Eureka!

Those of you who know my DH in real life know that he moves at half-speed, while I move at double-time. Although we share a lot of personality traits, this is one in which we are polar opposites. Some might call DH "relaxed." I just call him "bloody slow." In the 11 years I have known him, he's never been one to rush, speed things up, move fast, talk fast - he just moves at his own p...a....c....e. Most of the time I don't mind this; I would venture to say that it is one quality that attracted me to him in the first place. He's not loud, he's not hurried, he's not anything other than even-keeled, in pace and in emotion. Nowadays this is a source of supreme irritation for me - while I often appreciate his relaxed attitude, it annoys the living crap out of me when I realise that what he accomplishes in 2 hours, I can do in 3 minutes. His slowness is also evident in his personality - after all this time, I have yet to figure out what, if anything, motivates my DH. Me? I have clear and defined motivations. DH? Nup. Not money, food, sex, books, begging, promises of all kinds, chocolate, an oncoming train...nothing at all makes him move faster or take action. He has one speed: slow. He has one emotion: content. The emotional part is good, because it means we rarely fight, and I usually win. The speed part...bloody annoying.

However.

Today I discovered the one thing which not only makes DH move faster, but it irritates him sufficiently to make him both look and act supremely irritated.

I totally, completely annihilated his slow, sorry ass in THIS GAME.
(Note: In both the 'easy' and 'hard' versions, *and* with the kids playing too.)

Neener-neener-neener!

Now We Are Six

Borrowing from A.A. Milne, to celebrate the trio's sixth birthday (May 17):

When I was One, I had just begun.

When they were one, DH and I celebrated not only this milestone in their lives, but the fact that he and I survived (intact) through their first year. Sadly, I remember very few details of this year, but I diligently wrote down miles of notes about them. Someday when they ask, I'll be able to answer because somewhere in that sleep-deprived, formula-scented haze, I knew they would want to know and I wrote it down. My only real memory of this time is them coming into the world and my wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into. It didn't take long for me to discover that what I had gotten into was a lifetime's worth of adventures.

When I was Two, I was nearly new.

We started to get into the swing of things by the time they were two. Before the year was out they would all not only be walking but also be potty trained. Both the children and DH and I as parents learned a lot that year - not only that personalities are formed in the womb but that they declare themselves very loudly once children can speak. We finally came up for air ... and you took it all from us in your endless, glorious chatter. The expression "silence is golden" suddenly took on a new meaning in our house - but if I ever thought about our home being without those little voices, I was left with overwhelming appreciation for them, noise and all.

When I was Three, I was hardly Me.

No true, A.A, not true. By three they were a force to be reckoned with, as was displayed by various acts of fierce independence and defiance ... acts which were always then followed with equally fierce acts of love and adoration. This was the "I can do it MY-self Mummy!" and sadly, I watched as they really did achieve many things for themselves. This year also brought the disappearance of those precious cribs, to be replaced by 'big kid' beds. You were indeed hurling head first into big kid land. I was torn between swelling pride and a heavy heart.

When I was Four, I was not much more.

...not much more than a hurricane, tornado, and earthquake all rolled into one, I suppose. This is the year you started pre-school and suddenly knew so much more than we did. You were quicker, smarter, funnier, and more demanding than we could have imagined - plus louder, messier, and more opinionated. You started grabbing your world with both hands - mastering the art of swimming, grooving to music, speaking some Hebrew/Yiddish words, and bringing home more paintings than I could count or find room for. You often made us cry - sometimes tears of frustration, but more often tears of laughter. You learned the meaning of the expression "happy tears" as DH and I discovered just how hard this whole parenting business is. We wished for the millionth time that you had come with instructions, and then were glad you didn't as it meant we could discover the world along with you.

When I was Five, I was just alive.

When you were five, you EXPLODED into life. You learned how to ride bikes, climb trees, play footy, dance ballet, contort through gymnastics, swim in the ocean, run 'like in the Olympics", get haircuts of your choice, draw pictures which look like the real thing they are, ride scooters, set the dinner table, count money, "read" books, start school (uniforms and all), make your beds, begin to cook with Mum, manipulate your siblings to get your way, fight off a tickle attack from one or more parents, go to Temple more regularly and sing along, put on costume performances regularly, sing along to the radio, be purposely irritating, tell a myriad of knock-knock jokes, dress yourselves from head to toe and a whole cornucopia of other life skills. Best of all you become part of a family which supports each other, plays together, eats together, shares all of life together, drives one another batty and yet can fall into a giggling, massive heap but a few seconds later. You even discovered that your parents were human, too - and you forgave them for it.

But now I am Six, I am as clever as clever.
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

Amen to that.

The Silence of the Lambs

I sat there, mouth agape and eyes wide in horror, as the Master Butcher ka-WHUMPED the entire carcass of the lamb onto the chopping table not 12 inches from the end of my nose. I find myself staring into the bloody stump of what once held the head of a lamb. A soft, fluffy, baaa-ing lamb, gently leaping over hill and dale - reduced down to what was now just a dark red carcass with a bleedy, sickening stump of a neck. I watched with equal parts horror and fascination as the Butcher started to break down this animal into components - hindquarter, loins, forequarter....and then further into shanks, rumps, racks and so on. The process took several hours, with bits of blood, gristle and bone being thrown with stunning inaccuracy towards different sizes buckets and tubs. There was much talking on the part of the Butcher - pricing, quality, sizing, and so on. All interesting, useful information, all presented in a theatre of animal butchery hell.

I, however, had a very, very hard time watching this spectacle of butchery take place. Why? Because within about 5 minutes of the ka-WHUMPING of the carcass, I tore my eyes away from the poor animal to look at the Butcher himself. About 60 years old, portly, kind face - could've been anyone's grandpa, really. Around his waist was a traditional striped butcher's apron, with a chain link around his waist. One end of the chain held a sharpening steel, the other a large pocket with several different gleaming knives. Your friendly neighborhood serial killer attire, basically. Grandpa Butcher was also wearing a butcher's coat - which looks much like a doctor's coat with a "V" neck. So I could see he wearing a nice business-type shirt, and a tie.

And here, my friends, is where I believe I was the only one in the room to catch the irony.

I was close enough to discern that the tie had an animal motif on it. As I leaned in closer to the table laden with bloody animal parts, and it dawned on me what I was seeing, the horror of it all made me want to laugh and retch at the same time.

Grandpa Butcher was wearing a tie covered in a motif of.... fluffy lambs. Complete with hill and dale. It's enough to make a person a vegetarian.

This Old Man...

....he played five, he played knick knack on my hive with a knick knack patty whack give the dog a bone, this old man came rolling home... I don't get that song. Is there some hidden Satanic message there that I'm not aware of? More stuff in my brain today:

1. In the petrol station this morning, I noticed that they sell an enormous selection (20+) of woolen beanies. Okay, so winter is coming and it's getting colder. People's heads are cold. I get that. What I don't get is, who thinks to themselves, "Oh! Must get petrol, grab a litre of milk, and oh yeah - a black beanie with a hemp plant on it..."

2. I have become somewhat obsessive about my children's birthday cakes. In our house the official rule is that each kid gets their own, and they have free reign to pick whatever they want (flavour, decor, the whole thing.) Invariably Concrete Head (DS) picks the most complicated one - this year requiring me to make several Pablos from fondant. Incidentally, I'm also making some fondant bees for Miss Flexi (DD1). I don't think they care about this as much as I do - yet again the whole "my Mom never did this for me when I was a kid so I've got to do it 10x better for my kids" thing rears it's ugly head.

3. I've decided that culinary genius is definetly genetic, even though in my case my parents claim it's skipped several generations. Concrete Head *loves* too cook (and dressed as a chef for Purim). He often has some pretty good ideas of what to make. However last night Little Miss (DD2) had ideas of her own. At the moment she is avoiding protein like the plague, instead opting for a diet of carbs, carbs, and a side of carbs - much to my and DH's irritation. So clever me tried out a recipe for low-fat, low-effort Beef Stroganoff. Needless to say, it was fricking delicious. Seriously, melt in the mouth fan-bloody-tastic. Little Miss was avoiding eating the meat part (and who could blame her, OMG the sauce was brilliant without the meat.) She decides the best option would be to make a "meat SAM-WODGE" and grabs a loaf of (multi grain, low GI) bread. She takes two slices, slaps in a whole lotta Stroganoff, and bites in. The look of bliss on her face was enough to send the rest of us (okay, me and Concrete Head) to the bread bag as well. Holy Mazoly. Seriously, food orgasm time. Warm, dripping, meaty, paprika-y, mushroomy, creamy bliss encased in soft bread. DH and Miss Flexi were eventually convinced to try it. DH was so impressed that he insisted on keeping all the leftover sauce (beef, onions, and mushrooms having disappeared into a whole lotta sam-wodges) in the fridge for use over some rice or pasta.

4. Rehab is really pissing me off. I enjoy going, since it's basically a free workout - but it annoys me that nobody TALKS enough. As in, nobody tells me why I am doing certain exercises, or what the long term plan is, or anything. They just seem to expect that I will follow along blindly. Now I know this is all about education, and "building up to it" and blah blah. I totally get that and I'm trying to respect my body's 'messages' and other bull crap. At the same time, wouldn't I get more out of this if the therapists would LISTEN to what I'm telling them? It's like they all have to follow this party line which tells them how to treat people, and they never waver from that. So on the one hand they're telling me to set goals for what I want to be able to do, and on the other hand they are totally against my seeing what it is I am capable of doing. If you have no base line from which to determine your current abilities, how can you set a goal about future abilities? Besides which, I feel a jillion percent better and have resumed uni (and work next week, yay) and I am digging the whole body/temple thing. Next week I'm going to get all "what the fark is going on?!?!" on them and see what they say. Stay tuned. In the meantime my rehab mood is not improved by the fact that the one (under 60 yeas old) cute guy has changed days so no more flirting in the hydrotherapy pool. Bugger!

5. I've finally convinced DH on the dog front! So maybe by the end of the year we'll have another member of the family. Hopefully we'll treat it better than we've treated the poor fish, and hopefully DH will get some new contracts so we can afford to feed the damn thing. Think positive, happy, doggy money thoughts people!

(I know, I said 5, but I have one more. Go knick knack yo'self.)

6. Supposedly my sister and her daughter are coming to visit us in July. This has thus required at least a dozen phone calls, a couple of emails, and several text messages - and still not a ticket has been purchased. I think it would take less effort to organise Elvis to come to Passover dinner.

One Man's Inedible, Part II

Several months ago I posted about how I got credit for someone else's work. Last week, the same thing happened - but this time it was me doing the cooking. We had an entire lesson on lamb - different cuts of lamb cooked via various methods. Cheffie and I, as usual, were working at adjoining work stations. Each of us made a red wine sauce to go with a herb-crusted lamb roast. His sauce failed miserably and mine came out quite well. Rather than re-make the sauce, he just "borrowed" what was left of mine. When it came time to evaluation - my sauce was deemed "very nice, complex flavour" while my sauce served on Cheffie's plate was deemed "tastes like wet Vegemite." We're talking about the exact same sauce. Cheffie, needless to say, was able to laugh it off. Later in the class, he burned one of his topside steaks, and again had to "borrow" one of mine (as we needed to present 2 of them.) My steak when presented was "nicely cooked and seasoned." My steak on Cheffie's plate was deemed "over seasoned."

He's beginning to think the teacher has it in for him. I just maintain that I'm cuter, therefore my food is better.

Happy Belated Blogaversary to ME!

On the 16th of April last year, I decided that having my own blog would be a good idea. I'm not really sure WHY I thought it would be a good idea, other than mellie said it would be, and I believed her. As it happens, she was right. In order to write my own "happy blogaversary to me" post, I went back and had a look at the things I've posted about through the last year. Originally this was meant to be a foodie blog - not dissimilar to the myriad of foodie blogs out there which literally groan with a tummy full of brilliant recipes, mouth-watering photos and interesting restaurant reviews. In that respect, I failed. I don't write a "foodie blog", or at least not anything like those I respect. I also don't write a "Mommy blog"because I don't crap on and on about how fabulous and wonderful my kids are (okay, sometimes I do) and how my brilliant, mistake-free parenting fulfills my every waking moment. I also don't write a "chef's blog" or a "baking blog" or a "family blog" or any other type of "... blog." I just kinda, well, talk a lot, to whit:

• I hate other people's kids, and I hate other people telling me how to parent mine, so I complained about both of those a lot.
  
• I asked you all to commit Random Acts of Sweetness, and yet nobody did (or bothered to tell me they have). I, however, continue to do this as much as I can. This just proves how fab-u-lous I am (or how much therapy I need, since for me baking is pretty much the same minus the chaise lounge.)
  
• Culinary school was another topic of complaining...and with about 9 months left to go, I can't see this rant ending any time soon.
  
• My adoration for various people was declared out loud.
• Food (not surprisingly) was a major issue - I made it, I worried about it, I wanted more of it, I got fat from it.
  
• I talked about stuff I like, and stuff I hate.
  
• Parenting - and the real, total truth about it, was also a topic of discussion...including the phenomenon of Mommy Guilt.
  
• I developed bad habits. What am I saying, I just admitted that I have them and the reveled in them.
  
• Photographic evidence finally made it on the scene!
  

So, as they say, it's been a good year for blogging . As I mentioned above, I've decided that I don't really fall into any type of blog category - and it's safe to say that's probably a reflection of who I am, anyway. My life is a mich-mash (pun and spelling intended) and this blog is, too. Fine by me, as long as it's fine by you. Actually, I could care less of what you think - but I am flattered that people are out there reading and replying to what I have to say. And that, my friends, is the point. This blog is all about me, me, me, and some more me - and I make no apologies for it.

The Food Behind Bars

The first thing I noticed about hospital food is that they feed you. ALL the time. There are usually three meals a day, plus three snacks (morning, afternoon, before bed), and then someone is ALWAYS offering you a cup of tea or coffee. There are also food Nazis, also known as "catering assistants" who will HOUND you if you don't fill in the little menu form before 9am. Seriously. They will stop at nothing to get that menu - even chase you down the hallway, or barge in on you while you're half naked and wondering how to maneuver on a bra when you can't really twist in any direction.

I do believe in the healing nature of food - consider the medicinal properties of chicken soup, the antioxidant properties of various vegetables, the healing pastes made from roots or fruit, and so on. With that in mind, I freely admit that one of the highlights of my day was filling out my daily menu (with requisite mini golf pencil)- and guessing (hoping?) that what I picked would appear anything like I expected it to.

In Hospital #1 (big, private, loads of people, multi-story joint) - the food was horrible. By horrible I mean, I was lucky if I could stomach more than one bite of anything other than breakfast and possibly lunch. I ate a lot of dry biscuits and drank an oceans worth of tea. They do get bonus points, though - for always having matching crockery (a pleasant dusty rose colour) and cutesy place mat, and having really interesting choices on the menu. Sadly, they lose points for taste, flavour, presentation, and the disappointment factor - every time I ordered something vaguely interesting-sounding, it would both look and taste...well, something akin to spew. Case in point:

These are supposed to be vegetarian rice paper rolls with a dipping sauce. Goodness gracious. They LOOK okay, right? But look closer. The damn things were so soggy and wet (notice the pool of liquid around them) that I needed a fork and knife to eat them. The dipping sauce was not only grey, with strange green things in it, but actually congealed around the little silver patty pan. What the hell was in that dipping sauce which caused it to congeal?! It took one bite (sans sauce) to decide this was not for me. Actually, not for any human. Or animal, for that mater. Several dodgy meals later and I decided to stick to things they could not possibly ruin. Or so I thought.

Then began the "week of a thousand roasts" where all I would order was meat with various veg. Curly parsley was always the garnish of choice, and sadly was most often the most edible part of the meal. Henceforth a whole lot of shoe leather swimming in mystery sauce with various sad, cold, wwwaaayyyy overcooked things they called "vegetables":

That scary fried disk thingie is supposed to be a sweet corn roesti. It's actually a hockey puck for playing in the hallway with a IV pole as a stick.


I tried a fried item (potato wedges) - how can you ruin that? Trust me, it's possible.

Mystery sauce, and mystery roast. I think it was meant to be beef, but sadly not from any cow I've ever met. Note the serving sizes seem to be getting smaller (funny, I didn't really mind...)

I did, on occasion, find something edible (and not just the parsley):
This was chicken drumsticks in mystery sauce. As chicken is cooked well done anyway (well done being the chef's strong point), they were onto a winner with this one! I could eat it without sharpening my incisors first (although the mashed potato was, well, made from the pillows of previous patients and the corn did require me to get my file out and start sharpening.)
This was a pretty decent (decent = eat without hurling) Shepherd's Pie - again, you can't really "leatherise" minced meat (I won't call it beef, because really - who knows?) Sadly the vegetables were .... ummm... yeah. GREAT parsley though!

So in Hospital #1, it was a culinary wasteland. I kept asking for fresh fruit and thus ate an orange twice a day for nine days - finally, something which did not involve a parsley garnish and could not be wrecked by cooking! Have I mentioned that I don't really like oranges? I once got an apple and nearly had a massive coronary right there on the spot. Good thing I was in a hospital, as they could revive me with a waft of parsley under my nose.

For a foodie like me, can you imagine the disappointment of looking forward to a meal - only to be confronted with - well, the pictures speak for themselves. I didn't ever order dessert other than diabetic jell-o, and yet this too they managed to foul up. For 9 days, twice a day, I had GREEN jello. Clearly, there was a Blue Light Special on green. No other colour. It *might* have been okay if it was LIME flavoured jello. Sadly, it was dish washing liquid flavour - easy to see why it made it to the sale bin, really. I understand that hospitals are full of sick, often old people. I also understand that it's hospital catering which severely hinders their getting better. I cannot find the nutritional value in food cooked to above 400 degrees (Celsius). Surely the vitamins and potential goodness need to STAY in the food to be of some use to the old and infirm? Clearly not. On my very last night, there was a small glimmer of hope for this big house. Yes, friends, I was brave enough to order a dessert which I figured even a hospital catering team was incapable of wrecking. I ordered the "fresh fruit" pavlova:

I have never in my life been so grateful for commercial meringue base, just-add-water cream, three tinned blueberries, and a lone wedge of strawberry. This small dessert was a beacon of light in what was otherwise a very dark few days of eating. I slowly, carefully, joyfully savoured every last commercial, chemical-laden bite. I think I even swooned (which then required some morphine to combat the severe swoon-induced back pain, after which I didn't care much about anything really.)

Hospital #2 was also a private hospital, but with only 60 beds, and, as the cleaners assured me, a "real chef" cooking food "fresh every day." I had hope at last! I might get a flavour of jello which wasn't dishwasher flavour! I might see a meat in a colour other than dark brown! I might - wait for it - get to eat something other than parsley! Readers, Hospital #2 didn't disappoint. To highlight the good points - the food was actually GOOD. As in, edible, dare I say it tasty!, and seasoned. The vegetables were fresh, cooked well, and clearly of good quality, as was the fruit. The bad points were that the crockery never matched and thus every meal was eaten in 1970's retro ambiance, the custard was nothing more than flavourless yellow snot, and they would often offer mains for which the sides/veg didn't match. For example, there was an offer of butter chicken but the optional sides were a side salad, parsley potatoes, and some other vague Anglo veg. While the menu was not as adventurous as Hospital #1, the meals offered were nice to eat, offered a decent variety, and there wasn't a parsley sprig in sight. I actually looked forward to my meals. Now I will say it didn't exactly start off with a bang:

So this was spinach and ricotta cannelloni with what I think was meant to be ratatouille, plus a bowl of leek and corn soup. Hmmm. Not so great on aesthetics, and I only found TWO kernels of corn at the bottom of the soup bowl. Seriously. I didn't hold out any hope, except my mood was buoyed by the distinct lack of an orange and the addition of - watermelon! Thank you God!

See? Aesthetically speaking this is a total train wreck. Taste wise? It rocked. I'm happy to say, though, that the food improved from there on. They never really grasped the concept of appealing presentation, though:


This was Hospital #2's version of Shepherd's pie. As you can see, much bigger and nicer overall. Those butter beans were cooked well, the rice was fine (it was my fall-back dinner option if the pie just was horrid). Also, check out the serving sizes! This was what they consider a "standard" meal, even though they offered larger and smaller options. Check out the (real) mashed potato on top! Someone in that kitchen can even - dare I say it - use a piping bag!

Again a sad loss on the visual impact of this - a chickpea and vegetable "stew" with a new potato. However it tasted nice, the vegetables were actually a bright colour (not achieved chemically) and the potato was not only cuttable with a knife, it didn't disintegrate into dust and blow away when I cut into it.

The best part about this? Look carefully in the upper left hand corner of this picture. That, my friends, is RED Jello. What's more, it tasted like RED. Okay, chemical red (I'm guessing it was meant to be something "-berry") but still. It wasn't GREEN. In fact, I never had a single serving of green Jello for the entire week I was there. To add more points for this hospital, all three snacks were served fresh off a wandering trolley, with the catering assistants offering a whole range of goodies to eat and drink. The morning option always had a fresh baked item - cake, cookie, a scone - and the few I tried were pretty okay.

I did some investigation on the custard issue, because I ordered it every day and it tasted like shit every day (I know, I'm glutton for punshment). How could they score so many goals on the big stuff, but destroy the easy stuff? Turns out it's made fresh every day by a different person, and how sweet it is and the texture depends on how closely the person making it follows the dietitian's recipe about the amount of milk and sugar in it. So this one, I'm blaming on the dietitian and her crap recipe.

So that's the hospital food round up. A few hits, a whole lot (!!) of misses, and something worth blogging about. While I understand the need for simple, cost effective food - which meets a whole lot of different dietary needs - the above examples show how it can be done well, and how it can be done to a degree no human should have to suffer. I mean, really - we're in the hospital people. We're already miserable. I see no need to increase our suffering SIX times a day. That's just human cruelty, that is.

I ever need to go to hospital again, I'm sneaking in my own boxes of Jello.

Notes From an Escapee

First, to update on my emotional and physical state - being home has had a massively positive impact on my general feeling of well being. I'm able to walk further, smile wider, and in general am feeling quite good. I unexpectedly had to return to school last night, and other than a total freak-out about not being prepared, survived well. My back/leg are feeling pretty okay - maybe 90% improvement on pain and the same on being able to walk/stand for longer and longer periods. The kids have now become part of my training team and we walk/stretch together. I have to go through 9 weeks (!) of outpatient therapy twice a week, but at the end of the day I know this is a good thing for me. I never got to see a psych - but I had a great yoga session with an amazing instructor. She told me I need to shift my perspective - instead of seeing rest or exercise time as taking away from my life (why do this when I can do something else) - see those activities as an ADDITION to my life, another thing which I do. That perspective certainly fits in better with my Alpha Female SOC (scary overachiever girl) personality. So in general I am feeling a lot better and the children are a lot more helpful, which is a good thing.

Emotionally I think I've got some work to do - it's exceptionally hard going from capable and running at 100 miles an hour, to suddenly incapable and feeling like I'm useless. A big part of my recovery will be pacing myself - just because I can do something, doesn't mean I necessarily should! My workplace and school mates and teachers have all been 100% supportive, willing to do whatever is required to get me into shape/form again. I'm returning to school this week as a bit of a test run, and will then gradually add in a few work shifts. In some ways this could not have come at a better time since work is very quiet at the moment. As several people have now pointed out, maybe this is the universe telling me to slow down!

A big thanks to all for the comments you've left in support - it was always made me smile on days when I didn't really feel like it. As a reward, I'm going to go compose the hospital food post!

Extra hearty, you-are-the-best shout outs to: 007, The Sicilian, my SIL, my employers (esp Bollywood Babe), DH & kids, poppet's Mum, unknown parent who sent a card on behalf of my kids whole class, Rikybabe, 50 Cent Supervisor and IL's who all visitied, sent cards, called a lot, and in general made me feel a bit more human. The rest of you...well...best we not get into that.

There is ONE good thing about hospitals: they fit 3 kids to a bed:

Prison Break

The good news is that I will probably be out of hospital on Saturday - which will be followed by an outpatient program here for six weeks or so. I am getting more and more mobile, and needing less and less pain relief medication - so that's something. Unfortunately, I seem to have loads of reasons to be miserable as well. I am frustrated that my progress is not quicker, I'm sick of being in a hospital, my control-freak self is hating not organising my home life, and in general I am feeling very low and depressed about it all. I have found myself in tears far more often than I care to admit. At the same time I look at the other patients here - many of whom need help to get out of bed, have had fairly major accidents, or are in here for several weeks/months- and I think I should quit my whining and thank my lucky stars that my pain and issues are minor in comparison. I almost feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself, especially when I know that feeling sorry for oneself is an entirely useless and pointless exercise.

When I think about summoning the energy required to start on the weight-loss road again, I cry. When I think about the pain I might endure if I DON'T summon that energy, I cry harder. The physiotherapist I saw today gave me a hard time - she said my frustration at being here was obvious. Ummm...yes, I'm frustrated - but I don't think the solution to that is to bury those feelings, is it? One of the facets of the program is visits with a psychologist - which I have yet to see, as I approach Day 4 of being here. Funny thing is that is the one person who I probably need to see the most! My frustration with my lack of progress is due, in part, to the seemingly endless amount of time it took to get transferred here, then the weekend waiting for therapy to begin, and then another day waiting where the staff finally admitted that they had forgotten about me. I've had one day of services (today) and then tomorrow is a public holiday. So of 7 days, I will have had access to 3 days of therapy. Who wouldn't be frustrated by that?! Being the scary overachiever girl, I need things to happen, and I need them to happen PRONTO. So I have short term frustration about my progress here, and long term frustration (fear?) about what the future holds for me.

Apparently the doctor also feels I need to wait a futher 3 weeks before returning to work. By the time three weeks are up, I'll be looking for the nearest loony bin to check myself into. While I don't want to rush things, I cannot seriously consider another 3 weeks of convelescence. My plan for now is to return to school next week (since that is short hours, low stress, and a lot of "down time") and then try one shift + school the following week, and then build up from there. Plus in amongst that have the day program here plus start with a physio/pilates program to build some core strength. At the moment it just feels like I am at the bottom of a very high mountain. The brightest spot in my days here has been when the kids come to visit and they make enough noise on the wards to wake the (almost) dead. What can I say, I guess I just don't make a very good hospital patient - something I would have thought was an asset but according to my physiotherapist, clearly is not.

This is a bit of a rambling, depressing post - completely out of character for me as a person and for this blog as a whole. I hope you'll forgive this minor break in the usual proceedings - I just don't feel like faking it.

This Blogger Temporarily Under Construction

Hello All:

This blog post comes to you from the hospital, where I've been since last Friday. I am recovering from a prolapsed disk which is pressing on my sciatic nerve. The good news is that it hurts a lot less now, and I will soon be moved to a rehabilitation hospital for some intense physical therapy. The bad news is that I am sad, depressed, annoyed and frustrated about it all. In a word, it sucks. Blogging is hard to do from a lying down position, so it might be another week or so before I caan return to reguarly scheduled programming. In the meantime, rest assured I have been taking digital pics of the food I've been eating here - so expect some amusing hospital food blog posts soon.

Positive, "no pain for emzee" thoughts welcome - looks like there is a long road to recovery ahead for me.

- Em.

The Epicurean Parent

A recent (post-preggo hormone induced but nontheless thought-provoking) email from The Baker's Wife asks, "Can one be a parent and a foodie?" Her question actually goes one further than that - asking if one can live in the (outer) suburbs and be satisfied as a foodie. For the purposes of this post, I'm sticking with the first part of the dilemma. For me the answer as to whether a parent can be a foodie or not is simple: No, if you consider a foodie to be one who (often) indulges in good food and wine. (Unless you have loads of disposable income.) Yes, if you consider being a foodie one who appreciates fine food and wine, with no requirement that they indulge in it.

For me the definition of a foodie is both of those - one who appreciates good food and wine (and usually, cooking with one and drinking about the other) and one who has the means to indulge in both, fairly often. However The Epicurean Parent (damn, that would have made a good blog title) is often one or the other. The Epicurean DINK or SINK (double/single income, no kids) is definetly both of those. Put simply, being a foodie requires a decent amount of money and reliable, easy transport (a point also made by The Baker's Wife). Once you become a parent, your disposable income decreases dramatically, as does your ability to get to that little shop which sells the most divine cakes, or the little fromagerie with the gorgeous farmhouse blue vein. On the financial front, it's not just the ability to buy the gorgeous bits and pieces - it's the minimum $10 an hour for the babysitter, who can't stay past the third course of the degustation menu anyway. Of course you could load the kid into the car for the trip to the Turkish hole-in-the-wall bakery selling heavenly bourek... but then add another half hour at least to the journey.

I am a big believer in taking children to restaurants - and I don't just mean the sort with a $5 kids special which includes the minuscule scoop of shitty vanilla at the end. I think they should learn to enjoy the finer things in life, to develop broad palettes, to experience all edible life has to offer beyond things fried. At the same time, I don't think children belong in all restaurants, and frankly there are some where I definetly do not want them crossing the threshold. So the dilemma of being a foodie, and a parent, is a difficult one.

As The Baker's Wife said (email quoted without her permission - sorry babe):

"When I am surrounded by other committed suburbanites, like our families and old school friends, there is no problem, because they have forgotten what they're missing. Day old bread and crusty pre-sliced prosciutto are de rigeur. But my regular friends are different. And this ex-London/Paris/Albert Park/City chick has come to rely on the availability and accessibility of beautiful produce. I want jamon at $120p/kg on a ten minute tram ride from me, even if I can't afford it. I want figs and almonds and baclava cheap and I want someone with a gruff foreign accent to sell it to me."

As you can see, a foodie soul definetly beats within TBW's chest, doesn't it? So how do we solve the problem of the Epicurean parent? The one who wants the farmhouse cheese, the aged smallgoods, the vine-ripened tomatoes and the Victoria Street pho - the one for whom the $5 kids special is starting to look a little, well, like a greasy pizza and crappy vanilla ice cream. Honestly, the solution for me has been to grab a bit of foodie love whenever I can. So I drag the kids to the outdoor food events - and find things I think/hope they will enjoy. I plan (expensive, so totally worth it) occasional dinners out with other foodie friends, leaving DH behind. I plan date nights with DH at similar establishments, so he gets a bit of foodie love too. I indulge in the odd bit of expensive cheese or fabulous dips. The kids come along to foodie markets (Melbourne is fortunate to have many) and eat the beautiful seasonal fruit while I eat the smoked salmon (although, come to think of it, they eat that too. Epicurean children are an expensive habit.) I learn how to replicate some of these delicacies in my own kitchen. Most of all, though, I never really stop learning about food - reading articles in the paper, reading foodie blogs, asking my fellow co-workers, bosses or teachers - and so on. Being a foodie is not all about eating out - it's a hobby, a habit, and an addiction. So I manage to be an Epicurean Parent - but on a smaller scale than I did before kids. Why? Because I know that the minute these kids hit 18, I'm headed for Nobu. In London.

The Triplet Card

So in part it's my over-achiever self, in part it's just my independent streak, and in part it's probably stupidity - but in the past nearly-six years, I've almost never played The Triplet Card. The Triplet Card is the one you play when you need something and the excuse you're going to use is your triplets. No different to The Kid Card, except that it carries a heck of a lot more weight (yeah, like 30 kilos in pregnancy weight). Saying "I've got 3 sick kids" is way, way, wwwaaayyyy more impressive than saying "my kid has a cold." However, even when it's been perfectly valid for me to play The Triplet Card, I haven't. I choose not to use them as my fall guys - even though I could, and lots of people think I should. A lot of this, I've come to realise, is my attitude to help. Specifically in asking for help.

When the kids were born, the maternal and child health nurse organised a church group (!) to provide me with some volunteer hours. So little old ladies would come over every once in a while to, ostensibly, help me with caring for the kids. It took exactly one visit for me to call the church and say, "Um, take ya' old ladies back!" I'm not afraid to ask for help if I need it (playing the ol' card), but I need the help to be on *my* terms. I just can't have people doing stuff for me which I think I can do, or which I want to do, or which I've planned to do. Spontaneous help is just not something I can cope with.

In the first case I like knowing I can do it all on my own - there is a certain amount of pride in that - the old independent streak asserting itself. Secondly, because I am one of those people who prefers not to ask for help (or not to need it in the first place), I want the request (when it happens) to be worth it. Know what I mean? When I eventually ask for help, my friends/family know it's because I truly, truly need it. If I asked for help all the time, then I'm just using their goodwill, and I don't want to do that. The whole boy cried wolf thing - if you always ask, when do people know when it's important? Theoretically I could get away with playing that card ALL THE TIME, and my fabulous friends and family would come to my aid - because they all are truly fabulous, giving people.

Funnily enough people often try to play The Triplet Card for me. As in, "Let me do that, dear - you've got enough happening already." Um, yeah - fuck off. *I* decide when I have enough happening already, not *you*. Don't get me wrong - I love that people are kind enough to ask me in the first place. I really am touched by how much people love and care about us, and my feelings would probably be hurt if people didn't ask me in the first place. It's just that I don't want them to be hurt or insulted when I say a polite "No thanks." I really don't want them upset when they then insist several times over, and I finally lose it and say, "WHAT BLOODY PART OF NO FUCKING THANK YOU ARE YOU NOT GETTING?" Now a normal person might just say, what the heck, take all the help you can get. Why not? They're offering, after all. Thing is, I am incapable of that. My control freak self needs to be the one who decides when and where I need the help. Silly? Maybe. Cutting off my nose, blah blah? Maybe. But it's the way I like it. The best way to help us - or help me - is to wait until I need you. Then, when you get the call, you know it's because I really, really need you.

Out of curiosity, are any of the other triplet parents I read who are like this? The Amazing Trips? The Grubbs? Parents in general?

This post was actually prompted by my reading about The Dunn Triplets - six year old girls who are deaf and blind. This family so much deserves to play The Triplet Card ... it just strengthens my resolve not to ask for help unless I truly need it. Heaven help these little girls.

Oh Crumbs!

For me, Passover is the most torturous of all the Jewish holidays. My carb-addicted self is left with a holiday which is bereft of all decent things bread-like, and awash with a whole lot of things which both taste and look like dust on a plate. Passover baking, in particular, is a fraught activity since you can't use baking soda or baking powder, or any other 'leavener' which might help a cake get beyond 1 cm off the plate. As a result you're stuck with a whole host of crappy cakes and cookies and the 'if I close my eyes I can pretend it's edible' baked goods. I'm here to tell you that Passover pastries (and - *shudder* - Passover "bagels") are downright disgusting. Mr. Manishevitz, your coconut macaroons are horrible, grainy, too sweet, sticky balls of, well, macaroon hell. Even the chocolate ones. Please, please, stop inflicting that culinary sin on the people of the world. (Especially Australians who pay twice as much to import the damn things.) If life as we know it was eradicated, the next sentient beings to inhabit the joint would probably still find an orange and green can of Mr Manishevitz's macaroons. God help them, too.

How does one cope with a holiday like this? It's some sort of special torture, to be a pastry chef and yet not able to eat or make any decent pastries in this 8 day period. We won't talk about the bread. (I might weep...or at the least start pounding on the door of my nearest bakery screaming, "It's not FAIR! It's just not FAIR!") I deal with it by making things which I would eat all year round - regardless of this *snort* "holiday." At my Passover table this year we had flourless brownies (to die for, seriously), a 'Passover Pavlova', meringue mushrooms, the anti-coconut almond macaroons...and a recent addition of a cake found in this weeks' Epicure - sand cake. Nothing which looks, tastes, or feels like a Passover pastry - just things which taste fab-u-lous, ALL year round. Revolt, people, revolt! We are the chosen ones - so let us choose not to support the coconut you-kn0w-whats in a can, the angel food cakes, the endless array of 'nut torte' and anything at all made with mazta dipped in crappy kosher wine. (Matza dipped in chocolate is allowed, but only if it's good chocolate and not scary chocolate.) Life, as I always say, is too short to eat crappy (Passover) cake.

I leave you with my favourite toppings for matza. Matza is Jewish people's Chinese food - you gorge on it like you've never seen food before, feel like you're going to explode, and ten minutes later, you're wandering around the kitchen looking for something to eat.

Matza Toppings as preferred by emzee:

1. Cream cheese and then a layer of red-fruit jam
2. Chocolate spread (a la Nutella)
3. Matza pizza (red sauce of some description, cheese of your choice, under the griller)
4. Marinated persian (soft) feta
5. Avocado, smashed with tons of sea salt and cracked pepper
6. A decent smoosh of chevre (goat cheese) and some sort of veg (tomato, cucumber...)
7. Plain ol' butter, but salted butter
8. Mayonaise and kosher salami
9. Egg salad, still warm (hard boil a few eggs, smash warm eggs with mayo and loads of salt and pepper)
10. ???? Ideas welcome.

For the foodies among us, Cooking with Amy has a whole week of Passover themed blog posts. Enjoy.

Bubble Fun

Since it's been a while since I've posted a picture of the trio, I thought I would share these two recent ones. In the first they are doing their religious bearded rabbi imitations. In the second they are showing one of the benefits of triplethood - getting clean by cooperation!