Jewish Maternal Guilt, A Lesson

Lesson One: If you're going to be a good Jewish mother, every time you call your child on the phone, you should ask them how they are doing with their weight and exercise regime. Sympathise with how hard it all is, compliment them on a job well done. Then, when you see them, tell them they are looking a bit tired, and a bit sick, and a bit pale and unwell, and offer them "a bisselle chocolade" from your handbag.

If for whatever reason you can't see your child in person (say, for example, they live in Australia) then you can do the chocolate thing by sending your kid a copy of this:

The picture on the front of that magazine has been staring at me for weeks....partially because of the cake, but partially because I have no idea who Paula Deen is, other than an overly made-up and plastic surguried old lady. (Who apparently likes chocolate!) I left the magazine in my bathroom (where, of course, all good reading gets done) and the damn thing has been staring me down every single time I went in there. Finally, a group dinner event gave me the perfect excuse for making this recipe. I cheated a little bit, though - I used my own chocolate cake recipe (because I was baking several kilos worth that day). I did use the official Paula Deen recipe for the mousse and the icing. I also cheated with the topping by buying a box of pre-made Flake garnish rather than grating my own. Lazy, I know. What can I say? All this gym going is tiring me out to much to bother with grating chocolate.

If you've got a favourite chocolate cake recipe, use it. Her recipe strikes me as overly complicated and with way too many ingredients, even though technically it is a "one bowl" recipe. As this is a more difficult cake to put together and takes more time than most, I think it's well worth simplifying the cake part of the procedure.

I also thought the icing recipe was really disgusting. The texture was quite hard, it wasn't very easy to spread, and it was so sweet and sugary it made the local diabetes association hold a protest right outside my kitchen door.

The need to bake three separate cakes, then torte them, is ridiculous in itself. Who has 3 cake pans the exact same size? The idea behind this cake is completely fantastic, though - and the mousse recipe was not only easy but delicious.

So let's recap!

emzeegee's version of Paula Deen's Dreamy Chocolate Mousse Cake

The day before:
Bake your favourite chocolate cake recipe in a 10 inch square or round tin. Make it of generous height, so that the cake mix comes to about 1/4 below the top of the tin (you want a nice high cake for this.) Cool a bit and then chuck it into the freezer.

Make a basic ganache: 1 part heavy cream to 1 part dark chocolate - for this recipe I would do 2 cups of each, which is more than you need, but it keeps well. Bring the cream to the boil. Take off the heat and mix in the chocolate until it all melts (you want to really make sure it's well melted. No lumps!). Pop it into the fridge to cool to spreading consistency.

Make the mousse (recipe below) and chuck it into the fridge.

The day you want to eat it:

Take the cake out of the freezer, and using either an electric knife or a decent bread knife, slice the cake into four even pieces (horizontally.)

Place the bottom piece onto a board/plate. Evenly spread with 1/4 of the mousse. Place a layer of cake on top. Evenly spread with 1/4 of the mousse. Continue until you have no layers left (and please don't be a moron and spread mousse on the very top. Have I taught you nothing?!).

Place in the freezer for an hour to firm. Once frozen, take it out. Slather the ganache all over the top and sides (and try to be neat about it.) Then, using your hands, push the grated chocolate onto the sides and top of the cake. Want to be fancy about it? Only do that on the sides, and leave the top bare, then pipe some ganache rosettes or pile in some chocolate curls (a la Paula.)

Dreamy Chocolate Mousse
Makes about 4½ cups.
1 envelope unflavored gelatin
3 tablespoons cold water
¼ cup boiling water
1 cup sugar
½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
3 cups heavy whipping cream

In a small bowl, soften gelatin in 3 tablespoons cold water. Let stand for 2 minutes. Add boiling water, stirring until gelatin dissolves; set aside. In a small bowl, combine sugar and cocoa powder. In a medium bowl, beat cream at medium speed with an electric mixer until foamy. Gradually add sugar mixture, beating until stiff peaks form. Stir in gelatin mixture. Cover and chill for 4 hours.

Show Me You Love Me, Redux

Hi All,

I've entered a competition to be on an online reality show, where a small business coach gives you 12 weeks of business coaching. While the ultimate decision lies with the promoter, voting for me gives me a better chance of being chosen (only 3 companies will be chosen.) Growing Three Sweeties is a huge, ongoing goal for me - so will you consider voting?

Here is where you vote:
http://www.bizthinktank.com.au/biz-tv/yes-coach/nominate-business/307/

Thanks everyone!

How They Do It In The Old Country

The view from the House of NN

One of the most amusing things about my friend NN is that she is very proud of the fact that she grew up in country Victoria. She'll show me a new pastry technique, and when I look excited, she just smiles and says, "That's how they do it in the old country." The "old country" refers to her home town of Bairnsdale, in the Gippsland region of Victoria - about a 4 hour drive east of Melbourne. For years now she has been telling me about life in the old country - about the funny small-town personalities, about the world's biggest liquor store (because what else is there to do?!) and about the fun that can be had with a earth mover and a bottle of rum (when your parents aren't looking.)

A couple of years ago DH and I actually took the kids on a vacation in that part of the world. I won't bore you with the details, but let's just say that I came home wanting to either slit my wrists or sit in the corner rocking back and forth and mumbling. Yeah. Not fun.


This time, though, I was heading for the Eastern corner of Victoria with NN and The Sicilian, for an "Intro to the Old Country" girls weekend away. 3 chicks, 4 hours in a car, a couple rolls of Mentos, a packet of Cheezles, the open road ... Thelma and Louise had nothin' on us. We were going to stay with NN's parents, and finally get to see in person all the places that had become part of NN folklore over the years.

I will admit that I was pleasantly surprised. Sure, it's not the social centre of the universe - but it's filled with pretty houses, some lovely panoramas, and friendly people (and of course, there is that liquor store.) The largest city in the East Gippsland region of Victoria, the City of Bairnsdale itself has some really fascinating parts to it - notably the friezes in St Mary's Church and all the perfect curbs (concreted by NN's Dad!). We had a good sticky beak around the town as well as in neighbouring Paynesville - famous for being the town where NN completed her pastry apprenticeship. We also went koala hunting on Raymond Island - apparently home to one of the largest wild koala communities in Australia. In reality, it's the home of a lot of cursing and yelling,' F-ing koalas! There are no f-ing koalas on this shit bloody island. We wuz robbed! Goddam furry flittle uckers, where ARE YOU?" (Answer: In a tree, about 200 metres down the road. We thought NN was kidding when she yelled, "OMG! There!" We realised she wasn't kidding when she stopped the car abruptly and shouted at us to get the fark outta the goddamn car already.) Note moronic me didn't have a camera on her, so we took photos on someone's phone...and now none of us have any idea how to download them. Yeah, I know. City folk! Gotta love 'em!

The Sicilian thought she could teach us a thing or two about fishing...

But NN didn't quite get the lesson...

...so this is all NN managed to snare on her hook!

We did all the things that good country folk do - including the mid-afternoon nap, the fishing adventure, and of course the (delicious) meal at one of many local pubs. Yours truly felt like a right moron when I asked, "Hey! What's that cool thing? A sculpture?" .....only to find out it was in fact a water tower. Water, perhaps, is the one thing missing from this region. While Bairnsdale runs alongside the Mitchell River, thanks to the drought there is very little water to be found. Some parts of the surrounding land are quite green, but there are kilometres of rolling hills which are a sad, dying brown. For an area known for flooding, this is a particularly sobering sight.

On our last day there we got to explore Buchan Caves - truly a once in a lifetime experience. We scraped, ducked and weaved our way through a kilometre of caves and were truly humbled by the power of nature. Here, too, the lack of water is apparent as the insides of the caves were quite dry - when normally they are dripping with the water which forms these stalagmites in the first place.


Gippsland is a beautiful place, and The Sicilian and I felt truly loved as we enjoyed the warm hospitality of NN's parents, and felt the honest affection that these people feel for their home town. On a personal note, it was really nice to visit a part of a good friend's history, as it defines so much of who she is. The funny expressions (..."they've come for a glass of water and a look 'round..."), the appreciation of the simpler things in life (like a pie and a Coke), the gentle mocking of my accent and city ways - it's all part of it.

I found myself wistfully thinking, you know, I could get used to this country life. The fresh air, the animals, the slower pace, the people on every street corner who know you by name...there is really something lovely about the old country. Except, maybe, for dinner being served at 5:30. I have no objections to an early dinner - hey, more food is a good thing, to counteract the country air - but early dinner (sorry, TEA. Early tea!) implies that you've been up at some god-awful hour of the morning to do hard physical labour. Considering that these days I find it almost offensive to get out of bed before 8:30, I'm not all that sure that I could live there. Still, with the sun coming over that glorious Gippsland horizon, I might be convinced.

Hale & Hearty

Winter abounds in Melbourne, with cold nights, cold toes, and a mighty wind to carry the last of the autumn leaves around. In Casa Verde we've been eating a fair amount of meat, notably lamb chops with the bone in (whose formal name escapes me.) The kids have discovered a great culinary delight - sucking the flavourful, gelatinous marrow out of the bones with a hearty SLURP! The collective daughters, in particular, have become particularly enamoured of this and will often beg and plead for yet more bones. The begging has resulted in me cooking the granddaddy of the marrow bone meats - Osso Bucco. I adore this cut, not only because it's absolutely delicious (and has plenty of marrow to go around) and super cheap to buy but also because it's pretty much a "fix it and forget it" type of dish.

I threw this in the oven late afternoon and then walked away, only to return about 90 minutes later because the heavenly smell was making me drool all over my keyboard. This has to be one of the best family meals we've had in ages...other than the sound of slurping and chewing and "mmm" the dinner table was all quiet as we knelt at the altar of this giant winter culinary cuddle.

I chose to serve this with a very wet polenta - all the better to sop up meaty juices with - but you could just as easily have eaten it as is.


Osso Bucco (recipe has been modified the emzeegee way)

5 pieces osso bucco
1/2 cup flour
salt & pepper

50ml olive oil
3-4 cloves garlic
100g tomato paste
500 ml beef stock
200 ml red wine
200g mire poix (mixed large dice of carrot, celery, onion)

Preheat oven to 170C. Make a few vertical cuts into the muscle surrounding the osso bucco pieces, effectively "releasing" the meat from the sinew which surrounds it. Season and then coat in flour. Shake off any excess flour. Heat the olive oil in a wide, deep pan, and brown each piece of meat on both sides. Remove from the pan and place meat into a casserole dish, preferably a large shallow one so each piece fits on the bottom. In the deep frying pan, saute the mirepoix and the garlic. Add the tomato paste and continue to saute until the vegetables start to colour.

Add the red wine and bring to the boil, then reduce the liquid by half. Add the stock and return to the boil. Carefully pour this mixture over the meat, so that the liquid comes 3/4 the way up the meat. Cover tightly (foil works) and place in the oven for 90 minutes, checking the liquid level half way though the time. If the liquid is very low, pour in some additional hot stock.

When the meat is tender, remove it from the oven - the meat should be falling off the bone.

If you're lazy: serve it as is, over the polenta (recipe follows).

If you're not: Remove the meat and vegetables. Place the casserole over a flame on the stove and reduce the liquid to sauce (coating) consistency. Serve the meat with a generous pouring of sauce and vegetables and a fine sprinkling of parsley and lemon rind.

Polenta at it's most basic
(these proportions produce a very wet polenta)

1 cup polenta (instant works well)
6 cups chicken stock

Bring the 6 cups of chicken stock to the boil. With one hand, tip the polenta into the liquid in a steady stream. With the other (and a wooden stirring paddle or whisk), mix the liquid. Continue stirring until the polenta has reached the desired consistency (in this case, not unlike oatmeal). Serve immediately.

Enjoy!

Cupcake go Bye Bye

It's with a somewhat heavy heart that I report that Melbourne's most successful cupcake company, the Crabapple Cupcake Bakery, is now in receivership. According to the publication foodweek, the business is for sale - but according to ASIC, it's being liquidated. Honestly my first thought about this was how sad it is - the owner started her business from a kitchen table, not unlike myself. While I had heard a few things about their customer service lacking a bit, and this forum talks about their product being inconsistent, it's still sad to think of such an icon going under. For me it's particularly sad because I had always upheld it as an example of how one small idea can grow into something huge. (Clearly, though, it grew with a bunch of bad financial management...)

The only silver lining is that they've now got a bunch of unhappy customers who are looking for other people to fill those orders. There are plenty of cupcake bakers in Melbourne (some good, some bad, some eeehhh), I've already been on the receiving end of the deluge - I've got 800 cupcakes on order for this week alone!

So, bearing in mind that I've got loads of cupcakes to make (plus my usual cake orders this week), blogging might be light on for a few days.

(Although if I've not posted by next week, will someone check the icing bowl? I might have fallen in and nobody has noticed.)

A Mom's Gotta Do What a Mom's Gotta Do

While I do consider myself a fairly creative person, I also have "issues" with craft stuff - if it's messy, sticky, fiddly, downright annoying or takes more than 10 minutes to see a finished product, I can't cope. I did go through a phase where I did some cross-stitching, but projects bigger than 2" x 2" annoyed the crap out of me. I also went through a pottery phase, a tie-dying phase, a collage/mod podge phase, a mosaic tiling phase, a glass painting phase, a hair clip making phase, a flower pen making phase, a photo album covering phase and several other short-lived craft phases. For a while there my glue gun was my bestest friend and occasionally my worst enemy.

I have a heap of creative, crafty friends. The Baker's Wife, for one, totally amazes me with her ability to make cool stuff on nearly no money. Similarly Jewel can make cool stuff out of scraps of random bits of paper she finds all over the world. Recently (thanks to the loveit/hateit relationship I have with facebook) I re-conncted with an old friend, Claire. Among other things she is famous for being the person who taught me the basic know-how of baby care and early toddlerhood, the person who sewed almost every one of my kids bunny rugs (material used to swaddle babies with), the person whose name I stole for one of my own kids, and an all around talented crafty person. She now writes a blog about her endeavours, Matching Pegs. Her blog totally makes me feel like a craft retard, but at least I can look and go, "oooohhh!!!" and feeling insanely jealous and yet again find myself wishing I knew how to sew.

A couple of weeks ago DD2 came home with a library book called "Making Maracas," and like the title implies it's a how-to of basic maraca making. It outlines a (simple?!) 3 week procedure for making these things, and it involves balloons, papier mache, coffee beans, scissors, various pieces of dowelling and a few servings of Prozac. Why in gods name you wouldn't just buy a freakin' maraca for $2 is beyond me, but then there are crazy people in the world who, you know, knit socks and stuff when K-Mart sells perfectly good ones which do not involve 3 weeks and therapy. Thus far I've managed to fob off DD2 on this project ... because, and there is no nice way of saying this: there is no bloody way in the world I am making even a single maraca. She has a better chance of getting me to become a saleswoman for stinky stuff than getting me to make a maraca.

So I was feeling a bit guilty about my lack of crafty parent-ness in general when DD1 asked me to play play-doh with her. I quite like play doh, actually - in addition to being kinda fun, it's basically a clean "project" and is a good occupational therapy game to play with my sensory kid. I was all for it until she told me that all her play doh had dried out...and then in a flash I realised that crafty redemption could me MINE, ALL MINE! I vaguely remembered reading that you can actually MAKE that stuff. A quick Google search, finding the cream of tartare (left over from a bath bomb making phase) and 10 minutes later we had four colours of play-doh. Simple to make, easy to use and frankly a lot easier than a stupid bloody maraca - and DD1 and I were in play doh heaven.


Of course, I couldn't resist the urge to get a bit of professional practice in (yes, that would be a tiny play doh rose you are looking at):


...and DD1 reminded me of why I do these things in the first place...


PLAY DOH

2 cups of plain flour
4 tablespoons of 'cream of tartar'
2 tablespoons of cooking oil
1 cup of salt
2 cups of boiling water
food colouring

Just pop it all in a mixing bowl and mix until it comes together - you may need to get your hands in there a bit, and I added a scrap of flour to make it a bit drier.

Once it came together, I separated it into 4 lumps and coloured each with some food colouring (use gloves, it can get a bit messy!) You can also add glitter (for sparkle) and clean sand (for texture).

Enjoy!

On parental guilt and waxing one's arsehole

So here's the thing. I am really, really bad at returning emails. My inbox has emails from somewhere in the middle of last year that I've not replied to. Some of them are ones which I look at and think, "Damn, I really should reply to that" and then I go surf YouTube or Facebook or something else of vital importance which keeps me from replying. Others are there simply to make me feel guilty and remind me of what a crappy friend/sister/daughter/workmate I am . Most of them will eventually get replied to (whenever the fuck I feel like it, okay?) and some of them will just be deleted because they have gone past their guilt-by date.

The fact that I write this blog is starting to cramp my lack of emailing style, because my Mom seems to think that if I have time to write things here, I should have time to email her.

Hmmmm.

In theory, she's right. In practice...ummm...if I reply to one email, then people generally (who are not as crap as I am at replying) write back, and then they want me to write back AGAIN, and then I have to let it stew in my inbox, and then it's just this vicious circle of me having to keep sending emails. Did I not just say that I totally SUCK at replying to emails? It's kinda like the whole texting cycle on a mobile phone. FER CRIPES SAKE, people, PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE. It's more expensive, more annoying, and more painful to me wee little thumbs to be sending six text messages about banal, irritating details of your/my life, okay? Just call me, tell me your issues, and hang up. Ten seconds and it's OVER. Same with emails. Got a lot to say? CALL ME. Skype me. Whatever. Just don't make me feel guilty as hell for not replying to another email which starts with, "What? You're so busy blogging you don't have time to email me anymore?!" (Although in my Mom's case, this would be in ALL CAPS BECAUSE SHE HAS NOT WORKED OUT THAT CAPS = YELLING IN EMAIL SPEAK.)

So what's my excuse for not replying to my Mom's phone messages? Yeah, no. I've got no excuse for that one. She wins, I should be calling and returning calls more often. SORRY MOM.

My excuse this week? I spent a glorious 3 days in the company of NN and The Sicilian, driving our way across Victoria to visit NN's most delightful parents and exploring her home town. (A real post about that, and photos to come).

When I got back, DH wanted to know if I had spent the entire three days talking about "girly stuff." Between you and me, he's just a (lovable but) perverted dirty old man, so he really was asking for hot sexy details about my friends. Sadly for him, I had to admit that while we did spend 3 solid days laughing and talking and giggling and in general acting like 16 year old girls on a road trip (complete with copious amounts of junk food and screams of, "OMG! Are you SEEEE-rious?!") , the discussion about the importance of waxing one's butt crack did not come until we were about 30 minutes outside of Melbourne, on the way home.

Who knew that there were women in the world who worry about what the inside of their butt crack looks like?

A cookie by any other name...

Quite often I'll be trolling the net looking for something non-cooking related when I'll come across a recipe which interests me. In the old days I'd just bookmark it...leaving me with a massive list of bookmarks which took up several columns of screen space. These days I use Google Reader and just star things which look good. Every once in a while, though, I'll come across something which looks good and if it's short, I'll scribble it on the back of a scrap of paper. Then, of course, I promptly forget about it, until I find it months later in the fire hazard office under a pile of other stuff. I'll put it aside, only to have it swallowed up by the black hole of my desk once again.

It's a rare recipe indeed which makes it out of this desk purgatory - most eventually get chucked in the recycling bin when I lose patience with the mess in here.

However, this recipe went from scrap of paper to baked in under 24 hours, largely because DH is out of town, the kids and I were bored, and what's not to like about a recipe which takes about 10 seconds flat to make? These cookies are not only delicious when baked, the raw dough is swoon-worthy, and it's easy for the kids to help, as witnessed by the above photo. (Note: I've not gone mental and eaten loads, even though they are amazingly delish. I've enjoyed a few, and then put them aside to give away to friends tomorrow.) I'm also re-printing it here as I copied it off the site, it's a very simple way to make and read a recipe.

The original recipe called these "solve everything cookies" or something equally cutesy - it was the cookies the author's Mom made when things were looking blue or they just needed a pick me up. Sure, stuff a broken heart with fat and calories! Get fatter, get less boys, and ergo start the process again. GREAT message, that...not! Since I'm all about reversing emotional eating, I'm renaming these "Why Not Cookies" because when I said to the kids, "Feel like making some cookies?" they all said, "Why not?" No emotional upheavals required.


WHY NOT COOKIES

Mix: 1 cup butter, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup brown sugar
Add: 2 eggs, 1 tsp vanilla
Add: 2 cups flour, 1 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp salt*
Mix: 2 cups rolled oats, 2 cups rice krispies, 2 cups chocolate chips**

Makes a stiff batter. Drop by rounded spoonfuls onto a lined baking sheet and bake 12-15 mins at 350C.

* I used a coarse salt, because I like that bit of saltiness on the back of my tongue when eating something sweet. If you don't, use ordinary table salt.
** I used about 1 1/2 cups because we didn't have any more. They weren't lacking for chocolate.

Enjoy!

Like A Supermodel

Voted Yet?
_______________________

I think I'm going to change my name to Tyra...or maybe Heidi...or possibly Cindy - because this past weekend, I was channelling my inner supermodel. Firstly, my friend 007 asked me if I wanted to go shopping with her. Those who know me best know that I would much rather put jalapeno-dipped hot pokers in my eyes than willingly go shopping. However, as this is all part of the "make me a supermodel" thing, I readily agreed. In fact after she mentioned it, I was the one who called her to organise it.

Once we got to the mall, I was totally into it - grabbing stuff off racks, happily cackling at how terrible some of it looked, smiling at how good some of it looked, and so on. I was a woman on a mission. I desperately needed a new pair of jeans, since the pair I have (read: live in) were a bit, shall we say, MC Hammer-esque. I'm proud to report that I was able to buy a pair of jeans which not only were on mega sale ($24 instead of $100!) but I bought a pair which is a full size smaller, and yet still kinda needs a belt. I couldn't go one MORE size smaller because that would mean uncomfortable, and uncomfortable clothes are against my religion. To prove to myself that I really am smaller, I tried on about half a dozen pairs of pants, and yup, I definitely needed the smaller size. YAY ME. We kept on shopping, and hours later we had bags o' stuff and were exhausted and starving. We went out to grab a snack - a supermodelish snack - of coffee and a shared antipasto platter.

Old me would have had the platter (at 530pm) and then gone home and eaten a full dinner...because, you know, a snack is not an actual MEAL. New me felt full after the snack, realised that nobody was forcing me to have dinner, and resolved to have (if and only if I was hungry) a snack at about 830pm. No shit, people, it worked. I did feel a bit peckish later that night, so I had a bowl of cereal (Raisin Bran, for those wondering.) I had to repress the urge to dance around the house singing, "I won! I won! La la la la la la!!" It actually surprised me, just how powerful I felt about it all. Not only did I feel great about the smaller jeans, I also felt great because I had willingly shopped (without suffering a stroke, seizure, mental episode or other shopping-induced medical episode), AND on top of all that I was able to mindfully enjoy every bite of our snack and not worry, for one second, about the meal ahead. I think this is truly progress.

On Sunday the trio and DH went to a football game, leaving me behind to do such joyous tasks as cleaning out my car. Sad to say, but I could have fed a small European country on the amount of food scraps I found in my car. Most of it being the detritus of small children, but some of it my own. I think my car has been suffering poor gas mileage because of all the crap in it, weighing it down! A single dirty sock, 3 kids' books, 2 headbands, 1 bottle of water, the lid of a plastic box, several sheets of scribbled paper, a bit of string, 2 nectarine pips, a stack of tapes (yes, really. My car has a tape player), a small bath towel, one sweater....you get the idea.

After that experience I headed to the supermarket, and here is where I reveal my true supermodel self. Because I was by myself, I felt no need to dress up for the experience. So I found myself wearing the following (very fetching) outfit:

- Pair of tall Ugg boots
- Clean grey sweatpants
- Close-fitting long sleeved black t-shirt
- Black zip-up sweatshirt
- Headband

So I did the shopping, and because the place was totally packed, I had time to peruse the trashy mags as I waited my turn in line. You know what? I swear every actress, supermodel, wanna-be, and musician in that mag was not only wearing the same thing, but DOING the same thing. Okay, so they're doing it in LA, and they're shopping at Gelson's (read: world's most expensive supermarket) ...but there I was, feeling like a supermodel over my new-found confidence, and LOOKING like one too.

I don't think you can get much better than that.*

* I am conveniently ignoring the fact that while they were all dressed the same as me, they were wearing sweats in a size 2, and mine are considerably bigger than that.

In the here and now

Okay, so I'm about 50 kabillion percentage points behind, and it's doubtful I'll win this thing, but at least don't let me be humiliated by a complete hamster annihilation, okay?
___________________________________________

So we all know how hard I am trying to reclaim my life back - back from the crazy, unstructured life of a chef, back from the crazy, unstructured life as a mother to 7 year olds x 3, and back from the crazy, unstructured life of a fatty. Starting up da biz was the first step in this process, as theoretically I could plan my work life better and have some control over the whole thing. I wanted to be there for my kids at the end of the day, I wanted to enjoy getting up to do to work, and so on. The next step in the process was getting their lives in order - so we got rid of the time-sucking after school activities, reclaimed some of our old routines of yesteryear, and resolved to live a happier, simpler family life. Then came step three, which was returning to my old gym-junkie self, which I've been doing for several months now.

So all of these things have been going swimmingly, except that my ass wasn't getting (much) smaller, and I still felt like I was on a bit of a roller coaster, body and attitude wise. I attempted to go the naturopath route and found that it didn't suit me. On the advice of my GP, I've been seeing a Head Shrinker for a few weeks now, and then yesterday I also saw a nutritionist. Before you all go thinking this is a waste of money, consider ANY of the things you've wanted to achieve in life. Most of those achievements wouldn't have been possible with at least some effort on the part of your BRAIN, right? Athletes will tell you "it's all mental", business people will tell you the same, and millions of people are paying life coaches for that added MENTAL boost which will get them across the line.

Seeing the head shrinker (who btw specialises in health psychology, and counts elite athletes among her clientele) has been a GREAT and a HORRIBLE experience. Horrible because she forces me to think about, talk about, take action on, and confront things about my attitudes to food and eating which I've never thought about, talked about, actioned or confronted. I leave her office feeling like I need a big, long cry followed by a big, long nap. It's emotionally exhausting. It's a great experience because she forces me to think about, talk about, take action on, and confront things about my attitudes to food and eating which I've never thought about, talked about, actioned or confronted. I leave her office feeling like I CAN DO THIS, and I AM A SUPERSTAR.

One of the biggest themes she has talked about in the past couple of weeks has been one of living in the moment. Living in the here and now and being mindful of what we are experiencing. She makes the point that so much of our lives are lived in the future, that we fail to spend enough time in the RIGHT NOW. As you can imagine, this has been a really hard thing for me to do - because I am ALWAYS thinking ahead - planning, goal setting, thinking, considering. At breakfast I'm thinking about the business of the day ahead, at lunch I'm thinking about making dinner, and at dinner I'm thinking about all the things I need to do before the kids (and I) head to bed. When I stopped to consider her words, it occurred to me that I really do spend a lot of my time in the future - only once I've gotten to that future, I'm thinking ahead yet again.

We've talked a bit about how the future can actually be a scary, scary place. When confronted with the idea of having to do something "forever," most people naturally freak out. Hence her insistence that if we try to be more mindful of today, then tomorrow becomes easier to deal with. This week is a pretty good example of that. I'd missed 2 gym sessions last week because work was busy. This week I missed Monday because my neck was aching (the result of me hitting my head on a staircase, but that's another story.) Bollywood had a new teacher, and she was terrible so I barely broke a sweat. By Tuesday I had started to get a bit disheartened, and missed my gym session because I was grumpy about it. On Wednesday I went to see head shrinker lady...and she caught me out! Too much time spent thinking about how I'd have a crappy week because I'd missed some gym sessions, about how I'd never have the time to fit it in this week, and so on. I had basically decided on Monday that there would be no gym-going for me this week.

Besides just the endorphins no longer swishing around my bloodstream, these feelings (and subsequent choices) so clearly showed her point. We talked about how to get that "self talk" into a better place, about how what I choose not to do TODAY won't necessarily mean that tomorrow is a wash out, too. She recommended going out for a walk, even just 10 minutes - because that walk would then act as the first step along the path of a thousand to follow.

This morning I got up, went to the gym, and had a 50 minute cardio workout. I walked out of there thinking, I CAN DO THIS and I AM A SUPERSTAR. Suddenly the future doesn't look quite as bleak, and I know that I am the one in control, right here and right now. I am (figuratively) *bigger* than the feelings of self-doubt and failing into the future. I can KICK THEIR ASS.

While I don't think it's possible to live a life without at least some forward thinking, this week I am resolving to live in an attentive way, and to choose to do things now rather than do them tomorrow, next week, or not at all.

In an attempt at influencing you to do the same, I'm going to recommend you all go to this website, and create a Thank You message for someone. Remind yourself how important it is to live for today, and thank someone. You'll be glad you did.

The Sky is Falling

So, did you vote? Best go do that now, doncha think?
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Here at Casa de Verde we've come to the conclusion that our house is too small, and for added fun and games it's falling apart. When we moved here the kids were 10 months old, and it was a great house for little kids. The plan then was to stay here maybe 5-7 years, and then move to the big ol' McMansion in the next suburb over. Then people in Melbourne started to go absolutely mental, and house prices went through the roof. The house two doors down sold a few months ago for 1.2 MILLION dollars, which means that the McMansion would now be somewhere in the region of 1.5 million, maybe more.

So let's do the math. One cake = $100 (let's just take a round number) and I need to find 1.5 million bucks, plus some money to pay for moving, plus taxes and stuff, plus some furniture or whatever, plus all the therapy bills...so, THAT'S A FUCK LOTTA CAKES. Not going to happen. DH and I swapped to Plan B, which was to modify the manor enough to fit in our pre-pre-teens and all their stuff, not to mention fix things like the hole in the ceiling (skylight?) the tiles falling off the showers (deocrative finish?) and the carpet (vintage?) We didn't want some huge Tudor style gothic-columned 6 bedroom 14 bathroom with putting green and helipad place. We just want our house to fit all of us in, and have working showers. Not exactly demanding, are we?

It should be said that I HATE construction, renovation, home improvement and anything at all to do with making changes like these. Intellectually I know it's a necessary thing. Emotionally? Thanks but no thanks. Both DH and I have families which were completely devastated by crooked builders during renovations, so that's probably part of the issue. Furthermore I can think of nothing more boring than spending hours upon hours looking at metre after metre of tiles and shower screens and sinks and taps. AS IF the tap I pick will somehow change the world, right? Tiles? A life-changing choice, definitely.

Since FEBRURARY this year we've been trying to get this work started. Actually you can add two years to that, since that's how long it took me to convince DH that we could no longer live with tiles duct-taped to the floor (no, I'm not kidding.) I've had meetings with builder upon builder upon builder, and this is what I have learned:

1. Each person who comes in the door will contradict everything the guy before him said.

2. Each person will scratch their chin and say, "Hmmm..it's a bit of a challenge, isn't it?"

3. Each person will tell me their life story, which I couldn't give a shit about. So far I've had stories about wayward teenage daughters, wives suffering empty nest syndrome, and 41 year old heroin addicts.

4. Nobody will be able to tell me if they can do what I want with the budget I have. They will, however, tell me about all the things they DON'T do (which funnily enough are all on our list of "must do.")

5. Nobody will answer my phone calls or emails once they leave the house, unless I say, "Hello, I'm leaving this message because I've just sold my first born to afford the price you have quoted, so let's go ahead and sign that contract!"

6."...in a couple of days/weeks..." is builder talk for - sometime in the next century.

7. Most of them will not listen, so the ones who do come back with some sort of info will be a) way above the budget I specified or b) will have made changes I specifically requested would not happen or c) will hound me endlessly but not actually come up with a cost (even a ballpark) unless I agree to spending 2.5 grand with them in the first place or d) all of the above.

Not a single brick has moved, and I am already finding myself bloody sick and tired of this entire venture. I haven't even stepped foot in a tile store and I am dreading it. I know renovating is up there with the Top Ten most stressful activities in a person's life, and it's not hard to see why that is. This whole process just sucks from beginning to end. Sure, we're saving ourselves a fortune (theoretically) on renovating rather than moving, but at this point I'm about ready to sell the place and just move into the nearest Motel Six.

At least there they have showers which work.

In which a pirate's chest breaks my spirit

The trio's birthday party was yesterday. I think "party" is far too nice a word for what can better be described as "a one way trip to hell involving fourteen 3 foot high munchkins all emulating the Lord of the Flies." Seriously, what was I thinking? In my head I had envisaged them all doing as I asked, speaking in "inside" voices, and behaving in a manner befitting Stepford Children. What I got was a house full of screaming banshees running amok (and this is BEFORE the sugar). In the end the party was a success, the Cheezels all got eaten, and mercifully every child got picked up by a parent (but heaven knows if they went home with the right parent, because at that point I was just glad to be rid of them.)

After their unmedicated ADHD friends left, the kids got to open their presents. Mostly I was really pleased that the kids ended up with things they will both enjoy and use. Unfortunately I also found myself going head to head with what can only be described as THE SINGLE WORST POSSIBLE THING TO GIVE TO A KID. (AKA the present you give when you hate the parents of the birthday kid, and you want to go all passive aggressive on them.)

I am talking about the craft present. The do-it-yourself, decorate-it-yourself, bake-it-yourself, inflict-pain-and-suffering-on-yourself sort of present. Dreamcatchers (which are so 80's!), pillow cases, handbags, watches, pins, doll houses, t-shirts, flower pots, hair clips, foam door hangers, indoor terrariums ... whatever irritating thing you can glue shit to. All of these presents are wrapped in cutesy packaging, with a picture on the front which shows how AMAZING your creation is going to be, and how EASY it will be to achieve artistic greatness. What they don't show is you dropping half of the teeny-tiny plastic jewels on the floor, getting your dining table covered in cheap crappy glue which comes in the world's smallest squeezy bottle, getting felt pieces stuck in your hair, glitter in your eyes, and you sitting in the corner rocking back and forth and endlessly crying, "Why me? Why me? WHY ME?!" The packaging also doesn't show how this shitty little made-in-Taiwan craft present has a catch that won't close, a pin which isn't straight, a cardboard punch-out which rips when you look at it wrong, markers which run dry after one line and exactly one less plastic sparkly fake jewel than you need to complete your piece de resistance.

Seriously, these things are the worst presents - not least of which because they require Mom and/or Dad and/or your nearest victim to do the entire thing for you. But, I hear you saying, it's a KIDS craft. The KID is meant to make it themselves! Yeah. Sure. With a hot glue gun in one hand and razor sharp scissors in the other and the aforementioned glue squeezy bottle which requires 200 lbs of brute strength to make the fucking thing give up some fucking glue I am squeezing as hard as I can fer cripes' sake come out already goddamit!

Today DS and I tackled one of these DIY projects - a foam treasure chest complete with gold glitter lock and gold braiding. 2 hours, one stupid (empty!) squeezy bottle, one pretty serious hot glue gun burn on DS's hand, gold glitter strewn within a five mile radius, a headache the size of Mount Kilimanjaro and before you could say, "Ahoy, Matey!" we had a pirate chest. A pirate chest with glue coming out of the corners, a crooked foam skull or two, 7 red fake jewels placed around haphazardly, gold glitter coming off in waves...and two bits of gold braiding. A pirate chest which, two hours later, DH tells me, needs more hot glue....because the lock fell off.

This same afternoon DH got the pleasure of making a "decorate it yourself" watch kit which DD2 got. 2 hours, gobs of glue out of the useless squeeze bottle, stickers, random scraps of paper, and some very dodgy watch holes later and he and DD had their two watches. DH had it worse than I did, as there were no actual instructions included - so he kept squinting at the little line drawing on the box to try and figure it out. I figured he had a skill advantage over me - he's an engineer! I couldn't have been more wrong. An hour into it, I overheard him say, "Oh! The jewels go on the INSIDE!" after he and DD2 had spent, oh, an hour gluing the little fuckers onto the OUTSIDE, and mostly getting them stuck to the tabletop and their fingers.

Clearly, even attempting one of these fuck-it-up-yourself projects is an act of sheer determination and love. Not only do you have to fight the glue bottle, the glitter, the kid wielding the scissors and all the rest of it...but you then have to come up with a feasible explanation as to WHY your finished project looks nothing like the one on the box. So far the best we came up with is, "Well, at least it's original!"

Yesterday when we were unwrapping the presents I was oohing and aaahing over how cute these little kits were. My mind's eye could see me and my kids, basking in the afternoon Autumn sun, carefully making our little crafts. I imagined myself humming as we worked, content and happy in the knowledge that our masterpieces would be museum quality when they were done, and would outlast the end of time. Yeah. NO. Not only did I spend more time cursing than I did humming, but there was NO freakin' sun, either. It's pouring cats and dogs, DS spent 30 minutes whimpering from his burn...and the fucking lock on the stupid pirate chest did not stick.

The boxes all promise "hours of creative fun!" Fun?! For WHO, exactly? And the "hours" part of it? That's in the picking off cemented jewels off your floor with your fingernails and the cursing and the fighting and the wishing a large pit would swallow you up whole so you could stop fighting with the damn glue bottle and get this bloody project OVER WITH.

I think a better tag line for these kits would be, "Hours of creative blog fodder!" because that's about all these things are good for.

Originally I was going to write a blog post about the other gifts which I think deserve my scorn and irritation ... make-up. Yes, we are now the proud owners of at least 5 dozen (no, I'm not exaggerating) little pots of kids' make-up. Lip gloss I can handle...but mascara? BLUE mascara? Eye shadow, lipsticks, glitter glue which you're meant to put where, exactly?, and did I mention that there was also glitter mascara? So this post is not about the MAC store which you can now open in my house.

Nor is it about the Size 10-12 underwear that DS got.

It's about the fact that she-who-can-accomplish-everything....finally met her match. Scary overachiever girl...got beaten by a 6 inch black foam pirate chest. With gold braids!

This is where you prove you love me

I was feeling a bit "harumph!" about not getting into the Top Ten for "Best Mommy Blog" in the Best of Blogs award...and then I noticed that I made it into the Top Ten for...wait for it...."Funniest Blog." I had to (pun intended) laugh at that one...me? funny? I actually think I'm a lot funnier in real life, but hey, I'm happy to go with it.

Anyway, people, prove you love me, okay? GO AND VOTE. You can vote once a day for the duration of the contest, and I'm WAY behind with a paltry 3% of the votes so far. Go on, make my day.

VOTE HERE.

Please?

Pretty please?

GO ON!

Seven

Of late I've been reading a number of "Mommy Blogs" - having finally succumbed to that title myself - which are full of all the reasons why people's kids are great, fabulous, clever and all together too wonderful for words (unless you count the 3,000 words in yet another isn't-my-kid-fab post.) I like to think that here at emzeegee & the hungry three I'm a bit more honest about it all. Do I love and adore my kids? Absolutely! Do I think they are perfect? No. Generally speaking, while I will blog about them, it's not to say how utterly great they are.

However, it's their birthday week...and if a mother can't be super saccharine nice about her kids on their birthday, well...come on now. So without further ado, here is the official birthday blog post:

This week, on May 17th, the triplets turn seven years old. When they were babies, I met a woman whose triplets were in high school. At the time I found myself thinking, "We're never going to make it that far. Teenagers! Can you imagine?!" That woman's teenagers are now heading off to college, and my triplets are well and truly on the way to being pre-pre-pre teens. The attitude, the clothes, the "I totally know better than you do" hallmarks of the teenage years are fighting against the lovey-dovey, tickle-me-more, bubble baths of young childhood.


DD1 - You, my smiley girl, are perhaps my easiest and yet my most difficult child. You have spent most of your seven years smiling, laughing and jumping around with unabashed giddiness. We've always said that you march to the beat of your own drummer...but we were wrong about that. You would never, ever, EVER just march. You would dance, jump, swing, wrestle, spin and somersault to that drummer...and you would do it with so much enthusiasm and excitement that you would take the rest of us along with you.


Your life is not an easy one. You have to work harder to achieve things which your siblings seem to do with ease. You have to control your emotional impulses a lot more. You have to concentrate harder at staying on task, and you have to fight the demons within who tell you that you can't do something. Your world is a loud, distracting one and every day you fight to keep it under control, and often you don't manage that. This year you have learned to cope better with that chaos and noise, and it really shows in terms of all you have achieved. The Queen of the Monkey Bars reigns supreme both at school and at gymnastics, and your Dad and I could not be more proud...even if it means we all giggle at your endless bruises and scrapes.


Emotionally, you are the single most loving person I know - even more than your Dad, which is saying a lot! You always, ALWAYS have arms ready for a hug, hair ready for a ruffle, and you love people with a fierceness which is just truly remarkable. You feel all of life so strongly - there are no 'half measures' with you - it's the highest of the highs and (very rarely) the lowest of the lows. You are a person of simple things - which is not to say YOU are simple-minded. A person who grabs the biggest amount of happiness from the smallest, simplest things. A person who understands the value of a simple gesture like a hug or a hand drawn picture.


Alexis, at seven years old, I only hope you never grow out of your endless ability to love, and your eternally optimistic view of the world. I truly believe the world would be a much better place if only there were more people like you in it.



DS. Ahh, my crazy son-shine! He who struggles between having the brain of a boy much older than his years, but a heart still that of the gorgeous little boy you are. Because you are so smart, we all have an expectation that you are more mature than your years, but the reality of it is you need your love, your cuddles, and your being-a-kid time more than most. As our only son, I suppose there is a certain cultural expectation, too, that you will be our reliable one, our stable one, our one on whom we pin the responsibility of looking after your sisters. I have to say that this is a responsibility you take pretty seriously - you make sure they never get more dessert than you do! They drive you crazy, as only sisters can ... but just when I think you've had enough of this triplet business, you take the time to sit down and read a story to them.


You are so many things to me. You're the person I go to when I want (need?!) to tickle someone, who I know can give as well as he gets. You're the person who will always offer and give help when needed - either to me or to a friend in need. You are the person who keeps all of us on our toes, always needing to know more, see more, do more, ask more. Your constant quest for knowledge also means you have an unwavering belief in yourself - your self-confidence shines through with everything you attempt. You have your moments of frustration, but you don't let them get you down for too long.


Like your older sister, you are capable of huge amounts of love for other people. Your poor stuffed elephant Wuh-wee has been literally loved to death! All of us have been on the receiving end of one of your bone crushing hugs, and there are very few people who do not melt at the sight of those beautiful baby blue eyes. The eyes, and those hugs, basically mean you (like to think you can) get away with just about anything!


You're cheeky, clever, amusing and sometimes downright naughty - but then those are all the things which really define you. Foolish enough to get yourself intro trouble, you're also smart enough to talk your way out of it. My wish for you, Julian, as you turn seven - is that you remain able to revel in your academic ability, while never underestimating other people's abilities, too. Selfishly, I hope you never find giving your Mum a hug in public to be embarrassing (even though you've already told me you won't.)


DD2, my world-leader-in-training. From the time you were small, you made a huge impression on me, and everyone else! You have a hugely independent will - a force to be reckoned with. There are so many things about you which will hold you in good stead as you grow older. You are smart - smart enough to talk your way out of just about anything. You are resilient - even though you claim not to be, you're often the one who copes with the world's unfairness the best. You are demanding - you never let anyone get away with anything, and you demand greatness of yourself as well. You have perseverance - choosing to follow a "career" in dance has always been on your agenda, and you've never strayed from that goal, even when other options looked more "cool" or glamorous.


From your days in daycare, teachers have always told me how well-liked you are, how other children look to you for guidance, and how someday you will grow up and achieve leadership greatness. In my house, though, you're just my beautiful, delicious little girl whose voice always needs to be heard. Your need for attention is often amusing, and sometimes frustrating - but we always know what a huge part you play in our family dynamic. You are often the voice of reason, the person who will make sure that everything is fair and that turns are taken and that nobody is left without their portion. I admire you enormously for that skill. A lesser person would worry only about themselves.


If I were to label you, I would say you are the classic achiever - the stereotypical beautiful Prom Queen who is not only getting straight A's but also has millions of friends and interests and the person who everyone likes. In your short life you've already begun to win awards - for Yiddish and for your leadership skills - but with me the award you hold is that of Cutest Tush! That, I think, reflects what I think about you ... that while you may be so many great things, you also maintain your sense of humour and often let me drive you crazy with all my carrying on, even though you find me embarrassing. (Although just between you and me, I know you secretly like it.)


Emotionally, you are my drama queen - the one for whom life is unfair, for whom other people are mean, and "nobody" ever listens to you. We both know that none of that is true, if for the one reason that you would NEVER let any of those things happen. You are, by nature, a bit of a pessimist - you'll often say your school day was "horrible" but then take an hour to tell me how fun and exciting it all was. I was lying if I said I didn't sometimes worry about you, and wish you took things just that little bit less seriously. I suppose the old Control Freak gene is alive and well in you.

So that, dear Claire (or Kiki as you prefer), is my 7th birthday wish for you - that you remain the capable, confident, loving, high achieving girl that you are ... but that once in a while you remember to just let go and have a little bit of fun (and that you let your dear old Mum give your tush a pinch now and again, no matter how embarrassing.)



The bathtime photos in this post were taken a few days ago...and looking at them makes me so happy and yet so sad. Sad because I know it's probably the very last of the bathtub photos I'll ever take - the kids are growing too big for that bathtub, and their growing body awareness means they won't want to bathe together for much longer. Sad, too, because their faces are so happy and shiney ... and I know that soon enough they will grow up and the weight of the world will rest on those shoulders. Happy because I am confident that DH and I are raising capable, responsible, downright adorable human beings ... and happy because even when they drive me crazy, their mere presence in my life has improved it immeasurably.

Happy 7th Birthday Lexi, Jules & Kiki!