Where's A Masterchef When You Need One?

Food drives me mad at the moment.

There are three fussy eaters to feed; four if you include the German exchange student who is staying with us at the moment; plus one vegetarian (me). That can mean  up to four different dishes being prepared on any given evening.

Eddie and Gilby want bland, bland and more bland. The blander the better. Anything with any kind of flavour is off the menu. Gertie is a little more experimental, finally, having gone as far as a chicken korma. But they don't like the same bland. Although they will all eat vegetables, there isn't a single vegetable that all three will eat.

So mealtimes are not fun.

I think back to my own childhood, where food was definitely not fun either.

My memories may be skewed, but it seems that Mum didn't really cook for us as the primary audience; she cooked for the customers in the pub restaurant. I picture her cooking up batches of shepherd’s pie, browning the mince in enormous industrial saucepans (cauldron-sized to a child) before transferring to individual portions in impersonal, identical, mini brown casserole dishes by the dozen. Or sizzling portions of scampi in lethal commercial deep fat fryers that were NOT TO BE TOUCHED.

There was no sense of finesse. Nouveau cuisine was still a channel away. Making chips for the next few lunchtime and evening sessions could take an entire afternoon (until she was introduced to Mr McCain by Nurdin & Peacock). Everything came in giant packaging from cash and carry: tubs of powdered stock the size of camping gas tanks; shoe-box sixed margarine tubs; blocks of cheese three Encyclopaedia Britannicas thick.

There was an industrial microwave oven, its lights and alarms worthy of a nuclear plant. When it began its incineration of food it sounded like a 747 on a runway.

And then there were RULES. Different coloured chopping boards for dairy, meat and bread. Nail brushes at the hand washing sink, strict temperature controls, certain pans for certain products, a specified number of items that could be dried with a single dishcloth  before bacteria multiplied to epic proportions.

The kitchen was a tense place. My father was once overheard asking through gritted teeth whether my mother would like the kitchen ‘moved two inches to the left’ in a strained impersonation of his comic hero and fellow endurer of the vagaries of the hospitality industry, Basil Fawlty.

Because pub opening times were not really conducive to family life there were not actually mealtimes as such. One had to forage for oneself, while of course maintaining strict adherence to the RULES, and only using food which was no longer any good for customers.

So food was fairly bland for me, too. Pot noodles were good. And I perfected the art of the French bread cheese sandwich. Mostly because it hurt no one, required only two chopping boards and was very filling - if not exactly nutritious. I did have to be ‘trained’ to cut the bread at exactly the right angle, but once I had mastered that I was allowed to use up grated cheese (curling up at the edges and sweating a little having been left out over the busy lunch period).

I therefore arrived in the adult world with a slightly warped perception of what constituted a meal. Food was fuel. It was functional, and economies of scale were more important than taste. Its consumption took place standing up around a stainless steel prepping surface, or a plate might be hastened through a busy bar underneath a paper serviette to be eaten on my lap.  I could happily lay a table but rarely sat down at one to eat convivially; a fact which was brought to the fore when we had to ‘practise’ sitting down to meals as a family before the German exchange student came to stay when I was 15. Thankfully that didn't have to be repeated for the current one. Eddie, Gilby and Gertie can happily sit down at a table; they just might not eat what is put in front of them.

I also had few culinary skills to speak of. The act of cooking was not a thing to inspire love. Mum was certainly not terrifically impressed when she was given a collection of carefully collated kitchen utensils as her Mother's Day gift from me one year. Cooking was all about science and hygiene.

At least until I met and married a Masterchef, who finally revealed its art. He needs to do the same for our children.

Half Term Plate Spinning

The character of half term definitely changes as the children get older.

For starters, I get disproportionately cross at the wheedling morning conversation that begins, What are we doing today?

'Nothing' is apparently not a satisfactory answer to this question. And supervising half term basically requires a qualification in plate spinning.

Because, after shooting myself in the foot by starting the week with the surprise 10am big screen showing of Spider-Man Spirals into the Super Spiderverse - might have got that title wrong, it was something like that - first thing on Monday morning, I seem unable to top the wow factor.

(There was an ulterior motive to this uncharacteristically generous and thoughtful surprise though; it bought me two hours of precious scrapbooking time with a fellow mum while they were safely ensconced in the cinema with secreted home-made popcorn. Oh, and the tickets were less than £3 each.)

Since then I have tried to avoid a descent into the eleventh circle of hell (death by screens and devices) by: attempting to make homework 'fun' (that didn't turn out terribly well), encouraging drawing and doodling with actual pens, supervising fudge-making, driving eldest on a five hour round trip to visit her cousins, and even dragging out the unbelievably faffy chocolate coin maker of a few Christmases ago which tries my patience entirely since there are 35 steps to make a single sodding coin.

And it's only Wednesday! Happy half term.

Currently Reading:

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

Masterchef Monster

So, I am away for one Saturday afternoon. One single lunchtime. Hearth-father makes lunch, and what do you know? Everyone's eating vegetables.

Because he was on Masterchef once, briefly, five years ago, he thinks he can just waltz in and do this:

And he did a 'grand piano' for Gertie because she didn't want monster burgers like her brothers.

I officially throw in the apron.



Currently reading:

Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates

Ouch

I remember being at a cricket match about three years ago and having a drink with another Mother who at the time had two young boys. She asked idly, just to make conversation, I think, how many times we'd had to go to casualty.

Gertie was four, immaculately behaved with a penchant for sedate pastimes like reading and beading.  Dipping her toe into waves at the seaside was about the limit of her daredevil activity.

I laughed and thought the other mother was joking.  But no, it transpired that this was a regular occurrence in her household.  There had been falling out of trees, from bikes, in the playground.  It was a world alien to me as I cradled my baby boy and watched as Gertie worked away at her tapestry.  (I embellish a little, for narrative effect, but you get the idea.)

Fast forward to last weekend and our very first 'A&E' experience.  Another sunny Saturday afternoon at the cricket, home team on the verge of what would be a tight victory. A cry from the long grass.  Gertie comes running over because Eddie has fallen.  Eddie's arm hangs limply by his side and he is emitting a strange wail that I have never heard before.  I scoop him up in my arms and run to Hearth-father pronouncing that we have a 'situation' on our hands.  There is an off-duty nurse at the pitch side.  She takes a look and doesn't like what she sees.

Hearth-father looks longingly at what is left in his pint glass and decides that it isn't worth the risk with the inevitable drive to the hospital ahead.

Hearth-granny is called to babysit the big kids.  Hearth-mother is crying, convinced that x-rays will reveal the worst.  (She's not entirely sure why she has slipped in to third person at this stage, except that it also contributes to narrative effect.) Eddie doesn't stop screaming for the entire journey, despite being cradled by his mother all the way.  She feels every bump and jolt and corner even more than she did in labour on the same route two and a half years ago.

It is Saturday night and the accident and emergency department is standing-room only.  A queue of unfortunates line up waiting to be seen.  Eddie has cried himself to sleep and now looks unconscious, which gains some sympathetic glances from the other casualties.

The triage nurse provides painkillers and unhelpfully wakes Eddie in the process of weighing him.  Agrees that the signs are not good.  Eddie perks up a bit when he sees the toys in the paediatric waiting room, and we are at least now away from the drunken melee in the main waiting area.  Eddie tries to play, but cannot move his arm and feebly plays left-handed.  Another boy, about the same age is being tickled by his daddy.  Eddie wants us to do the same, but is too protective of his arm to find a giggle.

Two hours pass.  All the toys have been played with.  Conversations have been struck up with the other parents.  Everyone now knows everyone else's business.  Eddie has inadvertently revealed that Gertie was giving him a piggy back when he fell, much to the consternation of his parents and the amusement of everyone around. Oh.  That puts a slightly different complexion on things, exacerbating the extent of the injury.  He has fallen from a greater height than we originally thought.

Two more hours pass. There are still fourteen people ahead of us to be treated.  Eddie is becoming increasingly fractious (that's one of my favourite euphemisms). We decide to leave and get some sleep.  It it past midnight by the time we reach home.

Eddie wakes screaming at 2am and we give him more medicine.  In the morning his arm is still useless.  He tries to eat cereal and screams as he raises the spoon.  We phone NHS direct and they advise us to go straight back to casualty.  We cancel our plans for a visit to friends, and bring plenty of snacks and activities to the hospital.  The big kids are excited by the adventure, though Gertie is a little sheepish about her role in events, and her reluctance to impart crucial information the previous evening.

Three hours and three x-rays later, we discover there is nothing wrong.  Nil. Nada.  Eddie high-fives me. With his bad hand.  Which has miraculously come back to life with the news. I manage to refrain from throttling him in full view of a number of health officials.  It really is a very good job that he's cute.

We try to salvage something of the day by going out for lunch, but Eddie is grumpy and we abandon the mission. Hearth-mother is unsympathetic. (See, detaching myself again).

Eddie wakes up on Monday morning and with a twinkle in his eye asks if we can go back to the hospital and play with the toys.  My response is unpublishable.

I come home from work to find that his nanny is 'really worried about him' and has him lying on the sofa with his arm in a sling.  She is mopping his brow.  Seems perturbed when I am undisturbed.  Eddie realises that the game is up and hops up smartly to begin playing with his siblings...

Ouch.  Not sure who has been hurt more by the whole episode.  I am just aware that I lost seven hours this weekend that I won't get back.  Eddie: not his real name.  Might change it to 'Flimflammer'.


Currently reading: You Talkin to Me? By Sam Leith

Lunar Lunacy

This morning Gilby jumped on us in bed.  Of course, it was Saturday morning, so we get woken up extra early, because the laws of having children say that on days when you are able to have a lie in you actually get woken up at least an hour before you usually do.  Everyone knows that.  But this morning, he was excited to tell us about his dream. He dreamt that he was a grown up.  (How exciting is that when you are three?) And he was a spaceman.  Every boy's dream, no?  And not only that, but when he went up into space he baked cakes. 

So I am thinking that we will have the first lunar celebrity chef when he grows up; hooray! Move over Jamie Oliver, there is a new niche in the market.

The other good news is that our new au pair has arrived from Austria.  Let's call her Lady Visa.  Very efficient with the children, perfect in fact.  And they love her. But - vehicles seem not to be her friend.  She has been here for a week and a half, and so far she has managed to obtain a parking ticket in Guildford, and had to call out whatever the Austrian equivalent of the AA is to tow her out, since she got Rooney stuck in the mud at some lovely rural spot that she stopped to admire the view at. (Rooney because the car is maroon, not after the England striker; I'm bored of having to explain that.) And she missed the last train home from London, resulting in a midnight dash for my husband to collect her from the next station.  Still.  She seems to settling in well, just as long as transport isn't involved.

Over the Moon (But No Cows Jumping)

For a long time now Eddy hasn't been growing very well.  He was a big baby at birth (9lb 10oz) but at the age of about seven weeks his growth seemed to tail off.  I wasn't too worried.  He had begun to sleep through the night (not fair, I know, but Gilby took over two years to perform this feat, so I feel like I've done my time).  The health-visitor was not impressed and suggested that I wake Eddy up to feed him in the night.  "But he sleeps through!  Why would you want to wake a sleeping baby?" I protested. 

"Perhaps he's too weak to wake himself up?" she suggested.

I nearly exploded with indignation.  Eddy, of the three, is by far my happiest, smiliest, most contented baby.  There couldn't possibly be anything wrong with him.

Aged 12 weeks

By about ten weeks, the health professionals were suggesting that I give him formula.  "But I have plenty of milk! He feeds very well. Isn't it good to breastfeed your baby?  It worked for the other two..."

Of course, I knew better, and ignored this advice until it was time to return to work and I needed to give Eddy formula.  As he began weaning he displayed a very healthy appetite, and never rejected a single food, often demanding 'seconds' right from six months.  Nothing wrong there, then.  Except that he continued to show poor weight gain until he dropped off the bottom of the chart.  He also didn't seem to want to sit up.  In an effort to get as much fat as possible into his diet, I frantically grated cheese into every meal I prepared for him.

Eventually we were referred to a consultant paediatrician.  I had to concede that there was a problem.  Various tests ensued.  None of which we have had the results for as yet.  Suddenly it all got a little bit scary. 

The consultant suggested that we eliminate dairy products entirely from Eddy's diet for 6-8 weeks, in spite of establishing that he never seemed uncomfortable after meal times, or displayed any of the classic symptoms of having a cow's milk allergy.  So we have a prescription formula free from cow's milk, and all dairy has gone from his diet.  No more manic cheese-grating.

Three weeks in and Eddy has jumped a percentile on the weight charts.  When I say 'jumped a percentile' what I actually mean is that he now registers somewhere on the chart instead of hovering below it in the blank space of nothingness.  He has also, aged eight months, learned how to sit unaided. 

Could it really be as simple as that?  We won't know for sure for a little while longer, but, fingers crossed!

On Onion Goggles and School Gate Snobbery

People ask me what is it like with three children, and how we are all coping. 'Coping' is rather strong to describe our state of being from dawn till dusk on some days, but I usually reply cheerfully,"Oh it's utter chaos!" as if to suggest that although I don't have a minute to myself it is all jolly-bedlam-in-a Darling Buds of May type-way.

It reached new levels of absurdity though as I did the school run yesterday. Gilby and baby in tow, I noticed that some of the other Mums were giving me quite peculiar looks, focusing somewhere above my forehead. I reached up to find that a rather conspicuous pair of onion goggles was perched up there. "BUT I'VE BEEN MAKING CHRISTMAS CHUTNEY!!!!!" I wanted to screech (for the first time ever, actually, but nobody needed to know that bit) "AND I GOT CARRIED AWAY AND THEN WE WERE NEARLY LATE SO I HAD TO RUSH OUT OF THE DOOR..."

Instead I hastily removed them, smiling and nodding as if they were the latest fashion accessory but I really didn't like to show off. I then got chatting to another Mum whose daughter only arrived at the school a couple of weeks ago since they just moved to the area. I mentioned that Gertie talked about Lucy quite a lot, and hoped that she was settling in well.

"Oh yes," she replied. "And it's so good that Lucy gets to play with all sorts of children now." She must not have noticed my horrified look as she continued, "In our last village everyone was so nice, but here there's a real mixture..."

"ALL SORTS????? ARE YOU SUGGESTING THAT MY CHILD IS NOT 'NICE'????" I wanted to screech out, for the second time in about two minutes.

I know there's been much discussion of school-gate snobbery of late, but perhaps I'm overreacting. Maybe her perception of our family results from the slightly manic look and frequent desire to screech out loud that I seem to have recently developed. Or perhaps it was just a reaction to the onion goggles.