tea-set, her teddies. When I had ducked out of her room I had every intention of popping back into her room every 5 minutes or so to check on the little cherub. Unfortunately I had soon completely forgotten.
  
I really should know better. I am the Mother of four children after all and we Mother's all know that a silent child is certainly not an idle one.

So, I crept down the hallway apprehensively....terrified of what  I would discover in the little room at the end of the house. Relief flooded through me when I heard her little piping voice babbling away in her own special language. Hopefully she was happily playing a lovely little game with her dolls I reasoned.

Unfortunately that myth was dispelled the moment I entered her room.First I detected a slightly earthy smell. A discarded nappy lay on the floor in front of me. A short distance away lay an abandoned pair of pants. In the corner sat my beautiful and charming little girl...but she wasn't alone....she was surrounded by several long brown things...and she was playing with/in them!

The gorgeous darling looked up at me, smiled sweetly and said "Poopy"
'Yes darling,' I muttered weakly 'Poopy'
And so began the long and painful process of cleaning up the precious child...and the carpet...and her dollies...and everything else she had contaminated with her ummmmm, poo.

The Chocolate cake lay discarded, forgotten, rejected. For some reason I couldn't face eating it. I couldn't even look at it. Anyone care to hazard a guess why?

For the love of....Cookbooks.

Today I'm going to start sorting out my collection of Cookbooks.......And when I say collection, I mean it, I've probably collected about 60 of them ...so far.
     I love Cookbooks - reading about food is one of my all time favourite pleasures. I research meals and treats for my family and I dream. Dream of the food I could be cooking, I should be cooking, the food I would love to cook. Despite not having the ability to create some of the items presented in these gorgeously photographed and created books, despite not having the funds necessary to achieve this dream......dream I do. But I find the books I love the most are the ones that are practical and achievable and that is why they are my favourites.

I adore Nigella Lawson; there is something about her attitude about food and her cooking philosophy that I just "get". Most of her dishes are just good, traditional food - tasty, easy, yum! The Cookbooks that I currently have in my possession of the lovely Miss Lawson aren't technically mine though...they are kind of on an extended loan thanks to a good friend of mine (I will return them, I promise, soon!)

I have quite the stack of books by the ever-enthusiastic Jamie Oliver, whom I also love. I love his verve and passion. I love that I can flick to almost any page of one of his books and find something that a) I have the ingredients for & b) is easy and delicious. I started compiling his books ten years ago....and I'm still going!

The remainder of my hoard is an eclectic mass of various books by various cooks/chefs. I've picked them up here and there; garage sales. op shops, cheap shops, book stores, online and handed down from my Mother and Mother In Law. From the vintage 70's and 80's books - full of the typical 'retro-cool" fare from that era that I love; to the newest, shiniest, prettiest offering from the latest 'celebrity' I love them all.

So, what are your favourite Cookbooks and why? (So I can secretly covet them!)

Ode to Coffee

Ahhhhhhh, Coffee. Nectar of the gods. Manna from heaven. How I love thee.
Every morning I wake up to your bitter-sweet smell, a large cup usually freshly brewed and lying on my bedside table, placed there by my adoring Husband - of course he knows that if I don't get my morning coffee I turn into a rabid banshee.

You give me the energy to face the day, no matter the earliness of the hour awoken by certain small people, no matter the poor quality of sleep the night before (due once again to the aforementioned small people)

First thing in the morning I may tolerate you in the instant form, but later in the day you must be purchased in the frothy-milky-cafe-style form. A feast for my senses, a revelation, my one true vice (other than chocolate cake of course)

Sometimes I may sip tea or hot chocolate...but I will always return to you, coffee, my one true love. I feel like I need to ingest you to live...to get by and although I limit myself to two cups of a day those two cups are heaven, bliss and I savour them.

So, today Coffee, I celebrate you  (due to one beer too many last night and another sleepless night)

Heart Thinking

At the moment I'm struggling with a decision. The choice has to be made and it's not an easy one.

The problem, the question, the dilemma is; do I base the decision on what is logical, practical and pragmatic or do I go with my gut feeling, my instinct, my heart?

Do I conform to what I think I should do, or do I follow what I feel I should do? In other words do I follow my head or my heart?

When I ponder the consequences of taking the practical approach I feel determined and focused. Sacrifices have to be made to get ahead, I just need to toughen and make them. Trouble is when I think about this choice I also feel awkward, distracted and discontent.

Contemplating the heart choice makes me feel warm, relieved, content and happy. It also comes with a fair amount of worry....but you know what? I can live with that.

The heart is the core of human existence. Everything I am and will be comes from this core.

Thinking with the heart makes me feel at peace, it makes me feel relaxed and open. Of course it makes no logical sense but to be perfectly frank, I don't give a damn. I'm opening myself up to where I want to be, and deep down, in my heart, I know I've made the right choice.

Will you play with me?

The other day Mr 5 was home from school with temps and a nasty headache. Unfortunately this didn't result in dampening his spirits, neither did it entice him to spend the day curled up on the couch watching cartoons (which is what I wanted to do). He was bouncing of the walls with excitement and joy, he was busy and vivacious....the day descended into a slow form of torture.
    Obviously he wasn't as sick as previously thought, so I had Miss Tornado Two and Mr Fun-loving Five at home with me all day.......joy!
I tried to do the washing, I tried to vacuum, I tried to cook & clean, but I had a constant companion hovering at my elbow. "I'm hungry", "I want your help on the computer", "Can you read me some books", "I need to go to the toilet...and you need to come with me", "I'm thirsty" and the question, the dreaded question he asks continually, "Will you play with me?"

I have no problem playing with my children. I love a good game of hide and seek. A game of tickle monster is one of my all time favourites and running around with a soccer ball...pure joy. But the game Mr 5 was so desperate to play (and I was so desperate to avoid) involved action figures.....cue glazed eyes and vacant expression.
   All of his figures seem to have exceedingly complicated names. Mr 5 can rattle them all off like they're his best friends and then, get this, he expects me (me!) to remember them. He then expects me to recall the ludicrous super-powers that each character possesses. So, not only do I have to remember what Super-Ultra-Humungo-Mega-Dude is called but also that he has super-strength, invisible undies, a jet-fart pack and laser beams for eyes....Ummmmm...Yeah right.

Being that he has just celebrated his birthday he now has a whole array of fresh super-dudes for me to remember. I do my best, I really do, but there is a part of me that just wants to curl up and die when he requests to play with them with me. I try to concentrate, to focus on the complicated storyline he concocts, but, before long I'm yawning and I can't help thinking of all the other things I should be doing. It is coma-inducing boring and requires all my self-control not to fall asleep.

Later though, my foray into super-dude territory pays super-dividends. At bedtime we have a cuddle, Mr 5 holds my face in his hands and says "I love it the most when you play with me." Then, at that moment, I decide that being bored s***less is totally worth it. And guess what? The next day I play it all over again.