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.
I collect the children from school. As usual my eldest son is disheveled. I sometimes wonder what he believes the purpose of a backpack is in his life? Something extra to carry along with his jacket, homework, lunch pack and other assorted paraphanalia, armfuls of it, together with the backpack. We pause, as we always do, to stuff the backpack with his belongings, zip it up and persuade the backpack to attach itself to his spine. It’s a time consuming little exercise, made all the longer by the excitement of the end of the day, when there is sometimes important information to share, if we could but shrug off all the distractions.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear.”
“My friend.”
“Yes dear.”
“He…….says I’m gonna go to hell.”
“Hell? Who said you were going to hell? Was he swearing…….was he…….saying bad words?”
“No hell is a place …….where there is no Jesus.”
“Is it by golly! Is that what he told you?”
“Yes……and it’s real small…..with no power……and Jesus always wins.”
“Wins…….sounds a bit like the superhero version of Christian belief.”
“Wot?”
“Nothing…….why did he say you were going to hell?”
“I don know. Am I gonna go to hell? Am I gonna die? When am I gonna die? Is hell bad? Is it gonna hurt? I don wanna die, I wanna stay here wiv you.”
“Well different people believe different things.” I watch his body contract, stiffen and diminish into a small hard lump.
I don’t know about him, but I’m ready to die right now. I’m sure there was no evil intent behind what appears to be an innocent exchange between him and his pal. How was his pal supposed to know that certain nuggets of information trigger all kinds of unexpected bombs. It’s an all pervasive virus without a salve. I refuse to allow another bout of OCD to explode on our lives, infest every cranny and bespoil a perfectly dandy holiday season. He watches bemused as I stuff everything into the backpack, with far too much vigour. Punch it into submission. This one will not escape, “well, you’re in luck my fine fellow!”
“I am?”
“Yes, because I know everything there is to know about hell.”
“You’re an……expert….a trainer expert?” His eyes are wide in genuine mid startle mode. I’m sure it is the most delightful facial expression in his ever growing repetoire.
“I am. And when we get home I’ll tell you all about it and you can ask me anything you want.”
Who needs a light saber to defend? I knew 13 years in a Catholic Convent would come in handy sometime.
I plop onto the sofa with my knitting for entertainment and distraction from my latest current dose of flu. A tired little pathetic pile of self misery mopped up with a box of tissues. Oh for a few minutes of peace and quiet.
Ours has long been a volatile household where upsets jump out to bite us at every turn. Over the years we have learned about a great number of triggers, hot spots and areas that need special attention but the overall effect can sometimes feel as if we walk on eggshells. On the majority of occasions we are able to manage these periods but when our own levels of energy are low, we adopt the line of least resistance.
He leaps onto my lap cat style, but less agile and with far too many rigid bones. For the umpteenth time I have a Ninendo DS screen shoved two inches from my nose to view his latest captured Pokemon with slightly less than enthusiastic zeal, “yes, very nice dear.” My daughter mutters, “she’s bored of your darned Pokemon,” but to no avail. I glare her into silence.
“You don wanna see my Pokemon?”
“Oh I do indeed, it’s just that I’m not feeling very well at the moment.”
“She doesn’t like you jumpin on her like that.”
“You don like me to be a cat on yur lap?”
“Oh I do indeed, it’s just that you’re quite a big boy now.”
“Yur too darned heavy man!”
“I am heavy?”
“Well heavier than you once were dear…..when you were smaller than you are now.”
“Lighter. Yur a great big lump a bones.”
“I am bones?”
“Well……your bones are …….bigger too…..than they once were……when you were smaller.”
“Yur bones are all pokey, don’t you get it? It hurts when a big lumpy, pokey boned boy jumps on yah!”
He blinks at his sister, as he kneels on my lap, all 76 pounds of him. He turns to face me, “is wot she is says……..true?”
“Well…..I suppose……sort of……” I wince and wait.
“Well why didnaya tell me?”
“!”
Done and dusted. 
He didn't want it to get 'dirty' by putting it ON the cake!
Any takers?
Pin pricks of panic tweak my brain stem as the minutes pass, more birthday party guests arrive and there is no sign of his dad. Two hours of merriment seems more and more unlikely as friends gather to celebrate his 8th birthday at a local venue.
Parents depart one by one leaving me with an assortment of 14 children, three of my own, nine special needs children and two extra siblings, just to make it that little bit more fun. I am the only adult person present and not particularly responsible.
I make a dash for the back door to check it is locked and then to the front entrance where there is a youthful chap behind the till, “don’t let any of them leave!” I squeak and skuttle back to the smalls. I know for a fact that I have at least three bolters in my charge and two of them are mine!
I spend one hundred and twenty minutes in a state of high alert, encouraging climbers to remain earthbound, persuading picky eaters to shrug it off, negotiating disputes and opening those tricky juice pouches.
There are no meltdowns, no escapes and very little ill will.
As the last child is collected, I am ready with my sigh of relief. I am about to give myself a hearty pat on the back for my outstanding service to a successful social scene when light dawns. The success has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with the children. Each and every one of them is bigger, brighter and possibly happier than a few years ago.
Congratulations not so little people!
I mean to write a movie review for the film with Rowan Atkinson, as Mr. Bean, a while back, because that’s when it first happened. In fact I would go so far as to suggest that Mr. Bean has a blanket effect, regardless of the movie title, regardless of the number of words, the nature of the plot, the complexity of the language. His body language, gestures and facial expressions ping directly into the psyche.
Whilst my daughter squirms in excruciating embarrassment, the kind where you have to squint your eyes and peer out from behind a pillow, the boys, my boys, are rolling on the floor squealing with delight, spurting tears of unadulterated laughter. They’re so loud and raucous that the script is buried.
Hence last night, those same noises shook my home as they watched "Meet Dave."
Don’t quote me here, but there is some combination of ‘boy,’ ‘social skills’ and developmental age that induces mass funny. I can’t tell you what that developmental age is, but it’s certainly worth experimentation.
First warning – some Tom and Jerry style violence that may cause consternation in some.
Second warning – the concept of a body being invading by small beings may provoke endless existential questions.
Third warning – guaranteed to invoke scripting.
One final word of advice. Do you remember visiting the zoo and trolling over to the monkey house? On one occasion there was a disturbance, feeding time perhaps, and the monkeys went wild leaping, gamboling and calling in a frenzied party animal style? Well that’s what it was like in our house, the best aerobic workout you could ask for which ensures a solid night’s sleep. Remove all breakables from the room in advance.
"Single Sentence Movie Review."
Eddie Murphy, the icon for social skills training, what not to do, how and why, with too many giggles to count.
The birthday date approaches with only two of us sporting coughs, colds and possibly flu. The sniffles snuffle through the family as I keep a close eye upon who may or may not be the next victim. I watch for sniffers and snufflers. I’m close at hand with the thermometer for any potential hot heads. I’m stuffed full of tissues ready to plug any leaks. When I hear a different one splutter I pounce, “ooo dear, it sounds as if you’ve caught his cold.”
“I am not be cold.”
“No I meant that you’ve caught his bugs, you’re ill, contaminated.”
“No! Not ill. I am need my birthday.”
“I know dear but you do seem to have a bit of a cough.”
“It not be cough, it be surplus extra borrowed airy in my mouth parts.”
“!”
“Yeah, he don bin borrow my air,” chimes in his older defender.
“Yeah,…….and now it done bin jump back out agin, it’s a jump air not a cough.”
“!”
She whispers because she is considerate and kind, “Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“I don’t wannabe mean or nuthin……”
“Hmmm?”
“Have you noticed?”
“Noticed what dear?”
“Well he kinda smells…….funny.”
“Funny? What kind of funny?”
“You know.”
“Actually, I really don’t.”
“I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Have a go dear.”
“Well……..he always smells the same……but now……he smells…….he doesn’t smell like him.”
We look at him, both of us as he blinks beneath our stare, wide eyed innocence but with remarkably big ears, “you are fink I stink?”
“No, of course not dear.”
“No I never said you stink, honest.”
“What am I being den?”
I lean forward to sniff him, “don’t be smell me!” he protests with vehemence. “I want to see if it’s you that smells or possibly your clothes?”
“My cloves are not be smell.”
His older, semi silent brother adds his contribution, “he don smell of old Goldfish no more.”
Now whilst I’m not certain what an old Goldfish smells like, I can confirm that he doesn’t smell of baked cheesey crumbs any more, stale or "fresh."
When I was pregnant with my second child, another girl, I enrolled in an aerobics instructor course. I did this because everyone told me that if I ever exercised, I would love it. I knew I would not love it, ever, so I took the course to prove that love would forever be absent.
When I was pregnant with my third child, I bought one of those new fangled runner’s strollers, so that I could run with my two smaller children, and prove to everyone that running was totally hateful, pointless and shrinks your stature as your legs wear out faster than nature intended.
When I was pregnant with my fourth child, my husband gave me a pottery wheel for our wedding anniversary, for some laudable reason best known to himself. I had never had anything to do with clay or pottery. He claimed that it would provide a static creative outlet, and anyway, he had enrolled in a pottery classes in England every year, for several years. The logic, as usual, escaped me, but I knuckled under and hunched myself over my ever increasing bump to make bowls, mass production style.
He was right. It was creative and I remained static but when that last baby finally arrived, I quickly discovered that it was impossible to spend 20 minutes in the garage alone with clay and leave three small children unsupervised. I also learned that after a day with three small children, I lacked the energy to go out into the garage at night when they were all asleep.
I decided that I needed another, non-child related activity, a cheap one that would provide a creative outlet. It had to be something that was indoors, small and something that could occupy one minute or three minutes, here and there, there and here. I opted for cake decorations, sugarpaste because it was a bit like mini sculpture. I would start small. I would practice. By the time the children reached school age maybe I could start a little business enterprise? Something that would not impact too greatly upon my maternal duties.
I had worried that I wouldn’t be able to ‘do’ boys. Boys were always a case of ‘boys will be boys.’ I had lots of experience in de-sensitizing boys. My first victim was my little brother. Given my parents traditionally conservative gene pool, it was my job to tackle the nurture ratio. My sister and I worked on him tirelessly, for over a decade, fashioning him into the perfect male for the modern woman. It was a startling success, until puberty, then all was sadly lost as he reverted to type, because ‘girls don’t like nice guys.’
As it turned out, I had worried needlessly. My boys were affectionate, demonstrative and cuddly. They were the most sensitive boys I had ever come across. They were sensitive to a pin drop, domestic appliances in general and had a horror un-domestic wild bears which some foolish people refer to as teddies. Who were these people that maligned boys so callously and stereotyped them with falsehood?
I distinctly remember a chum calling around to visit one day. On the kitchen counter, in my very small crampt kitchen, were a line of several icing projects in various stages of completion, cribs, flowers, a cornucopia. Because she was a chum, British, she was familiar with this kind of cake decoration, which is far less common in the States. She made an obvious observation:- “I just don’t get it? How can you possibly make things out of sugar with three small children in the house?”
“Oh you know, here and there, there and here.”
“No, I mean……it’s sugar…….the children?” I blinked as I thought. My daughter stole occasionally, but we had reached an understanding. I’d make an extra ‘thing’ for her to eat, as long as she didn’t mangle everything else. It worked. I thought of the boys, both of them. They had never shown any interest in any of the nauseatingly cute animal creations, nor the mini computer for their Dad’s birthday, nor the snake pit for their big sister. I had no explanation and even fewer clues.
I remembered idling at the table, when I was small and freckled and round, whilst my mother drank coffee with her pal once a week, on a Thursday, in the posh shop, whilst I stole sugar cubes with the stealth of the truly motivated. I would help choose the table, radar scanning, so that I could scour the sugar pots to ensure that I had the greatest feast available.
It was very curious.
I thought of all the many cakes I had fashioned, the preponderance of cribs because I belonged to a mum’s club, where mums were always having additional babies. There was a rota to provide meals to new mums. I made my standard chicken pot pie and a chocolate ganache cake with a crib on top, to celebrate the new arrival. All those cribs, white, pink, blue or pale lemon yellow for the indeterminate. How can you tell if ‘Taylor’ is a boy or a girl? But of course boys would not be interested in cribs or babies would they?
I thought of my older boy, his adoration of new borns and toddlers who toddled at a slightly shorter height than him. My adorably sweet and tender son, with six dimples who could read before he was three.
There were so many little moments, insignificant alone but that together, pushed us to one inevitable conclusion. Like at the party. Was it the house warming or a birthday, I forget now. A houseful of friends to cater for, fifty or more. The sort of gathering where we hope to socialize but know that busyness will over shadow the ability to chat. I knew that my time would be divided between food production and carrying one, or more, of the boys. To save time, repeated questions and clogged foot traffic, I hung a sheet paper above the door jam. My friend grinned, “Oh Maddy! Don’t you know the correct terminology? Can’t you bring yourself to write ‘restroom’?” she giggled as I hoiked up one sniveling boy and shifted his weight. He lifted his head, eyes drawn to new and delightful letters, “loo!” he pronounced. My friend’s expression changed, registered surprise with a tinge of shock and a tincture of horror, “did he…..can he……..he didn’t just read that did he?” I readjusted the wadded nappy bottom on my hip, uncomfortable in too many ways to list.
The cakes and decorations dwindled as our lives were impacted with a whole slew of new. Our time was spent traveling to therapists with unfamiliar agendas. But that was quite a while ago now, a while during which we all adjusted to a new reality.
Now, so many years later, I dust off icing bags and grab bags of sugar dust, I re-start an old project, cornucopias for Thanksgiving cakes. I make many, partly because I know that if I make 3 only one will survive, they’re so fragile. I end up making more than a dozen, because thankfully my house has been invaded by a bunch of thieves, determined to scupper my chances.
p.s. Just for the record, ironically, the first person to ever mention the word ‘autism’ out loud, was my brother! 
