My Tallest Cake Yet

....90 cm/3 feet in height
....6 kilos (13.2 pounds) in red icing
....approx 12 kilos/26.4lbs in weight
....1 kilo/2.2 lbs cocoa powder
....2+ kilos/4.5+ lbs dark chocolate
....8 elephants
....more edible gold balls than I could count
....10 gold paisleys
....3 cans of gold spray paint
....2 trips to the hardware store
...1 metre/3'3" of wooden dowelling

....and one happy, gorgeous wedding couple.


....which is precisely why I love my job.

How Much Is Too Much?

At the moment I find myself living in a bit of a moral/social/ethical dilemma. It's Spring Racing Carnival time.... the time of year when all of Melbourne goes just that little bit crazy for horse racing. (You can go back to blog posts in Nov 2006 for more detail.) For some reason, this year it's really getting to me.

Thousands of people pay literally millions of dollars to spend 4 days tottering on high heels, eating food which is either a) gross, b) so overpriced as to be obscene or c) overrated. The same people are drinking to excess, betting to excess, and in general being concerned with image, image, image. Dahhhling, it's all about the dress. the shoes. the hat. the bloody chicken sandwiches.

Don't get me wrong. I like a bit of bling too...especially food bling. At the same time, I'm finding all of this somehow...well...just grotesque. Seriously, it makes me vaguely ill to think about how much time, money and resources are being spent on this carnival of overindulgence. Imagine if all this energy and finance was put to better use... IMAGINE the chance these people have to divert all of this to something more worth their time. More with SOCIETY's time. People, we are talking about horse racing. Not just that, but a vast majority of people attending these events don't give a flying shit about the horse bit of it. It's all about the racing. Racing to be the most grand, the biggest, the brightest, the best at fake tanning, the one with the largest hat feather, the one with the most.... racing to prove that my filly is better than your filly. (I'm not talking about the horses.)

Herein lies the dilemma.... because all this frivolity? It's creating a LOT of jobs for people who otherwise wouldn't have any. It's earning money for small businesses like my own. It's improving the economy in a time of severe drought. It's making a whole lot of people pretty happy, even if it's only happiness that lasts until they throw up into the gutter while swinging a hat from one finger and a pair of Manolos from the other finger and then staggering away. It's bringing a sense of fun and adventure to the City of Melbourne and it's reminding us not to take life too seriously.

At the same time...I can't help wondering - isn't there a point at which it all just becomes TOO much?

As someone working on the pointy end of this spectacle of conspicuous consumption (fancy speak for I am working like a fucking dog)...well, I just can't help but think it's all a big ball of bullshit. Seriously.

Call me a party pooper if you like, but this all this just seems....a little bit excessive.*

____________
* Note, I may be feeling a little bitchy due to spending two entire DAYS sticking ribbons onto boxes just so for clients who will never see the damn things. We're doing it just in case someone sees those boxes and thinks - for a fleeting moment - that they're pretty darn sexy. You'll pardon me if I can't help thinking my time might better be spent doing just about anything else.

I Have A Name (Revisited)*

In this post, I talked about how I have a name. A name which is NOT "the triplet's Mom" or "the triplet lady" or anything like that. My name, for the purposes of that blog post, and my day-to-day life, is Michelle.

However (!) today, I'd like to re-christen myself. (So to speak. Jews don't do christenings.)

I hereby christen myself:

Your friend Michelle. You know, the one with the:

REALLY FUCKING AMAZING CAKE BUSINESS.

*(Alternative title for this post: If you build it, they will come.)

PS Full site coming soon....I'm busy writing content. In the meantime, enjoy the pretty pictures.

When The Cat Is Away (again)...

The mice play (again.)

Which is a nice way of saying that DH is out of town again, for about 4 days. Now normally I'd use this as an opportunity to stage a mini-revolt. Regular readers of this blog know that I use my DH's work travel as an opportunity to either turn into Slacker Mom, or just plain Crazy Mom. So, you know, I might throw out his t-shirts from 1964. Tidy up his side of the room, because he really won't miss that issue of "Submarine Monthly" from 3 years ago that he swears he is going to read. Or I might change jobs, cut my hair off, renovate my wardrobe, paint something, acquire a pet (or two), acquire a piercing (or two), let the kids play hookey from school and watch TV all day, have pizza for dinner several nights in a row, not bother to do any housework, buy a new car, acquire a tattoo (or two) ... really, there's a whole list of things I tend to do (or want to do) while my DH is away. Now it should be said that he really wouldn't mind my doing those things while he was in town. He might raise an eyebrow, but in general he's so sickeningly supportive and lovey-dovey and just plain nice about everything, that he takes my craziness in his stride. Bless him. This whole quiet normalcy thing is probably why I tend to break out the wierd stuff while he's away. Because, you know, it just might get a reaction out of him.

It never does. Partially because the show-off in me feels it necessary to blog about my exploits, and DUH, he reads my posts when he's gone. So the surprise factor isn't really there. Partially it's because he's my best friend, so I call him within ten seconds of committing some (minor and petty) craziness and say, "GUESS what I've just done? Can't guess? Okay, I've [insert minor and petty craziness]!" Partially it's because I attach more value to these things than he does - what I consider a big deal, he considers an "Eh, so?"

For the last couple of days I've been trying to think of craziness I can commit while he's away. This coming Wednesday is his birthday, so there were some good opportunities there, as in, "I got this tattoo just for you, sweetie!" I wonder, though....isn't it a bit control freak overachiever of me to be PLANNING my madness? I can totally picture this as a "to do" list:

1. Go crazy
2. Do something which you think is crazy
3. Blog about it
4. Call DH and tell him about it
5. Realise you're being silly, it's not that crazy at all. Start again.
6. Go crazy.
7. Repeat steps 2 -7 ad naseum until you come to the conclusion that you're so normal, and so straight, and frankly so bloody mother-of-three-in-the-'burbs that you're never really going to do anything all that bad in the first place, so might as well give up now.
   

So after several days of trying to come up with a craziness-to-do list, I'm still left with nothing. Seriously. Maybe this is because I have tons of normal stuff to get done. You know, like open a business (T minus one week), do mountains of laundry (currently, literally, to my knees), take care of three energetic, what-are-we-doing-today-Mum kids who are on Spring Break, buy an oven worth $6,000+, go to work, finish two giant school assignments, and oh yeah did I mention open a business?! Minor stuff, you know.

So maybe this is a week for calm rather than for added madness. Now there's a crazy thought.

In Praise of Thanks

For the past several weeks, I've not been doing much in the way of cooking at work. I've spent the vast majority of that time in the Kitchen Management office, helping them roll out a new software program. In the middle of this project, one of the major team members suffered a work-related injury and I ended up doing some of her tasks while she recovered. It's been long. It's been sometimes boring. It's been frustrating because I'd rather be in a kitchen, not out of it. At the same time, it's given me a huge amount of insight into the running of a food-related business, experience in dealing with suppliers and staffing issues, and in general been a great learning experience. (Although I would be remiss if I didn't confess that I had complained about it - loudly- once or twice or okay, three or four times.)

One of the best parts about this foray into culinary administration has been the relationship I've developed with one of the other staff. (And I christen thee, for blog purposes, 'Jewel.') I could wax lyrical about how much I adore her, but this post isn't about that (sorry babe.) Recently she and I were discussing the concept of thanks and appreciation from a work point of view. Previously I've talked about how I don't like certain rewards. You know, I just don't want to get stuff. I don't want spa gift certificates, I don't want movies or dinner out with my workmates. All I really, really, really want ... is for the person I'm working for to say thanks. A lot. And mean it.

Pshaw! (I hear you thinking) You can't be serious. You don't want anything? Truth is, NO, I don't. Because what I'm giving you is my time, my dedication, my attitude, my talent, my lots-of-non-monetary things. I want you, dear boss person, to give that right back to me. Reward me with your non-tangibles. Which, I have to say, Jewel has done in SPADES. She really LISTENED when I said that's what I wanted.

I should say that this topic came up because she and I were talking about the fact that HER reward for working her guts out was the HR Manager coming into the office, handing her an envelope, and saying, "Maybe you should open this later" and then walking out. No surprise, people, it was a voucher for some facial treatments. As Jewel wryly commented, "Great! They repay me for my hard work by telling me I have bad skin?" That kind of thank you isn't really a thank you at all. It's a here's-a-present-now-shut-up-and-work-more token gesture.

I invited Jewel over to dinner this past Friday, and she handed me an envelope, too. I knew she was way too smart to give me a &*(^**%! spa voucher, so I assumed it was a nice thank you card. I was only 50% right. It was by far one of the nicest thank you cards I've ever gotten, plus a family pack of tickets to the Royal Melbourne Show. A show which frankly, I couldn't really afford to go to otherwise. A show which I really wanted to take my kids to.

Her message said, in part,

"...so I know that we have spoken at length about rewards and 'thank yous'...but I know deep inside everyone loves a gift still! ... All the long hours away from your family are hard to get back...so have a fantastic time at the Show."

Finally. Someone who gets it. Jewel has given me her honest appreciation of what I've done for her and the company, and given me precious time with my family. She got it so very, very right. As someone who (in T minus 3 weeks) will be a business owner, manager, HR person, bosslady, and everything else... I appreciate her leading by example. She asked me how I wanted to be thanked. She listened. She did it, and then added a surprise bonus.

Jewel has provided me with one of the best examples of true, meaningful thanks I've had yet.

This post is my thanks back.
(no blackhead squeezing and facial scrubs required.)

It's All (not) There In Black & White

Recently DH and I sat down to work out my taxes. No, we're not several months late - the financial year here ends on June 30. Anyhoo, we (okay, he) punched all the relevant numbers into e-tax (the online tax form) and bah-dah-bing-bah-dah-boom it spit this out:

Last year I earned less than $18,000. BEFORE taxes.

As in, I technically earned below the poverty line.
As in, kids working at Mickey D's made more money than I did.
As in, if DH were to get run over by a bus tomorrow, I couldn't afford to feed the kids, let alone myself.
As in, I earned how little?! Wait, DH, that can't possibly be right. Surely not. I mean, that's, you know, NOTHING.

Sadly, blog readers, it's true.

In the past 12 months, I've worked every hour I could.

As in, I took every shift work offered me.
As in, I worked early mornings, late nights, weekends, and everything in between.
As in, I ended up in the hospital for over 2 weeks because I worked myself into a back injury.
As in, I've never worked so damn hard as I have in the previous 12 months. (Okay, the 12 months before that? Equally as hard, but I earned more. Explanation below.)

Now it should be said that previous to this crazy cheffing biz, I worked a normal work week of 38 hours, with an hour lunch break, and earned somewhere in the vicinity of $50,000 a year. You know, REAL money. I also know that I hated most of it (except the fact that ABF worked there, too) and that towards the end, it was a soul-destroying experience. I *love* my job. I *love* being able to say, out loud, to total strangers, that I AM A CHEF. I am much happier now than I ever was before. In many ways my job now defines who I am.

However.

My back aches, often. (Although said injury is now basically resolved.)
My Birkenstocks have worn down to THROUGH the cork. Three times.
My clothes all smell vaguely like yeast and/or cooked meat, even after washing.
I'm not sure what my kids look like in the morning, because I leave the house before they wake up.
All the clothes I own are either black, white, or checkered black and white.
When I get into bed at night, I average about half a paragraph before falling into a sleep so deep, it would take a large volcanic eruption to wake me up.
My right pointer finger is permanently calloused from my knife pressing against it.

And for all this, I get paid nothing. Now the sad thing is, I actually get paid pretty well for my industry. Hour for hour, I am earning close to 50% more than I was the previous year. Difference is I am working less hours now, hence the frighteningly small amount of money I earned. I feel like I worked a lot more, but I earned a lot less.

Since I saw that ridiculously small number on that screen, I've felt a little bit depressed about it. I mean, shit, I don't know how much more I could have done. Sure, it was an unusual year in so far as I was out of work (with said back injury) for about 7 weeks. Plus I had about 2-3 days of school a week, limiting my work availability. Plus I changed to working in catering (as opposed to a restaurant) which meant I worked 50+ hours some weeks, and barely 8 in other weeks. So the itty-bitty-teeny-weeny earnings make sense. Logically, I mean. Emotionally, though? Complete train wreck.

I cried, you know. Something I don't do all that often. At the moment I feel as though I am stretched very thin (ha! probably the only time I have a thin day as opposed to a fat day!). I'm working for my normal company, opening my own (T minus 3 weeks), doing 2 small side jobs (writing at Candy Addict, and until last week, consulting to a restaurant building a pastry section.) So you know, it's not like I'm sitting here eating cream cakes and sipping ice cold Campari.

And all this for $17,675?

Hmmm.

Then I am struck by the thought: I don't really give a flying shit what I earn. I love my job. I'm good at my job. It's really all that matters, especially since I am fortunate enough to have a DH who does much less work (pound for pound, literally) than I do and earns...well... A WHOLE HECK OF A LOT MORE, shall we say, than I do. And it's true, it takes a lot less skill to bake a cake than it does to, say, redesign a submarine for the Australian Army.

But tell me - which would you rather have? Me? My money's (what little of it there is) on the cake. With extra icing, thanks.

__________________________________
Edited:

Today at work I had a bit of a sook (a woe-is-me complaint) to a workmate about this whole money thing. She looked at me, with a somewhat bemused expression on her face, and said, "Um, yeah, but Michelle? You're a *MUM* to triplets and a *WIFE* and a *STUDENT* and you run a *HOME*. Did you somehow forget that all of those have value too?"

The sad thing is that YES, actually, I did.

A Promise Kept

Being as goal oriented as I am, I am always looking for new and better ways to achieve stuff, to push my own boundaries and go beyond my own comfort levels. At my 30th birthday party I had everyone fill out an index card (or several) with goals for me to achieve by my 40th birthday. Some of them are insane (wear high heels for an entire month) and some are terrifying (do a stand-up routine at a open mic night), some are reasonable (ride the Great Victorian Bike Ride) while some are hilarious (go totally blond). All of them were pretty amusing, and many were food for thought. Interestingly, many of the goals repeated - meaning that random people around the room said the same thing. None of them consulted with one another until after the task was done, so the repeats were the ones which really made me think. If I get around to it, I'll post the entire list and then virtually 'cross off' the ones I finish. Anyway the biggest repeater was "get published" - with variations about writing books for children, writing cookbooks, writing a weekly column for the newspaper, and so on. The gist of it was to find a forum for my writing. I achieved that goal in part by starting this blog - technically it was original, "published" material in a public forum. This week, I learned that I achieved the second part of this goal - I became a paid published writer.

Read all about it here.

The Untold Benefit of Parenting

I am very fortunate to work for a company that provides lunch for its employees every day. Come noon, all of us sit down to a gorgeous, chef-made, calorie-laden, bloody yummy lunch. Some choose to go outside, alternating between a lungful of smoke and a mouthful of risotto. Others choose to eat inside the kitchen, inhale lunch within 2 bites, and then disappear to god-knows-where. Then there are the nerds, of which I am a proud member. We choose to sit at the (indoor, very swish) communal table and benches, eating among work friends, sharing a laugh, and not enjoying the benefits of second-hand smoke. In recent months we've begun a bit of a lunchtime tradition - the trivia challenge. Both The Age and The Herald Sun have trivia quizzes in them every day, so we use these as the basis. As time has gone on, and the competition has become more fierce, the experience has gotten more entertaining and frustrating in equal measures. I've realised how little useless, random knowledge I posses, and how much I care about that lack of knowledge. The previous days' winner becomes the "Quiz Master" for the day, and as such has the power to invoke (or revoke) as many rules as they like. So on some days, you have to wait for the entire question to be read. On others, jump in at will but suffer the embarrassment of lost points if your answer is wrong. Either way it's an entertaining way to spend a quarter-hour or so. My own place in this bloodbath of trivia and pointless information ass-kicking is as a shouter. I tend to either say nothing, or just guess repeatedly in a really loud voice. Some days, I am without a run on the board - other days, I come in a respectable 3rd or 4th. Either way my competitive self wants to win, right?

Last week, I had my chance. The questions are worth different points based on difficulty - 1 for an easy one, 2 for a medium hard, and 3 for a hard question. I wasn't faring particularly well that day (thanks to the if-it's-wrong-you-lose-points rule) - and then came the following 3 point question:

"What is the name of the purple Teletubby?"

A hush fell over the room as everyone looked at one another with a mixture of vague amusement and total clueless-ness. At this point, the Quiz Master looked at me and said, "emzee? Surely you gotta know this!" (Okay, he used my real name, but otherwise this is an accurate account.)

I did. It's Tinky-Winky. I had my moment of glory, my basking in the sunshine of my clever-ness, my this-is-why-I-had-kids moment, my overall brilliance, and in that few glorious seconds, there was nobody in the world but me. The spotlight of smarty-pants shone right on top of my MENSA head, as I basked in complete self-promotion. Yes, it's true, I rock.

Sadly, it was to be a fleeting fame. I then proceeded to scream my way through the next few and ended up with a score of -2 for the day.

Ahhh, well. Win some, lose some, commit trivial suicide in some.