Holiday Sick

Last week I wrote a post on soup and happened to mention, perhaps rather too smugly, that I have a freezer stashed full of stock, including turkey stock to fight winter colds and flu. Now the little voice that tells me trite things like ‘pride comes before a fall’, and ‘don’t tempt fate’, is telling me triumphantly ‘I told you so!’

On Monday morning Middle Daughter woke up not feeling well, Youngest had a bit of a sore throat but went to school anyway. As the morning went on my throat started to feel scratchy and my husband was also suffering. The school called me to fetch Youngest early, as she was now feeling sick. In no time I had two sick girls installed on the sofa, one husband in bed and a son who was entirely unaffected by the lurgy still needing to go to school and be fed normal meals.

So my freezer full of stock has been slightly depleted. Vegetable soup with turkey stock for the girls, clear broth with garlic and herbs and a bit of rice for husband whose throat was too sore even for bits of vegetables, lentil soup made with ham stock later on to ring the changes, have been the diet this week. The girls have occupied the sofa for the entire week, sore throats and temperatures and sore eyes and headaches. My throat turned into a head cold, so I did the minimum of work to keep my regular clients happy and spent the rest of the time reading them stories.

My husband developed acute tonsillitis and so is on antibiotics which always make him feel rotten, so he’s mostly stayed in bed. I took the girls to our homeopath, when their fevers still weren’t down on Thursday. They were in better spirits by then and eating well, but I thought they might need something to boost them over the last of it. Middle Daughter turned out to have tonsillitis too, even though her throat only felt a bit sore. Youngest just has a throat infection.

The other day as I was doing my round of the sick beds and sofas with jelly and ice-cream for a snack, Middle Daughter looked up at me and commented,
“It’s like you’re our servant.”
I was momentarily lost for words, but then hurriedly corrected this unflattering image with,
“No, I’m your nurse.”
All I lack is a cap and uniform. The temperature chart is there for all three of them; the thermometer in a little cup of sterilizing stuff. Tissue salts and homeopathic drops to be doled out hourly and two hourly and regularly meals delivered, balanced for nutrition and ease of eating.

Mind you, as our domestic help has been off sick this week, having caught mumps from Youngest, the servant cap feels like it fits too… except that I haven’t done that job very well at all, confining myself to ensuring a supply of clean dishes and clean clothes and ignoring the dust balls and dog hair strewing the floors.

So instead of regaling you with glorious photos of our holidays, swimming in rivers and mountain pools, sunshine and braais, you can picture for yourselves a dusty interior, gloomy with blankets over the windows to keep the bright summer sun from glaring in feverish eyes, the hum of the washing machine and occasional giggles from the girls, who at least have had each other as companions all week on the sofa and have been able to chat away and play games when feeling well enough.

I need another holiday now!

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Happy New Year!

A blue moon shining down on us on New Year’s Eve, blue moon with a partial eclipse, it has to have powerful mojo, extra special energy to bring in the New Year. Auspicious in every way.

We all made little banners to take out to the circle before supper, banners to flutter in the wind and carry the energy of our New Year’s intention from old year into the new.

Some of us wrote single words, others wrote a whole screed of intentions, resolutions, inscribed, decorated and from the heart.


Mine were single word intentions, words that I want to grow with me through the next year:

Expand – to grow from internal thinking towards outward action, to expand horizons and think bigger.
Balance – to keep balanced between family and work, myself and others, an even keel.
Joy – to remember to enjoy life as it unfurls, allow joy to come into every day and let go of the anxiety that clouds it.


Our banners fluttered in the wind around the sticks of our circle, surrounded by the flags and windmills left from our Summer festival, as we left the sand pit to go and tend to the roast lamb and roast potatoes, the whole family joining us for a late supper.

A perfect leg of lamb and two big bowls of roast potatoes, buttered leeks from the garden, baked butternut and broccoli, a feast indeed; but the moon rose with a resounding glow and had us all rushing outside to admire it amid the last pink glow on the horizon, leaving hardly touched plates of food on the table. The food pulled us back inside to the table but after that we kept a careful eye on the moon through the window to spot the eclipse: a mere nibble from the side of it in the end but enough to see with the naked eye.


The kids had their pudding first and then were despatched to bed, so that we could sit over ours and try to stretch the meal as late as possible. With coffee, chocolate and nuts we made it to 10.30, but then the others retired home to their beds, while my mother, my husband and I stalwartly kept going, with the help of our books, till midnight to welcome in the New Year.

I confess to nodding off with the sparkle of Christmas tree lights and tinsel blurring together as my eyes closed, but a firework roused me and we rushed out to admire our neighbour’s fireworks (illegal in our dry climate but pretty anyway). The dogs rushed in to hide away from the noise and after a last salute to the moon we went to bed too.

New Year's Day was spent by the pool with full on summer weather at last.

Wishing you all a wonderful 2010 full of joy and positive energy!

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Christmas Mumps

Christmas is like a hurricane, sweeping you up in a whirl and depositing you the other side among the debris, not quite knowing how you got there but drawing breath at last.

It smells like Christmas still, Christmas deconstructed, turkey stock simmering as the last vestiges of Christmas feasting are tidied out of the fridge. How can we have got through all that turkey already…and the gammon? Even the jelly is finished. The fridge looks way too tidy and empty.

There are presents still to buy or make but the momentum is gone. Our son’s last minute present making plans were thwarted when he went down with mumps on the Monday before Christmas. Lying on the sofa with a cool pad clutched to his chipmunk cheek he was in no fit state to be stirring lemon curd, or starting a production line of paintings like his sisters. He had just one present made and wrapped.

On the other side of Christmas he surfaced, with a new-found dislike of jelly, as it was the only thing he could eat for three days, and was finally able to make his lemon curd gifts. They are still languishing in the fridge, while he summons up the energy to wrap them and present them to his aunts – the gift-giving frenzy is over, along with the cast off wrapping paper, and the urgency is gone.

Now we are calculating the days until the girls can be expected to show signs of mumps too: +/– three weeks incubation = about when we are planning on going on holiday to the River with friends. So do we go and risk it, packing a large bottle of paracetemol syrup and a week’s supply of jelly, knowing that we’ll be a half hour drive from the nearest town down a bumpy dirt road?

Or maybe they could oblige and get it early next week, so they are starting to feel better by the time we go. Luckily we’ve already exposed said friends to mumps as our son had a sleepover with them just before he went down with it, so we don’t have to worry about sharing the germs!

The positive spin is that it is much better to get mumps before adolescence strikes, so really it’s in the nick of time for these eleven year olds, but our son didn’t find that very cheering while he was languishing on the sofa facing the bleak prospect of a Christmas Day spent unable to indulge in roast potatoes and a surfeit of pudding.

In the end he was able to eat the potatoes, his swollen glands having shrunk to a respectable hamster size, but after four days of not eating he could only manage four potatoes instead of his usual ten!

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Christmas is Coming, Ready Or Not

Silent Night is echoing around the house, as the girls learn all their favourite Christmas carols on the recorder.

Paint smears over T-shirts indicate that some serious pressie creation has been going on.

Middle Daughter now has two bagfuls of home-made presents all totally independently made.

Son spends time alternating between computer and book and is relying on a last minute batch of home-made lemon curd to solve all his present dilemmas.

Youngest is steadily amassing her pressies, but is way behind her sister, though keeping her nerve and persevering.

And me? I’ve done the bare minimum of shopping, just enough to provide a present each per child plus the odd stocking filler and am following my son’s example and relying on a last minute painting spree to create the rest of my pressies. Inspiration thrives on adrenalin, I hope.

The Christmas cakes are baked and awaiting their marzipan and icing.
The tree is still growing up at the top of the farm until we go to cut it on Sunday.
The girls have built a stable but we have no figures as yet for the nativity scene. I had the great idea of making our own wooden figures, which fell by the wayside several weeks ago.

And the reason my blog has been such a bare and windswept space…there has been plenty of writing material but a total lack of energy to shape it and put it into words, as the last two weeks have held:
A wind-pummelled two night camping trip with our son’s class, where duct tape was the main element keeping the tents up and poles shattered left right and centre.
Production of the school annual newsletter where each year we are sailing teeth-clenchingly closer to the deadline – this year it was printed at 9am before school’s close at 11am…
Family over here from Australia and consequent feasting.
Son’s class play, where he excelled as cut-throat robber at the first performance and Zeus at the second.
My mother arriving from England for Christmas.
Our belly dancing end of year performance at our house, for which clear floor space was required, a scarce commodity even in our spacious abode.
Much juggling of work with all the above, which made me realize how much more time efficient I could be every week if pushed.

So I am thankful that the girls are keeping themselves so busy with Christmas preparations, churning out cards for me to send to family overseas, keeping the spirit of Christmas alive in our house, so that I can coast along in their slipstream and let the momentum gather in their wake.

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Kids love it

Today I was writing up some recipe articles for a client and found the words “kids love it…” tripping nonchalantly off my keyboard, as I assured readers that cottage pie is a really kid-friendly dish guaranteed to smuggle vegetables past the green detector into their child’s diet.

Later this afternoon, as I perspired over a hot stove (the weather was actually hot today for a change), making a chicken pie, I realized how inaccurate that generalization really is.

About a month ago I tried out the chicken pot pie recipe from Nigella’s Feast, which her kids apparently consider the highest treat possible.

"Great," I thought, "finally a way of using up cold chicken left over from the roast other than in sandwiches."

It is always the thighs and legs that get left. My family are almost exclusively white meat eaters; even Youngest, who I used to rely on to eat one drumstick, has now turned her back on it and competes with the rest for the coveted slices of breast. So stuck with all this perfectly good leg meat a pie should be the ideal answer…and Nigella’s kids love it, so mine should too.

It’s quite a bit of work with a béchamel sauce and pastry to prepare but eventually, with a fanfare, I produced a golden pie from the oven and bore it proudly to the table.


It was a resounding flop with the kids, who picked off the pastry and left the filling, looking suspiciously at the bechamel as if it were concealing a dreaded poison. The adults were left to enjoy the pie on their own and it was actually pretty good, lasting for lunch the next day too.

I tried it again today, undeterred by the groans from the children when they detected my foul intent.
"I’m using a different recipe," I assured them, "without the sauce."

I’d had a brainwave that I thought would get past their radar. Why not cook the potato dish they all love, without baking it, and mix it with the chicken as the filling for a pie; a bit of creaminess from the potato bake, chicken tucked in between and some green peas for sweetness, none of that scary white sauce stuff to put them off.

Well… it was better. Our son ate the small slice I served him without complaint, afterwards saying he took big bites 'cos you couldn’t taste it so much. Youngest even had a tiny helping of seconds and Middle Daughter ate the pastry and potato and left the chicken. But it’s still a far cry from Nigella’s big treat for her kids.

So I hereby resolve in future to strike those words from my recipes. All I will say about cottage pie and such like is… "MY kids love this, so it’s possible that your kids will, but don’t bet on it."

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A Dogs Dinner

I often struggle to find something to make cold leftover meats interesting for the family in cold weather. If I do baked potatoes then they always want our traditional accompaniments of grated cheese, baked beans and tuna with them and don’t eat the cold meat, which misses the point entirely. So I was really happy when I tried this potato recipe from Nigella’s Feast and everybody liked it – yes everybody, all the kids, even our son, who is so discerning that it’s hard to feed him a balanced diet.

It’s really simple – just diced potatoes cooked in sour cream and milk on the stove and then finished off in the oven with a topping of corn flake crumbs. Nothing fancy but with that soothing creaminess that is the essence of comfort food, and just enough crunch to keep you going back for more.

My husband just got home from a long drive up to Clanwilliam to look at a second-hand car that sounded perfect for us. It was… except that the previous owners were heavy smokers and the whole car was ingrained with the reek of stale smoke, which is almost impossible to get rid of, so it’s back to square one on the car search again.

He’d stopped off at Spur for a steak to keep him going on the return journey and the portions were so huge that he ate all he could and still brought back enough steak as a doggie bag to feed us all again tonight!


The kids were ecstatic – they love steak and I hardly ever buy it. So the dogs didn’t even get a look in and neither did the cats, despite many attempts to get on the table and share the feast. This potato dish went just right with it, along with some garlicky tomato salad.

Creamy potato bake recipe
250ml / 1 cup sour cream
250ml / 1 cup milk
1 kg potatoes
1 tablespoon coarse sea salt or ½ teaspoon table salt
pepper
50g / 1 cup corn flakes

Put the sour cream, milk, salt and pepper in a heavy based pan with a lid. Peel the potatoes and cut them into 1-2cm / ½ inch cubes. Add to the pan. Bring it all to simmering point, cover with the lid and cook at a gentle simmer for about 30 minutes, until the potatoes are tender.

Preheat the oven to 220C/450F. Crush the corn flakes to crumbs. The easiest way to do this is to put them in a freezer bag and roll it with a heavy rolling pin.

Tip the potatoes into a roasting dish, scatter the cornflake crumbs over the top and bake for 15-20 minutes until it is bubbling with a crispy top.

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Feet

Feet are fundamental to our well-being and yet we only notice them when they stop doing their job properly.

I’ve been taking my feet for granted all my life, always knowing I can walk anywhere I want to, reserving the right to learn to dance one of these days when I get around to it, expecting them to hold me uncomplainingly when I stand cooking in the kitchen for hours when we have a festival, demanding their services day in day out.

It’s only now that one of them is complaining that I’ve stopped to think how much I rely on them. One of my lateral arches gave me trouble a few years ago. The physio gave me exercises. I stopped buying cheapo shoes and bought my shoes from Green and Cross from then on. I waved farewell to even the occasional wearing of heels and stopped imagining that one day I’d wear those black suede stilettos from my twenties again. (I still haven't thrown those stilettos away, but keep them for the sake of nostalgia and let the girls trip around in them occasionally)

My foot gradually improved and I forgot about the problem again; took my feet for granted once more, even though I now only bought them the best supportive footwear. Occasional reminders kept me on the straight and narrow; back on a visit to England, I found I couldn’t wear wellies to walk the dog and had to buy proper walking boots, and walking barefoot on hard surfaces was no longer the best idea, but my feet worked again.

And now the same one is twingeing again. Suddenly walking the dogs around the farm seems too much to ask , so I’m missing out on the latest family routine of all of us walking round the circle road before supper. I don’t want to go belly dancing tonight in case I make the twinge worse. When we went out for lunch on the weekend we couldn’t just park and casually saunter around the streets window shopping before lunch as I was worrying how long my feet would last out. I can feel that I’m walking oddly, putting my foot down too carefully and probably tensing somewhere else in my leg or back to compensate.

Having something wrong with a foot makes you question your abilities. It underlines all the things that you can’t do easily, if you’re not physically healthy. I feel tentative about everything I do. Whereas I usually leap up to get something or do something a million times a day, now it is suddenly an effort. This little physical insecurity extends into feeling unsure about everything.

And this is something little, a painful twinge in the arch but no more than that. I can't imagine how it would be if it were a serious injury or one that was unfixable. So I’m off to the physio tomorrow and maybe a reflexologist. I want somebody to fix it so that I can have the luxury of taking my feet for granted again; so that I can have a blithe confidence in being able to walk up a mountain, go dancing or just wander anywhere anytime without thinking about it. I want my foundation solid again.

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