Recipes from the fringe of the bell curve

To celebrate my new found ability to sign up for this blinking linking thing, I had another brilliant idea, you know, one of those ideas that strikes in the wee small hours of the night. As often as not, the next day dawns and the idea dies like a damp squid, not to say squib.

So here’s the plan. Consider sharing a recipe that your family, a family member or you, enjoy that doesn’t seem to be appreciated by many other bodies on the planet.

Guidelines:-

Ideally this should be something that you really prepare and eat. If you prepare and eat chocolate covered scorpions, all well and good, but attempt truthfulness.

Have you given it a name? If so, what is it and why?

Please offer enough detail to allow others to follow it easily. I favour piccies, but not everyone as is reliant on visual cues.

Try not to assume that everyone else is on the same page as you are. E.g a pnb sandwich may be obvious to you, but to me it refers to post nuptial bliss, which is difficult to squish between two slices of bread. I don’t want to even consider the possibility of jelly.

It doesn’t need to be outrageous nor inedible. It may be that you just have a twist on the communal garden variety of recipe that reflects your personal preferences. Here are a few tantalizing examples:-
• A grilled cheese sandwich with a smear of Marmite
• A freshly sliced tomato sandwich with ground black pepper and a generous dollop of Pesto
• Cheddar, Spring Onion, [Green Onion] and cucumber sandwich
• Tuna, Wholegrain mustard, onions and Tomatoes
• Any typically traditional sandwich where you routinely omit a main ingredient [I know who you are!]
• Butter and crisp [chips] sandwich.
• Cereal without the milk but with yoghourt instead [especially if each has to be a certain brand]
• A jam [jelly] sandwich with dill pickle slices
• Sandwiches with no filling

And people wonder why I make my own bread?

• Snacking on dried cat food doesn’t count, you didn’t make it.
• Raw cookie dough in a sandwich [please provide Salmonella warnings]
• A Big Mac:- hold the lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, pickle, cheese, run to the bathroom to rinse the patty under the hot tap, dry with care, return to table to eat and leave the bun on the side. Yes, that wouldn’t count either because you didn’t really ‘make’ it yourself!
N.B. if you put your dried cat food in a sandwich it counts.

A category would be helpful. E.g. side dish, in-between dish or main dish, but ‘accompaniment,’ ‘snack’ or ‘splurge’ would do just as nicely.

Please try to use useful terminology that is easily comprehensible. Terms such as ‘smidge,’ ‘dab’ and ‘pinch’ should be limited, as cookery should not be a contact sport.

Use any measurement system you like but aim for consistency throughout, as a combination of cups, stones and millimetres is likely to be messy.

A note about how many it is supposed to serve would also be useful. E.g. rabbit sized, human sized or supersized. Alternatively reveal your nationality and we can all adjust accordingly.

If you’re an American type with access to all the clever stuff nutritional stuff like good for diabetics, people with high cholesterol or high blood pressures and the like, then all to the good.

If you use uncommon ingredients, please provide a link to the product as we would like to muddle our Harissa with our Halva.

The only ‘label’ required to participate, nay, politely ‘requested,’ if you would be so kind, is a name for your recipe. If you could possibly avoid using ‘putrid’ or ‘poison’ in the title, that would be a delight, as we have someone to provide that insertion service for us already.

These are ruthless rules people.

Here’s mine.

Beetroot Salad for the Brave [A sidling or mainette dish]
One fist sized beet per person
One ounce of crumbly blue cheese, Stilton, Roquefort or Feta per person
One tin [can] of whole anchovies in oil
One teaspoonful of garlic puree
One splashette of Balsamic Vinegar
2 tablespoons of Extra Virgin Oil
One teaspoonful of roughly ground red and white peppers combined

• Bake the beets or microwave until tender.

• Leave to cool.

• Combine all the other ingredients.

• Add cooled, peeled and diced beets.

• Chill covered in the fridge for at least one hour.

• Serve on a generous bed of salad greens with hot, fresh bread, assuming you’ve not used it all up on sandwiches.

This should make your ears steam, your nose run and your eyes bleed. If not ……
then yur doin it wrong.

Coz Neophobia comes in many forms my friends.

Cheers dears

If you'd like to join in maybe this little icon can help us forge a new route for those with oral fixations.

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Cart me off to the funny farm

I take my BRAT’s [*] to celebrate Nonna’s unBirthday at Chilli’s, a delightfully noisy and sticky establishment.

Both boys lack any muscle function and lie splayed on the empty benches. I park one on my lap and clamp the other to my side.

As they are now quite large children, I have the distinct impression that I resemble a Ventriloquist, but that’s paranoia for you. A group of young persons giggle and whisper behind their hands, wrapped in the public eye of exposure and embarrassment in equal proportions. “Dey are be rude?” he enquires.
“Make a U-turn if possible!” bellows his brother, fortunately muffled by the bundle of fleece jackets tucked under my other arm.
“Not really, they’re just at that stage.”
“Wot stage?”
“Make a U-turn if possible!”
“Try and use your indoor voice dear! Er the stage when…….you are the centre of the universe.”
“Wot?”
“Nevermind……they’re not being rude, just……private.”
“You are say it rude to be whisper.”
“Make a U-turn if possible!”
“Quiet inside voice lovie. Er…..there’s different kinds of whispering……ooo look the thingummy is buzzing, our table must be ready.” Perhaps we should all try and whisper?

Our party of five lumbers in the general direction of the table with only a few false starts and stumbles. Nonna fumbles for her glasses so I offer to read it aloud.

“Pardon! What you say?” she asks in her thick Italian accent. I detect that her hearing aides are also adrift.

The server appears for our drinks order. My eldest son makes a valiant attempt. I wait until she’s left, “well done dear, very polite indeed. Next time shall we speak a bit louder so that she can hear you better in this noisy place?” He grins hugely, so grown up.

“What is dis?” asks Nonna pointing at a menu description. I guide her hand to the picture, “ah! I see.”

By the time the server returns, we have our choices ready, so does my youngest son who bellows “I want chocolate milk and fries please!” An extreme event for a neophobic! The server leans back from the blast but manages a smile.

Orders placed, server departed, I reach over to him, “great job young man! Maybe you can try and use your indoor voice next time?”
“You said louder..er….er……louder!”
“Yes I know I did. Louder for him, quieter for you.”
“You say no whisper!”
“I know but….” I am interrupted by the arrival of a group of servers at the next booth, who break into an even louder “happy birthday chorus.” Both the boys clamp their hands over their ears. My sons look at me, accusingly. They slip under the table to engage in their brand new interest, lumps of chewing gum. Ideally I should like them to sit on their hands. Alternatively, I would just like them to sit, preferably on the chairs.

The food arrives in a timely fashion. “What is dis?” asks Nonna tapping her country fried steak with her knife.
“Steak.”
“What you say?”
“It’s steak,” I add, slightly louder with precise diction and enunciation.
“Pardon.”
“Country fried steak.”
“Again please, I can’t hear you properly.”
“ S…t…e…a…k,” I spell.
“Pardon me, again?”
“STEAK!” I yell, turning ever so slightly puce in the face. The boys look at me, eyes like saucers, frozen. I hear him whisper “she is mad?”

Maybe I am, or very soon will be.

[*] Beautifully Rambunctious Autistic Tribe
Rats to you Mr. Savage.

Here is another blog that's newish to me that you might enjoy, "The Funny Farm." Need somewhere to start? How about here on her post called "
Love me some Bean," coz you know I'm a little biased. Don't forget to say hello to her!

In addition, here's another new favourite that's really an old favourite before I lost all my bookmarks called "Send Chocolate." If this IS new to you then you might like to start here on her insightful post called "What I learned." If that's not community spirited then I don't know what is!

There again, I think I could do a lot worse that sign myself up for "Julie's" "camp." I wonder if they have a height limit?

What was that?

Age limit?

Ooo you big rudey!

Cheers dears

Bad Teeth

Some bloggers have sitemeters. Some bloggers check their sitemeters to see who is searching what subject, if they are brave. Occasionally I am brave and check. What follows are three pieces upon subjects that three people researched via google.

This is the fourth topic:-

Now there’s a curious search. I can see why people would visit me to find evidence that "British people have bad teeth." I would be eminently qualified in that department. But why search about bad teeth AND autism? Still, I suppose it makes a welcome change from searching any subject with the addition of "not autism," so I’ll stop moaning.

Bad teeth might be an area of concern, if a little vague. Some scientific types are concerned about mercury and the incidence of autism. Some parents and scientists suggest that there is a connection between "mercury tooth fillings and autism." These are weighty matters for many.



Other people worry about more mundane matters,

to read on click "here."

Brotherly love - Dream on

“I am be like!”
“Really! What do you like dear?”
“I bin dun like dah cream!”
Oh no! Don’t tell me ‘bin dun’ is back to haunt us again, one of this pre-emptory terms equivalent to ‘er.’ I look at my little neophobe and his 15 foods. Verily the child doth lie through his little wonky baby teeth.

“Indeed!”

Oddly enough he picks up on my tone of skepticism, as does his brother, who dives in to defend, encourage and elucidate.
“Yeah Mom we are have ice-cream in school today.”
“Ice-cream!”
So much for the ‘healthy food in school policy,’ that didn’t last a whisker.
“How come you had ice-cream?”
“Coz it was Tim’s birthday.”
“Ah.”
“It wuz a birthday treat.”
“Nice explaining dear. Surely he didn’t eat ice-cream?” I ask over his brother's head in a need to determine the real truth of the matter.
“No….he don eat dah ice-cream.”
I thought as much!
“But he did eat dah cream!”
“What cream?”
“Dah cream dat woz on dah ice-cream!”
“Cream on ice-cream!” talk about overkill.
“Yeah an it was real cold, but he ate it anyways……he din scream at all neither but he did his shivery thing………he wuz real brave mom.”

I smile as I think. Is cream really a food or merely a condiment? Does anyone eat a whole bowl of cream? Can you count cream, or would that be like counting mustard as a food?

I look at my boys. The retrieval of the words has the effect of making him relive the experience. I watch as the little one judders involuntarily at the memory and the big one puts a steadying arm around his bony little shoulders.

Bravery awards all round [and rats to the theory of mind.]

The Food Police

I am a great believer in ‘isms.’

They fit neatly into my own prejudice and bias.

You could say, ‘by their isms, shall ye know them.’ For me, the world of food, was my own political platform, running a close second to my eco warrior existence.

I'm reminded of this when I watch a programme on BBC America, which mentions the words "aduki bean." I immediately lose the thread of the story and whiz back in time to when I was a real cook that ate real food.

I was a follower of the ‘your body is a temple’ institute for the ever so slightly deranged. Those were the days where Miso soup and home made flapjacks were the order of the day. No salt, no sugar, no harmful fats. If it didn’t have the word ‘whole’ in it, then it would never pass over the threshold into the house of pure. My kitchen was filled with bean sprouters and home made yoghourt fermenting on a pilot light. Just say 'no' to the contamination of British youth. I had one perfect daughter on the perfect diet.

My idea of fast food and a culinary treat would have been a handful of dried apricots, almonds or a smattering of yoghourt coated peanuts and raisins, knocked back with a glass of Lassi. Convenience food was a banana. No food was too obscure not to be tried at least once. Bombay mix and Tamari sesame seeds, quinoa and couscous, anything to tickle those taste buds. Health food store heaven.

Then, a couple of decades later, the other lot came along to rattle my silver cage and shatter my glass house. It was about the same time that I fell of my pedestal with a splat. The purity of the nutrients that my children imbibed, were of an entirely different order. My holier than thou attitudes were swept aside with one hearty tug to the table cloth and the whole food pyramid came tumbling down. After I’d swept up, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was dealing with food issues of an entirely different magnitude. The magnetic force of my culinary skills turned to rust and plans to dust. My ivory tower had been vanquished by neophobes, the most mighty of conquerors for the average middle aged mum.

It is with a heavy heart that I follow the occupational therapist's advice. My youngest son is to be introduced to meat, in the form of little hot dog sausages. Flavourles and textureless. We have ploughed through social stories, all leading up to this momentous moment. I ensure that they are room temperature to give him the best possible chance of success. They glisten in the bowl. They do not look particularly appetizing but I am assured that this is the first step in the long road towards 'hot dogs on the 4th of July.'






















The desensitization campaign commences.

"Are you ready dear?"
"Yes."
"So we're going to look at it first with our eyes. Can you use your good describing words for me?"
"It is be brown and huge and it is being a wiener."
"Excellent! How about we smell it now? What does it smell of dear?"
"It be smell like poison!"
"Hmm. How about you lick it now."
"NO!"
"Um o.k. how about you just touch it with your finger instead."
"I am have dah M & M if I touch?"
"Yes. Touching it would be very brave indeed!"
He extends a tremulous finger tip, the baby finger, the least sensitive of all his digits. I watch, silent as I don't want to jinx him. As his finger tip makes contact he lets rip with a blood curdling howl and a 30 mph exit screaming "my wiener is wet!"

Maybe I should revise the campaign date? 4th July 2009 perhaps?

St. Valentine

“Ooo I am love!”
“Are you? Er,..... I mean what do you love?”
“I am be love deez!” he shakes the packet of Marshmallows.
“Rubbish! You hate Marshmallows.”

I recall our long programme of desensitization to textures, ongoing. Part of it included making stick figures with Q-tips and baby Marshmallows. I was never that keen on them myself anyway, a heathen American invention if ever there was one, but 35 minutes of that particular exercise, more or less finished me off. I was quite deafened by the whole experience and the desensitization programme was designated an unmitigated flop.

“I am be love now.”
“Really why?” He squeezes the bag to his chest in little vibratory movements.
“Coz dey are pink and pink is being my favourite colour.”
“Ah yes, I’d forgotten that. So you’ll eat pink ones but not white ones?”
“No.”
“But you just said that you like them!”
“I like em because dey are…… puff…….I mean…..dey are soft.”

He gives the packet another little hug.

“Well that’s……good. I’m going to use them to decorate the little heart shaped cakes for your class tomorrow.”
“Decorate?”
“Yes. I’ll put one marshmallow on each cake, glue it in place with icing…..er…..frosting. Do you think your friends might like them?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think you’ll like them, like them enough to eat one perhaps?”
“Er no……”
“You could try?”
“It be bad to eat dah fings you love. If I eat em, then I can’t hug em.”

Here are a few picture links to more mainstream or traditional Valentine themes.

Not really "Hearts" and flowers.

Much more my kind of hearts and "Flowers."

Just in case you dipped out, here is a "Bouquet."

Or a "green" alternative.

Ms. WW and the Neophobic

Ms. Wordless Wednesday visits to pass judgment upon my offering. I should just like to point out first, to a few "person[s]" who may be in doubt, that I have a perfect "BBC English accent." If that's too tricky imagine that you are talking to the Queen of England.

“Well, that’s not too bad this week, maybe even a little cute?”
“You sound doubtful?”
“Well it would help if his eyes were open of course, but no, I just have this uneasy feeling that there may be some hidden agenda?”
“I never hide my agenda, I broadcast them.”
“Sad but true. Am I gonna have to guess?”
“You guessed right!”
“Dang! O.k. so this little guy is the one that doesn’t eat anything?”
“Right. Well sort of right."
"You always qualify your 'rights' with 'buts'!"
"'Buts' or 'butts'?"
"Stop teasing or I won't play."
"O.k. He does eat, fine strapping little chap that he is, just not the variety that a parent would wish for.”
“Which gives him that label, the neophobic label?”
“Right, someone who eats less than 20 foods. We have high hopes that he will graduate to ‘picky eater’ some time in the not too distant future.”
“When he gets to 21 foods?”
“Exactly. What a star you are!”
“That reminds me, I just have to ask. You said he eats seventeen things. What are those things?”
“Is this a ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ kind of a deal?”
“Less of the kinky foreigner stuff please!”
“Fair enough. So he eats squeezy yoghourt, bananas, fries, cereal, cookies, raisins, applesauce, Belgium chocolate pudding, chocolate cake, pretzels, pancakes, Nutella sandwiches and Goldfish.”
“Geez I knew that the Brits were Math challenged, but I’d have thought that even you could count to 13!”
“Ah yes. You’re right it is only 13.”
“So what’s with 17 crapolla!”
“Well we sort of mislaid a few recently.”
“Mislaid! How can you mislay 4 foods when you only eat 17!”
“Indeed, I can see there’s no chance of pulling the wool over your eyes.”
“So, where did they go? How come ya lost em? Getting careless in yur old age?”
“Well you see if you don’t ‘practice’ your foods …..”
“Use it or lose it?”
“Right.”
“So can I ask which ones you lost?”
“Jello, wieners, pasta and rice.”
“Oh couple of primary carbs there!”
“Verily. We’ve been toying with potatoes too. But we have conquered bread.”
“Conquered?”
“Yup, only one kind though.”
“’WE’ ? Sounds as if this lil guy’s the one doin all the work to me?”
“How alarmingly astute you are, as always.”
“Sure, I just feel that he should get the credit he deserves.”
“How true and observant.”
“You know my little brother only ever ate cereal, chips and pizza. Today he’s six foot.”
“Golly! Just those three?”
“Well beer now he's grown.”
“I wonder if mine will graduate to beer?”
“Tell you what, when he’s 21 we’ll split a keg.”
“Your generosity and support take my breath away. Such a weight off my mind.”
“Well ya know we all need a little love and understanding.”
“Sounds a little 60’s to me! Underneath it all, are you really a bit of a granola head?”
“Don’t use American terminology without warning me first! Geez I can almost hear your fake American accent!”
“Peace man! I love you guys.”






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Oral defensiveness and budgetary control

Many, many lifetimes ago, I was a purist. My first born child lived on a diet of ambrosia. [translation = organic, fresh produce, lovingly prepared without salt or any other pollutants] Sugar was an unknown substance to her. It is directly because of this mistake that I now suffer the consequences.

My youngest son, now aged 6 and a half protects his mouth, because he has oral defensiveness. This symptom is one of many that an autistic child may or may not have. [translation = optional extra with no additional charge] He is also neophobic. [translation = fears food] His bravery in the food department has grown considerably over the last few years following early intervention to help de-sensitize his mouth. Instead of only eating three foods [Goldfish, Cheerios and milk] he now enjoys a relatively vast panoply of some 17 foods. [translation = when he reaches 21 'foods,' he can cast off the label ‘neophobic,’ as the cut off is 20] Yes, it’s true. Very soon he will graduate from ‘neophobic’ to ‘picky eater.’ Horray!


In the meantime, I have other pressing concerns, namely cost. Some six months ago I stopped reveling in the delight of watching my son eat his 13th food. [translation = baby oatmeal] I no longer concerned myself with the pleasure of knowing that he was consuming 4 ounces of milk along with the dreaded baby oatmeal. I was growing tired of experimenting with different coloured, expensive, sprinkles and sugars, to dust the surface and entice his tastebuds and lure his eyes. Why was I buying little packets of very expensive baby oatmeal for a 6 year old? This behaviour had to stop. Those packets, even the very big ones, are very small. This means that they are also very expensive. [translation = because they are little] If you are six years old with a big tummy, not a baby tummy, you can write off a packet every five days. At $3.99 a pop, such extravagance had to cease! [translation = if not forthwith, then at least lets make a start]

I stole some of spouse’s Quaker Oats, big boy food that is especially good for those with diabetes, heart conditions, high cholesterol and weight issues. In order to make oatmeal, [translation = porridge] the chef must grind those rolled oats to dust. This provided me with my aerobic workout for the day. It still had ‘bits’ but they were little bits, not big bits.




I am happy to report that after six months of de-sensitization, Junior will now consume porridge. We have yet to go ‘cold turkey’ on the sugar sprinkles, but we’re moving in the right direction.

Whilst shopping in the supermarket, my little eye, spied a handy dandy convenient alternative. Individual sachets of different flavoured porridge with all kinds of enticements therein, such as sugar dinosaurs. Admittedly, dinosaurs are a thing of the past in this household, [translation = extinct on the planet and extinguished at home] but there is always an outside chance that we can tempt him in to pastures new.[translation = try anything once]

“He ain’t gonna eat it Mom!” she says succinctly, as I sit in my usual position. [translation – next to my son with a teaspoon quarter loaded in what I hope is an attractive manner]
“Who could resist that cute little red dinosaur or that winkum dinkum little yellow egg!” I ask rhetorically. She doesn’t answer, merely rolls her eyes and gently shakes her head.

My son sits in his carver chair [translation = caged to the table] His knees are curled up to his chin. His arms wrap themselves around his legs leaving his hands free to be clamped over his mouth. He has double protection, as the right hand fans out over the left hand. Just in case I have devious plans, his eyes are squeezed tight shut. The spit bowl is strategically placed at the point on the table where his elbow might be, if his elbows were not already tucked neatly into his sides. I couldn’t have done a better job myself even if I had put him in a straight jacket. He is as neatly coiled as a spring.

My older son continues to eat his Weetabix with a fork, slowly, but feels the need to add his two pennarth. “I dun fink he is gonna eat it either!”
“Well thank you for sharing guys!”

This has been the daily scene for some ten days now. Six months to go from baby oatmeal to adult porridge. How long to go from porridge with sugar sprinkles, to porridge adulterated with other substances? I begin to wonder if this campaign is an improvement or merely cyclical? Whilst wholesome mothers of the world serve their offspring the best that money and effort can provide, I, on the other hand, am rocketing my own son into the somewhat murky world of dental caries. Is one flake of oats beneficial if accompanied by it's own weight in sugar? [translation = logic and mathematical challenge of the century]

I remember the penniless student at University. He decided to save money and made up a vat of porridge which he poured into the top drawer of his desk. After several weeks of this exclusive mono diet, he was carted off to hospital with a severe case of Rickets. I wonder which is better, Rickets, achieving adulthood but without the benefit of teeth or malnutrition if not death? My arm begins to ache and draws me back to the matter at hand.



Her fingers toy with my tools of the trade. The face cloth that is now cooling, the vibrating spoon, all used to de-sensitize his face and mouth prior to his ordeal. “How long do yah think it’s gonna be this time?” she asks distractedly, glancing at the window. She continues, “you know you’ve forgotten the tick chart, or shall we use stickers or stamps?” [translation = additional motivational tools for the truly desperate] I look at my daughter who will be ten in 6 months. “I’d forgotten about those dear, thank you! What do you think? Which one shall we use?”

Junior interjects and unravels to announce his own solution, the lowest common denominator, “I know! We be doing dah tick chart wiv dah stamps AND dah M&M's for each mouthful I am being swallowed in my tummy.” [translation = as opposed to spat out]

Lummy! Things really have improved! [translation = the M&M days are long gone{faded and finally extinguished}]

It’s just as well that there are other people around to remind me of the full arsenal at my disposal.


So saying, neophobia is one matter, but other people have a whole plethora of food difficulties or an entirely different magnitude as you can see over at my pal "Phantom's" blog at "the Phantom Scribbler."

There again, I'm suffering from a little oral defensiveness "myself."

Perseveration with a sprinkling of OCD [on the side]

“I don’t think he cares one way or another, as long as they serve chips. [translation = French Fries]
“True, but so many restaurants don’t have any cruet.”
“I know, but there again, if they have anything, they usually have the salt.”
“Unless we go to an Italian, then you have two foot of pepper mill being lobbed around by some minor, but not a salt cellar in sight!”
“Odd combination really. There again, if we go Italian, there probably won’t be any chips either.”
“It’s so strange.”
“Strange. A very strange country.”
“Mind you, if he carries on the way he is, we could probably do with avoiding that particular perversion.”
“True, I don’t think people understand.”
“Well it’s so unhygienic, regardless of the other health risks.”
“Still, nobody noticed last time.”
“That was over three months ago now, and they did, notice, that is to say.”
“The last time we went to a restaurant?”
“Yes. So he’s not really had the opportunity in the meantime.”
“Do you still have the salt cellar locked up?”
“Oh yes. Stuffed at the back of the cupboard, the one full of cereal.” [translation = disguised by the horror of the equivalent of barbed wire, that is breakfast cereal.]
"Oooo! I've just thought! Do you think we could count it as a 'new food'?"
"Food? More like a chemical or an additive."
"I like that. We count the additive."
"Well, I don't know, might be considered cheating."
"Well if salt is a chemical, then so is water, H2O and all that."
"Gosh. I just had a thought too! He drinks water. Water isn't part of his 13 foods."
"You're a genius! That means we've hit 14 foods without even trying."
"How come we never thought of that before?"
"At this rate of progress, he won't be a neo any more." [translation = neophobic, a person who eats less than 20 foods]
“She didn’t look very happy at the time.”
“Who?”
“The server.”
“Which server?”
“At the restaurant.”
“Right! When she lifted the tablecloth to see a six year old chugging down on a salt shaker.”
“Hmm, I think it was the other three empty ones that he’d stolen from the other tables that freaked her out.”
“Just think, he’ll live for ever, like a little pickled er……...”
“Onion?”
‘No, er……?”
“Pickled egg? Roll mop herring, pepper, walnut……?”
“Hardly! And none of those are American.”
“What then?”
“Oh I know, Gherkin!”
“Ah! Dill pickle! Actually, they’re all in vinegar. H must be more like an anchovy!”
“Hmm, he’s certainly swimming against the tide.”

Health Warning – each salt cellar only a few grains in them
Healthy Note – many children and some autistic ones, enjoy lining things up
Caution – don’t try this at home. [translation = or in a restaurant]

Snappin!

[translation = failure to express oneself adequately and model appropriate behaviour]

I attempt a verbal warning, but end up drooling instead, which severely reduces the impact of my message. But that's what happens when you "fail to research" a matter thoroughly enough prior to going under the knife.

Lately I have had considerably more empathy with my youngest son and his inadequate lip closure. From his earliest days his drool production was supreme, surpassing any dog that I have ever had contact with. [translation = hypersalivation] Then I thought that plastic backed bibs were the solution. A great number of them were utilized throughout the average day, each one discarded as it reached maximum capacity. We were a household of several dozen such items with laundry bills to match. As usual, due to inadequate parental attention, when his neck grew too thick to accommodate the length of strings on the bibs we switched to double T-shirting him, a rare and unrecognised art. Always the glistening chin, the damp T-shirt and the soft open mouth. 'Perhaps he drools because he's concentrating so hard!' was the general conclusion. Strangely, that was in part, the truth. "Oral motor" issues were investigated.

I would hasten to point out that dribbling is not a symptom of autism but it MAY, in some instances, be an indication of poor or low muscle tone. If this is coupled with speech that sounds as if your child has a mouthful of marbles, it would be worthy of further investigation.

Even a sigh also means spittle. My usual state of grumpy has escalated to volatile as I wait for the painkillers to kick in. It has taken me nearly a precious hour to remove all the elastic and replace with newer twangier elastic on my braces, challenging my crocheting skills to say nothing of my patience. I take a deep breath and then seek out the child that I so unjustly admonished.

I take my non verbal autistic child to one side so that I am better able to bury him in a lengthy explanation as to the cause of the higher levels of grumpiness. This is a child that listens best when his body is in motion. This means that whilst technically we are sitting on the sofa together, his body rolls, stretches and squirms, in the way that a cat does when trying to settle. Whilst a cat eventually finds the right spot to nestle done, my son does not.

I explain the ratio of pain to grumpiness in a parent, and possibly other people too. For some reason I feel the need to further justify my parental error and give a scientific version of the same events. Removal of elastic on the braces also removed pressure on the jaw, mouth flies open and floats. When the new elastics are fitted, blood rushes to every nerve ending and screams. I remember to late, that what I know about science can be written on the back of a postage stamp. Why didn’t I think this through before I started? I give up on the scientific explanation and try another tack. It’s as if a nest of money spiders have just exploded in your mouth and are swarming over every surface inside your mouth and over your face and nose.

We clarify the term ‘money spiders,’ together with a visual aid. He points out my error. The spider I have in mind is a red spider mite, not a money spider. He tries hard to hide his scorn at my inferior intellect and poor categorization skills. 46 years on the planet and I appear to be woefully behind in the arachnid department. He takes pity on me and doesn’t dwell upon my error. Mercifully, we move on.

As I close the computer and I check his comprehension. Is this an analogy that works for him or have I just added to his "phobia quotient?" He turns his body in my general direction whilst he jigs his Irish dance, hands clasped in the small of his back, “ you know mum……..for me……for my mouth….it is dah same…….all dah time.”

Can I use that as a definition of "oral defensiveness?"

It would seem that he's not the only one who has difficulty controlling his "body."

Actuarial skills – 57 varieties

If your home houses a picky eater, you may find yourself spending an unnatural amount of time with fictitious conjectures into the future. [translation = my own food fetish] If your picky eater is also autistic, then the problem magnifies itself into catastrophic proportions. In my son’s particular case, he is the worst kind, worse than a picky or fussy eater. He is a neophobe. That’s right, he’s afraid of neo’s. “What pray?” I hear you cry, “is a ‘neo?’” For current purposes, we’ll say that it is something ‘new,’ which means that he is phobic about eating new things.



A neophobe eats less than 20 different items of food. Currently, he eats 9 'foods,' a considerable improvement on he previous 3 foods, although it has taken us 3 years to reach this staggering pinnacle. Parents should note that it is cheating to count different varieties of Milano cookies. It is cheating to count different brands of cookies that are like Milano cookies, but hopefully cheaper. It is cheating to count Saltines or other crackers. Why does he have such expensive tastes? Who was the idiot who first gave him one of those biscuits? [translation = cookies]

Yes, life is very unfair for the parent desperate in the desire to re-catogorise the primary food groups of the world. If you can call ‘cookies’ a food ‘type,’ [please?] then, whatever configuration they might take on, they still only count as ONE.

For the sake of the mathematically challenged, such as myself, I feel it’s safer to round up, to be cautious. Certainly more optimistic than to round down. So lets say that he’s six years old, give or take a couple of months, so that’s not too much of a stretch. Hence if a six year old manages to consume one new ‘food’ during a three month campaign, this would mean that, all things being equal, during the course of a whole year, four additional foods would be added to his diet. Ergo, by the age of 18, projecting forward, we might reasonably expect that he will have achieved a diet of 48 foods. If we add those foods that he has already managed to acquire during the prior six years, and we must, ‘add’ that is, that would reach a grand total of 57 foods. Could that really be possible? Maybe I should ask "Mr. Big brain,", but since he is also a Brit, I think that automatically disqualifies him, as 'Beanz Meanz Heinz' ain't gonna cut it.

I glug another bottle of Ensure, strawberry flavour, to nourish the body, if not the soul. If I continue to consume my current 5 flavours of Ensure, I guarantee that I will die of terminal boredom. Why are there not 57 varieties of Ensure? Would be possible to survive on 57 flavours of Ensure for an additional 12 years?

However, such projections as to his future gastronomy, fail to take into account risk; risks of failure, unexpected hurdles that can’t be overcome, which wouldn’t be a very thorough job.

Keeping the food seasonal might help with both establishing realistic goals, as well as minimizing costs, as strawberries in February, even in California, are not to be encouraged. My experiments with spinach and brownies have been a culinary coup, but when eccoli invades the crop, the campaign disappeared down the drain very swiftly. There again, the chance of me getting him to eat a vegetable, let alone something green, is probably still several life times away. I wonder how many leap years there are in the next 12 years? Perhaps I should count in light years?

The Bribery and Corruption method of bringing up a child

Now I know what you’re thinking, so don’t just start in on me, as to be honest, I really don’t have a leg to stand on. The thing is, you have to work with what you’ve got, and at the moment, all I have to work with is chocolate.

I mean, when did you last go down on bended knee to your child, beg, plead and implore to them, to just take a little nibble of chocolate ……..and then they can get down from the table? Not recently I would venture to suggest.
Rather you had whip your hand back quickly before they bit your fingers off. Me? I have to restrain mine in his chair to prevent escape. Actually, three of my other ones would be the latter category too. We only have one true deviant about these parts. Well maybe two, but leave me out of the equation.


The fact that he eats chocolate at all, is something that I relish, because in theory it opens the door to a myriad of possibilities. Did you know that they make such a thing as chocolate covered pretzels? Unlikely I know, but it’s perfectly true. There are other more obvious choices, such as chocolate covered peanuts and raisins. Then there are lots of different varieties of chocolate itself. I have a big pool to draw upon here. Thus far, our success rate is a big fat zero. As noted in previous posts, the issue of texture is always our downfall. There again, appearances can be deceptive. Merely changing the shape of the 'food' in question is enough to upset the applecart.

He eats pretzels, ergo he should be able to eat chocolate covered pretzels, ditto chocolate covered raisins, but unfortunately these happy combinations have evaded him. We’ll gloss of the chocolate covered poison packs for obvious reasons. [translation = peanuts are in their own sub category of poisonous foodstuffs, even though I’m fairly confident that technically speaking, he is not allergic to them]


The idea in principal, is to pick a desirable food, such as broccoli, where the ratio of chocolate covering to vegetable matter would be beneficial and then get him to eat it. That is what we’re aiming at. I know that goal is a long way off, but it is better to travel hopefully than to……….. something or other, I forget.


I think, realistically, that since he eats chips [translation = fries] that a chocolate covered potato might be a good starting point. However, that might be a biased Irish gene providing undue weight in the decision making process. Spouse, another non vegetable eater, pointed out that we might be better fixing our sites a little lower. He was wise to avoid mentioning chocolate infused pasta and expose his own gene pool bias. Hence, as always, heeding to his superior grasp of the situation, I managed to hunt down a variety of different shaped chocolates as a stage one. Remember if a food changes shape from cube to stick, or quarters to halves, it effectively changes category too. It becomes 'new food' as a result. Stage two would be to try different types of chocolate such as Ghiradelli’s or Hershey’s.





Thus far the prospects are not propitious, but we’ll keep you posted. I will be the one in the kitchen trying to make chocolate trapezoids as a dodecahedron is way beyond my skill set.

Animal, vegetable or mineral? From way back when.....

“What is dat?” he asks breathlessly.

“It is a sweet potato,” I explain, worryied whether it is indeed a sweet potato or whether I am unwittingly providing him with false ammunition to beat me with later.
There seems to be a great deal of confusion between what is a yam and what is a sweet potato? I have never sought to clarify this deficit, despite having been a resident for more than a decade and a citizen for a few years, because they are both loathsome. As a vegetable they are vile because they are sweet, but to put them in a pie is equally as reprehensible. Who ever heard of carrot pie? [Translate = a transvestite of a flan]

“No, it is a humungeous lemon!” he announces. That probably means that it is a yam and not a sweet potato? What on earth have I purchased, and why did I listen to the advice of the checker. [translation = probity of checker dubious due to the fact that she was unfamiliar with Swedes. {sub translation = rutabagas]

“It is a potato lemon?” he blurts, raising his eye brow, hoping for a hit.
I prod it, to see if the skin will come off yet.
“May be,” I add dubiously.
“It is disgusting anyways, any road up!” [Aside = gosh he automatically translated himself!] Soon junior son will be five.

For the first three and a half years of his little life he ate almost an exclusive diet of sweet potatoes, as only orange food was acceptable by that time. As he reached his fourth birthday, pureed carrots were out and he had an orange aura about his person. [translation = carrotine poisoning?] He would surely have perished without the intake of the humble sweet potato in such vast and exclusive quantities. I can’t say that I view little orange gold fish crackers as a nutritional advance, orange or not.