Monday, April 14, 2008

Current Cravings

(I wish one of them was I could write 'Currant Cravings'....but sadly my cravings do not match my love for cheesy wordplay. Mmmm cheese that reminds me...)

Cottage Cheese.

Do you know what Cottage Cheese is, North American friends? Does this strange lumpy, half-solid, half liquid gross white stuff exist in North America? 

I know that most of the Europeans and NZers reading this (not that I wish to imply most Europeans read my blog, ha! Although, hmm, that would be rather cool. I'll work on that.)...are already retching just thinking about cottage cheese. If you need help achieving a full retch just read my previous post.....or read this totally GROSS new piece of information I discovered at the weekend:


Saturday morning discovery: A delicious Banana and Honey Milkshake made fresh from all natural ingredients and consumed on an empty stomach (must be empty) will taste EXACTLY the same going down and coming long as it comes directly back up 30 seconds after going down and does not pass GO or collect $200. Interesting, non? Try it yourself kids...


Yes, so back to the Cottage Cheese. Yum. I could eat potfuls for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It's also a handy snack. 

I must be on some kind of dairy kick as I am also gazing longingly at yogurt again. (Then eating it, gazing won't fill the tummy, kids!)

(I don't know why I am referring to you as 'kids' today. But it's rather fun so I might keep it up, unless you object. But if you don't object to reading about cottage cheese and probably don't have a hair-trigger objection reflex to being call 'kids' either. )

Yeah, um, well that's about it. Except for FEIJOAS.

(I should include a link...but I'm too lazy so just google them)

My friend Ella brought a sack of them from her farm the other day. Let the FEIJOA FIESTA begin. I ate about 40. No, really about 40 in 2 days. MMMmmmm FEIJOAS. They are a tropical (?) fruit with this really cute cross shaped heart of smooshy, perfumed yumminess. When smooshed into a drink they look gross (like a glass of snot). But taste divine.

Can you get them in England? Could someone check out the Exotic Fruit section for me? Thanks. My prediction is that they will be the 'next big thing' in desserts in the UK. Um, unless they are already (we haven't lived there for 7 years...the Queen could live in a hot air balloon for all I know). Cos what is up with all the 'fresh fig' desserts going down in Europa? 

I appeal to ALL MY EUROPEAN READERS (all 3 of you) what is up with the fresh figs?

Um, I think I need to go lie down now.

(Oh and sorry for the snot and puke references in this post. I shall try and do better next time.)

(How can I cram in a poop reference too?) 


Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Her bedside manner

14 weeks and counting. And I still lost my, uh, pre-breakfast breakfast first thing this morning. Sigh.

Still it was less complicated today because Honour was still safely in her cot.

Not so a few days ago. I had just scooped her out of her cot have to get to my white, flushing friend pronto. 

So I carried her with me into the bathroom. Now you have to know the layout of our house...but basically she can't be left unattended downstairs because of the stone staircase without the proper banister which she will try to scale with surprising speed. (But quite possibly then decide to fall down and land on her head on the cold, stone tiles.)

So....I had to hold her hand. While with the other hand I held back my hair (dear reader, I hope you've already finished your cornflakes) and embraced the white flushing friends, down on my knees in the time-honoured tradition. (no pun intended)

Well Honour's bedside/toilet-side manner took some twists and turns during this process.

At first she thought mummy 'laughing' into the toilet was very amusing. So she stood there holding my hand, watching with interest and giggling away. 

Next she thought that mummy might need some hair she started to pat me on the head enthusiastically. Much as you would pat a dog. 

(Meanwhile I am still going about 'my business'.)

But the piece de resistance was when she decided that perhaps we should draw this incident to a close.

And she closed the toilet seat.

On my head.

Now THAT, my friends, that is the way to start your morning.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

With thanks to Harley for the metaphor

Holy smokaroonies. Today was one of those days.

THOSE days. 

When I describe it, it will sound inconsequential. In the bigger scheme of things it IS highly and almost entirely inconsequential. 

Except that it goes to show that just when you think that your brain should turn into jelly and melt out of your ears....when  by all rights you should spontaneously combust with sheer blank-minded exhaustion...that bizarrely you don't. And you somehow, somehow keep on going.

The not particulary dramatic items contributing to my near spontaneous combustion were:

1) a bilious session hugging my big white flushing friend, shortly followed by:

2) an hour long. HOUR LONG. tantrum from my darling cutie pie of a daughter whom I love and cherish with the fire of a thousand tigers. (what? tigers are fiery...give me a break). 

Have you ever listened to crying/screaming from a wee child? Three minutes is enough to shatter most people's nerves. Ten minutes is an eternity. ONE HOUR and I felt like someone had wrung me out and hung me on a washing line by my eyelids. Except that sounds quite relaxing in comparison.

Now of course I am deeply empathetic for my daughter's frustration. Clearly I started the whole thing off by throwing the beach ball UP the stairs, when EVIDENTLY to all rational people the point was to throw it DOWN the stairs. A point that Honour made with instant (just add water) hysteria. 

But it just didn't stop. To the point where I thought maybe she had mysteriously injured herself while I wasn't looking. Except that I had been looking the entire time. (A child exploding with grievous emotional injury from a 'beachball incident' is quite transfixing I can assure you).

I gave cuddles. I clucked. I cooed. I left her alone. I read her a story. I offered tasty treats. Water. Witty comments. 

But no, all were spurned in favour of lying on the floor on her face and screaming.

In the end I bundled her in the car in the rain in a 'who-cares-about-the-rain- we-have-to-get-out-of-here-and-find-some-fresh-air-to-run-about-in, so-help-me-God-before-my-head-starts-rotating-on my-shoulders-and-I-start-screaming "Please-let-me-go-back-to-a-normal-job -with lower-stress-levels - like perhaps bomb disposal or negotiating with terrorists." 

And this was the point at which I discovered my raincoat in the garage.

3) with a pool of warm, yellow cat urine nestled amongst its raincoaty folds. 

Yes, it was WARM. I could tell this when I mopped it up. So Harley had just proffered his metaphor for my afternoon, just moments before.

Well said, Harley, well said.