Break

[Image: a photo of a white dinner plate with a pile of orange pumpkin penne pasta bake and piece of sourdough. The top of a silver fork can also be seen. A poorly handwritten url is written at the bottom of the photo. It reads "www.livingwithbob.com"]



Christmas is past and New Year's on it's way. The cacophony of constant advertisements on every medium scream CELEBRATE BUY CONSUME. I've done all three. But in a subdued, more balanced manner, mostly involving food. Two Christmas celebrations down and a last belated one to go. All the trimmings here. In the heat of an Australian Christmas there is still turkey, ham, and duck. Brussel sprouts and duck fat potatoes. Trifle and Christmas pudding with lashings of brandy custard. The little I can eat is of equally little concern. It's about giving to my family, to those I love. I cannot do much of what I want to express that love these days, thanks to my body and lives spent in different cities, but in this once a year monumental period of indulgence and hard work I can provide a tangible demonstration of what they mean to me.

A new lap top, my last had been living more in the realm of blank screens, it's only roll that of recipient to my frustrated expletives, has meant an enforced absence from emails and messages. I have no inclination to check anything. I have no need to feel the pressure, mostly self-imposed, to be on tap to all and sundry. My ability to say no, even if it's just to a computer program rather than human requests, is improving. It's only taken 44 years.

The world is there on my phone if I want it, but in truth any scrolling is more the product of habit than want. It has been used to document our daily lives and Christmas festivities, or to run Netflix or Plex, but mostly it has sat on my bedside table, on top of the ever increasing pile of detritis that chronic illness and chronic pain invariably creates. Silver foil and plastic in various shapes and sizes. Coloured cardboard boxes with pharmacy labels are stacked and toppled over. Saved from the inevitable plunge to the carpet below by a drinking glass, or three, and a half-empty tube of Mor's Mashmellow hand cream.

My desire to plug in is minimal. A small part of my brain twitches with FOMO but it is quickly silenced. I'm tried. From the past year and a three day post-Christmas migraine that makes it even harder to plug in. Even now the low rumble persists in the left side of my head. My left eye ball still recoils from light and feels both swollen and the lingering burn from the invisible red hot poker that has been using my left orbit as an Air B&B for the past few days. But it's dwindling. Slowly. But I'll take it as progress.

As I type I'm cooking pumpkin in the oven to make a pasta bake for dinner. The effort with the knife stresses the already burdened tendons and muscles in hand and wrist. But the need to create, to prepare, to eat something other than left over Christmas ham sandwiches propels me stubbornly forward.

There is a quiet bliss that slowly reveals itself when I cook. I rarely use a recipe, although my large collection of recipe books would suggest otherwise. Mostly I cook by touch and smell and sound. If it looks right then it is right, a timer only a prompt for a sluggish and forgetful brain not a slavish deliniator of cooked and uncooked My measurements are those of pinches and dribbles. Even if a measuring cup ends up in my hand there's always a smidgen more or a smidgen less. My refusal to be constrained to set millilitres or grams part obstinance and part an instinctive knowing that a bit more or a bit less is needed.

If you asked me to write you a recipe I'd be stumped and stressed.  The password and userID to my free recall, my organisation and judgement, are long forgotten and the sentence prompt no longer makes sense. But in the sounds of the kitchen, amidst the hiss and the whirr, the familiarity of the roll can lead me in unexpected and delightful places. The ingredients come to me in the moment. The meditation begins as the chopping board clunks onto the bench. The ingredients reveal themselves slowly at first then with increasing speed, and a dish is prepared. Ask me what I am cooking or the names of ingredients and I draw a blank. But suddenly the spell is complete and a finished dish appears.

I don't know if I'm a good cook, but I enjoy it. My family tell me I bring the flavour to the food and I'll take that. My bloated shelves of bottles and spice containers are testament to my desire to bring that flavour, as is my extensive herb shelf in the garden (or is it table? At three pallets long and one pallet wide it's probably is more the later). All I need a starting spot. A cut of meat or a jar of spice and suddenly the path appears and the cooking begins.

I cook when I can. When my everything aligns and my body says yes. I push myself and cook when I feel the need to create.  When the need for a break from the monotony of managing my body reaches tipping point. My lap top may play music in the background, but most of the music flows in my head, singing of cinnamon and cardamom, lemongrass and basil. I break from the laptop. From electronic connection. To just exist in the moment of domestic bliss that is preparing a meal or baking a treat.

I have a seat on wheels to help out. And husband and son to lift and test. I am told I use ALL the dishes. But that's what they're for. Why bother in hauling them from house to house only to sit in drawer or cupboard? Might as well get them out for a run and, well, thankfully the cook doesn't clean.

The leftovers go into the freezer for the times I am too unwell to cook. Into the next day's work lunch or re-purposed into yet another meal. It feeds my youngest when he comes off a long late night of waiting tables. It is a snack to pick at during the day when I can stomach only small mouthfuls at a time. The scraps go to the compost, to the very fertile worm farm, and our perpetually ravenous chickens. The cycle continues. The compost and worm wee give nourishment to my vegetables and herbs, and the chickens share a daily bounty of body warm eggs. The Ouroboruos at work in our small suburban backyard. Collect, create, devour, lost in the joy of preparing food for those I love.

My break is happening. Without decision. Without lists or resolutions. I'm sure there was a lead up, a process, maybe I was too tired to notice, but it's here now, seemingly birthed fully-formed and I'm embracing the moments.

I have wound down so I can wind my way back up again. A Summer hibernation. Curled up under airconditioner vents and surrounded by crumbs of tasty Christmas goodness.

The pumpkin has come out of the oven and sits cooling on the stove top. Deep orange with golden brown corners. The olive oil bubbles and glistens speckled with salt and black pepper. Soon it will join basil and garlic, ricotta and sage. The penne will tumble in boiling water which my husband will lift and drain. Followed by slow satisfying movements as weak hands swirl it through thick orange sauce. It will be topped with mozzarella and parmesan and roasted until a golden golden crust forms.  The smell will drift throughout the house and out onto the evening winds. Carried to neighbours human and animal. And on to cow-filled paddocks and passing galahs.

My break is quiet and perfect.

And much needed.

My brain rambles and my body starts to send the first signs of needed rest. I mark the time until I can find my way back to pillows and sheets, content, edible alchemy completed and stowed away.

I'll live my break while I gather strings of cheese and pasta on silver tines. I'll plan some time outside tomorrow to cuddle a chook or run my hand through the chocolate mint. Or not. Breaks don't need a lot of planning. They don't need the strain of timelines and events. They just need to be embraced in whatever form they take.

Today's that's pumpkin and a shower. Netflix and sleep.

And listening to the rain as the last of the light fades from the sky.

Tomorrow?

Well, that's a world of possibilities I am yet to discover. I'll just go with the flow.

Michelle

Paul Kelly's "How to Make Gravy" seems an appropriate musical accompaniment. For those OS, this is considered an Australian classic, one of many by Paul Kelly and one that always makes me a little teary every time I hear it.

Rediscovering the Lost Art of Breathing.

The bliss of an empty beach cannot be underestimated. 

I should be writing. I brought all my book notes. The reams of printed paper covered in a multitude of black pen edits. Added words. Heavily crossed out words. The "what were you thinking, Michelle?" edits. Instead I am simply sitting at a rusty, glass topped table on the back porch of a cream weatherboard. I trace the rough edges of the metal work with my fingers and listen to the waves crash on the shore 100 metres to my right.

I can hear birds everywhere. In the scrubby beach dunes, darting in and out to the overgrown pig face and the gnarled banksias. Each day a little group of blue-helmeted finches dart around the brush outside the kitchen window. Little fluffy brown babies, just getting their wings, follow springing from twig to twig. Gulls floating effortlessly on the sea breeze, turns and a myriad other sea birds casually flying over the odd fisherman or float in small groups on the gentle waves near the foreshore.

I'm burnt. On my legs. An odd pattern marked out by dog slobber and the sticky sand that gathered in haphazard patches on my legs. It hurts. A lot. The breeze is kind but still tingles as it passes. Sheets and hands make me yell. It goes against all the Slip Slop Slap messages of my youth and manifests in the odd twinge of guilt. But it is a good feeling. My legs haven't seen the sun in years. They are always covered in compression stockings when I head out. Never to see the light of day. Or they are hidden away in the house with me. Too ill to head outside. But I forgot. I forgot all of that. I sat on the beach and whipped off my violet Size I 20-30mmHgs and stood in the waves propped expertly by Mr Grumpy. I stood there and felt the cool waves hit. One after the other higher and higher. I felt the sand slip from under my feet and rejoiced in the feeling of moving lower and lower, consumed by the fluid grains. When I reached my limit I lay on my beach mat and examined the infinite blue of the Summer sky. I felt the warmth of Freyja's body as she cuddled up close. And the feel of her paw on my leg and her tongue licking the salt off my leg. I breathed it all in. And it was good.

I've walked on the beach. Not far and not for long. But I walked. Slowly. Gingerly. Slipping and sliding. My walking stick disappearing into the loose sand. My youngest a few steps ahead resolutely pushing my wheelchair just in case. I follow the deep ruts left in the sand like breadcrumbs to the biscuit coloured sands we make our own. The soft deep sand up near the dunes and the stable darker form down closer to the waves. I have walked the midline between surf and dune, where the shells and detritus from the sea gather. I stopped and collected. A haul of sea shells whole and broken now lay on the table next to me. Pippies and oyster shells, clams of various sizes and the odd conch. Most I have no name for, but their size, the curve of the edge, breaks smoothed by the endless churning of sea and sand, catch my eye and draw my hand. My legs ache and I've tumbled but it has been blissful.

I have eaten foods I should not. I have downed expensive Ondan to stop being ill and put up with pain. I have eaten ham and turkey and a little spread of mustard pickles. I luxuriated in spinach and pepitas. Walnuts and raspberries. I sat with my family and ate Christmas dinner. And fish and chips and drank wine. I felt sick to my stomach and deliriously happy.

I have laughed with my family. Told bad jokes and endured way too many puns. We have hugged and we have sat. We played board games and paddled in the sea, and walked arm in arm up the dunes. We played cricket on the beach Christmas day. An Australian tradition that I have been unable to participate in for years. I batted. I bowled. I fell over and I laughed. We are staying in a house lent to us by a friend. And Mr Grumpy has gone above and beyond to make it restful and fun. I have been spoiled and I am truly content.

I've stayed up late and not rested. Walked on the beach without compression stockings and failed to hydrate properly. My knees and ankles are swollen from my efforts but I walk up the path from the beach again and again. My family simply smiling and shaking their heads, knowing it's pointless to insist that I pace myself. I have done everything I am not supposed to do and it's been magical. My hair is at angles from sea wind and salt. There is sand crusted in my stockings and on the rims of my wheelchair. I can taste the sea salt on my lips and I've lost hours simply gazing at pristine blue Summer skies. I have lived. I am exhausted and I will pay. But every drop of pain and illness. Weakness and vomit is worth it.

I sit on the cool concrete step out front now. The sun is going down and Angus and Julia Stone sing from my laptop. I can hear waves and laughter. Birds and the gentle sound of the wind through the yukkas in the yard. I can smell salt in the air and see it's mark on the house we have been inhabiting. I feel healed and cleansed. Renewed and reborn. For the first time in a long time I am breathing.

Michelle

Christmas For One.

(source)

This year is going to be my first Christmas alone. Well not completely alone. It'll be me and the dogs, who are almost as demanding as people. But it's the first year that I have ever celebrated sans humans. Mr Grumpy and the boys are off to Queensland (QLD) to see my in-laws  Unfortunately, QLD and I, or more correctly, hot humid weather plus no AC and I, do not get along. Add in the travel factor and it's pretty much a non-starter for me. Surprisingly (well surprisingly to many), I am not overly concerned about being alone on Christmas, although my extended family are having minor strokes at the thought. Instead, I'm looking at it from a very positive slant. (I told my lovely phlebotomist today I was having a solo Christmas and week this year, and she was as equally excited, listing off all the fantastic benefits of being sans family, this is why I love her. Well that and the fact she can find my veins every time).

You see it's been many a year since we've been up to QLD thanks to my health issues and that's where all Mr Grumpy's family hail from. After much nagging encouraging on my behalf, he finally booked tickets for himself and the boys to head up there for the week. Here's hoping they enjoy themselves.

Why am I am glad they are going? It's simple. They need a break. A break from me and the stress of organising their lives around my health issues. They need to be free of being carers for their decrepit wife and mother. They need a chance to just relax. I want that for them. I want my youngest to swim to his hearts content. I want my eldest to have his first beer with his uncle. I want Mr Grumpy to flake out in front of the TV and watch the Boxing Day Test. I want them to go out for tea if they want, free of worrying about whether I can attend, or if I'll be able to eat anything on the menu. I want them to head out to the beach or for an ice cream. I want them to have normal for a while. I want them to be free of the stress of me, even if only for a week.

It's not to say I am a constant burden. I don't need my hand held everyday or need someone to scrub my back in the shower (although I know Mr Grumpy would be up for that one!) But I know that I, and my health, are a constant unspoken presence that plays in the back of their minds. They need a break from that, and I want it for them.

Personally, I am looking forward to be alone. I know that sounds weird. But everything I do in life, I now do accompanied. I don't go to the shops or even the post office alone. It's never just me. As someone who valued their independence, always needing a hand holder can be claustrophobic at times. It's got nothing to do with the person holding my hand. I am grateful every day that I have a family who support me as I know there are many who are doing this very much alone. But some days I could scream from frustration at not being able to do regular every day activities alone. I am a 39-year-old woman who needs someone to take her to the doctor or the hairdresser, or to simply look at clothes at a local boutique. I feel a burden. I can't relax as I feel like I am wasting their time, even though I know they don't think of it in that way. But my own guilt is a powerful force and it often gets in the way of reason.

A week by myself means that not only am I not inconveniencing anyone else, but I can do things when I want. If I want to have breakfast at midday or dinner at 10pm I can. I can watch the carols without the constant commentary and whinging from the peanut gallery. If I need to sleep I can, safe in the knowledge that I don't have to be organising meals or doing loads of washing. If I want to pot a plant, or paint a picture or watch crap TV I can without having to worry about saving up enough energy to organise family chores like food. I can eat chocolate cake for breakfast or subsist on only ham and turkey for a week and it wont bother anyone. I can swan around in my undies if it's hot or play my apparently annoying music as loud as I want. I may not leave the house for the week as I am still unable to drive more than about 5minutes, but there is a freedom involved that is hard to explain unless you are chronically ill and dependent on others.

The Christmas aspect is kind of a side issue in comparison. Though not cooking the huge Christmas meal and having to put on my happy face whilst I can feel my body dying on the inside, for the extended family, will be lovely. Having to maintain my cool to assuage the fears of others is a burden I wont miss. No doubt on the day I will miss Mr Grumpy and the boys, and I reserve the irrational right to get shitty that they are out to dinner at a restaurant, but knowing they are having a great and relaxing time away will make up for that ten fold. Plus, I can always binge on chocolate to soothe any sookiness. And the dogs aren't going to judge me as I sit as a blubbering mess surrounded by empty chocolate boxes. (Not that this is my plan. I intend to be relaxing and enjoying myself, but it's always good to have a caveat in there somewhere).

I have my food worked out. There is to be duck and turkey and ham. There is to be seafood. I am even thinking of taking the risk and making a mojito or a margarita. I have planned my GF chocolate cake/pudding substitute. Because it is all about the food. I wonder if I can teach Thor to pull a cracker?

My emergency plans are sorted, both health and bushfire.

I can't wait to hermit it for a week.

Now if I can keep my parents from freaking out and landing on my doorstep it should all be good. I have been firm, but it seems they are having trouble with understanding that I want some me time or that I am fine about being alone. Yet again it is only Mr Grumpy and the boys who get it, and get me. Maybe I can get him to sit them down and have the talk.

Here's wishing everyone a merry and joyous Christmas. May you have a symptom minimal day and have nothing but love, laughter and happiness.

Merry Christmas from the Land down Under.

(source: news.com.au)

Cheers
Michelle :)

PS I will be having a bit of a blogging/social media break for a few weeks. Time to sit back and smell the roses. Should be back mid-January.

And a little Australian Christmas Tune from the fabulous Paul Kelly.

Christmas suggestions for your favourite Dysautonomia patient

I have heard of these strange people who are actually organised with their Christmas shopping. People who start planning for the next Christmas on the 26th December, and start purchasing gifts for their loved ones shortly after. Freaks.

I am not one of these people.

I am the person who even pre-sick was running around like a chook with their head cut off in the last couple of days before the 25th, freaking out that they haven't managed to buy all the necessary gifts. Since becoming sick much of this shopping has been delegated to a poor Mr Grumpy, who loooooves shopping (insert large amounts of sarcasm right here).

However, this past year I discovered the joy of Internet shopping. I know, I've got my finger on the pulse, right? Just call me hipster of the morning, up to date with all the latest newfangled things. So this year I thought I'd put together a list of my favourite Internet shopping spots and gift ideas.

Being chronically ill and often stuck going stir crazy inside my four walls, my shopping needs differ a little to that of regular folk. For me it's all about the pampering and beautifying of my small pocket of the world. 

I should add I am in no way associated with these brands. They are simply the ones I've had personal experience with and/or have on my own wishlist. 

PJ Alternatives:

I spend a ridiculous amount of time in pjs these days. When you are chronically ill you want to be comfortable and old battered flannelette pjs fit the bill perfectly. However, these can leave you in a bit of a funk. Prior to going into hospital in August I surveyed my collection of threadbare, yet comfortable, pjs and realised I really didn't want to be wearing them in public. So started my search for some cute pjs or pj alternatives. Luckily my search coincided with a tweet from the fabulous Claire Bowditch about Lazybones, be still my vintage loving heart.

Lazybones have some beautiful vintage inspired clothing and housewares. I have my eye on a number of their dresses not that I go many places anymore. I ended up buying quite a few pieces to take to hospital. Not pjs, but definitely comfortable and pretty alternatives (check out the Relax range). Mind you I also took in my red, and sparkly silver ballet flats to wear. Who says you can't look good in hospital? Now home, I wear them all the time (I'm actually wearing a pair of their pants and a cardi as I type). Comfort should never be underestimated and if you can match that with fashion, why not.

(comfy and pretty)

I am aware that many of us living with chronic illness are living on super tight budgets, being sick is an expensive business. But Lazybones do have quite a fabulous sale section where you can pick up many great pieces for a bargain. A quick review of the current sales and there are a lot of light, pretty and comfortable options for great prices. 

(I'm a complete sucker for any company that goes the extra mile. My order, complete with "brown paper packages tied up with strings....", well played Lazybones.)

I also have a thing for funky t-shirts and Threadless fit the bill. Again with a budget in mind they often have a $9.99 clearance range on offer. The designs cover a wide range of popular culture and geeky themes so fits me perfectly. I have quite a few of their t-shirts now and wear them on a regular basis. I will say it does take a while for them to make their way to Oz so if you want them for Christmas, order now. 

(Green Recycle t-shirt)

Bedding:

Just as we spend much time in pjs, those of us with chronic illness spend a lot of time in bed. Some beautiful bed linen can make it seem like less of a burden to be stuck in bed. Currently my bedroom is about as inspiring as old cardboard. The previous owners were either in love with 80's salmon/apricot vomit inducing paint/curtains/carpet/fixtures or got a great deal on an end of stock clearance sale. It's like we are living inside a house made entirely of salmon mousse. 

Recently I discovered the beautiful work of Peacocks and Paisleys. I love vibrant colours and patterns and have always loved the aesthetic of Indian fabrics. Her collection is stunning and made using hand block printed textiles from India. I am in love her Modern Bohemian collection, so pretty and vibrant. So now I am saving my pennies to purchase one of her lovely quilt covers, and maybe some curtains. If I can't get out to my garden on a regular basis, then I'm going to bring the garden inside. Okay so this isn't really a bargain option. But it is the kind of purchase that will last you a long time and I am willing to do my own version of layby (ie put any left over cash into my money jar until it starts to add up) to save up and buy such a lovely piece. 

(so pretty)

Body creams:

As regular readers know I am a huge fan of MOR Cosmetics. My sister first introduced me to MOR a couple of years ago via a care package she sent when I was going through a rather rough phase. Since then I have been a complete convert to the Marshmallow range, be it the body cream or the lip silk. I'm of the mind set if you find something you love why change. Recently, I purchased the perfume oil. This purchase coincided with a really rough health phase for me where I was stuck in bed for a number of days. Lifting my head was hard, let alone trying to rub in body cream (my usual pampering/feel better routine). But with the perfume oil I could do a quick dab and voila!, the beautiful Marshmallow fragrance with little to no effort. It's amazing how smells can make you feel better.

I love that they are a local Melbourne company, that they pay attention not only to the product but the packaging (too nice to throw away), have great customer service, and they were kind enough to support my last giveaway. Additionally, for the budget conscious they frequently have great deals for members. They also add little samples to your order. These are perfect to take along for hospital stays. And lets face it, you need a little pampering when you're in hospital.

(See I'm not joking when I say I love their products)

Chocolate:

My fondness for Lindt Excellence with A Touch of Sea Salt is well known. I still see this as the perfect Dysautonomia  present. It has dark chocolate which contains potassium, and salt, for which we are one of the few disorders where your cardiologist will strongly recommend increasing your intake. In my mind this is therefore a purely medicinal product. And a block is definitely budget friendly. 

I always have a stash in the fridge and the boys know to keep their hands off. I also cook with A Touch of Sea Salt, making everything from brownies to toasted sandwiches (if you haven't tried a toasted chocolate sandwich you haven't lived) or a fabulous hot chocolate with a pinch of cayenne. Lindt Australia were also kind enough to support my last give away, so they do have a special place in my heart. A while back Mr Grumpy visited one of their many stores and brought me home some delicious Excellence 70% chocolate macarons/delice. They were fabulous (hint hint Mr Grumpy). I did see on their site they have a salted caramel version, again surely this is a perfect gift for the Dysautonomia patient! 

Water Bottle:

If you have Dysautonomia you need a reusable water bottle, so why not make it pretty. There are multiple brands that offer cute reusable water bottles these days. You can pretty much find something for everyone. I stumbled across the Thermos water bottles by chance a few years ago. I always think of Thermos as being for hot drinks or soups, so was surprised to find they do one for cold drinks. I love mine. It keeps the water icy cold (great coming into Summer) and is pretty much indestructible. Mine has be thrown around, dropped, kicked, you name it, and still works and looks a treat. 

(This is the one I have but they have many different styles. I also quite like this one and this one)

These products pretty much fit my daily life, pj alternatives, lovely bedding, body creams, chocolate and water. I don't have much in the way of energy and I am at home 95% of the time. Sometimes it's just about making that time as pleasant as possible. 

Happy shopping.

Cheers

Michelle :)

The Perfect Bob Christmas Card

(©www.angelapascale.com)

There wasn't going to be another pre-Christmas post but when this popped up on my FB page I couldn't not share. Great work by talented illustrator, and fellow Bobette, Angela Pascale. Check out her blog, web page, or on FB. Thanks again for the Christmas chuckle Angela. :)

Merry Christmas everyone. :)

Oh and one for those of us who are organisationally challenged.

Christmas Cake in a Hurry over at The Sit Down Cook

Merry Crafty Christmas

Well it's that time of year again. Time to deck the halls and all that jazz. Not that we have halls in our weirdly set out home. I'll deck one of my three staircases, or alcovey bits. Whatever. As long as my home looks like Christmas threw up on it I'll be pretty happy.

In honour of my crafty plan to pretend I don't have a chronic illness (some use a dissociative fugue, me, I'm trying the hot glue gun of bedazzling possibilities), I have injected a dose of the homemade to our Christmas decorations this year. Mr Grumpy is stoked of course. Or at least that's what I think his resigned head shaking was trying to convey. It is amazing what you can do with a gum tree branch, some spray paint, glitter, some bamboo, greeting cards, a hot glue gun, and a dose of the crazies/fumes from overheated glue. Take that Martha!

I do hope everyone has a fabulous day filled with love, laughter and ham, glorious, glorious Christmas ham. My mouth is already salivating at the promise of that pink salty nirvana. No doubt I will once again spend my days chasing the porcine dragon with wilful abandon until there is naught but a sad stripped white bone remaining, or a ham coma ensues. There will be other culinary delights of course, but none truly compare to the Babe version of China white, wrapped lovingly in its vinegar soaked ham bag. Oh Christmas, why must you come but once a year?

On that note of insanity I bid you all a Merry Christmas and a fantastic New Year, dear readers. Thank you for all your support this past year. This little blog has grown far beyond my expectations over the past year and it's all down to you, my fantastic, gorgeous, rocking readers. 

Big hugs and big love to you all.

Michelle :)

PS. Don't forget to head on over
to The Sit Down Cook
for some tasty, homemade spelt pasta.

And a little treat for those who like a touch of the macabre with their Christmas cheer.

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year.

Wishing all my lovely readers a very Merry Christmas.  May the year ahead be filled with love, laughter and joy for you all. 

Big love.
Michelle :)

The Obligatory Christmas Post.

Well, you knew it was coming. There had to be a Christmas post describing the varied delights of the time of good will to all men (and women, and hermaphrodites and transgender, and all those along the continuum). No doubt there will also be an obligatory New Years post, it's a given really. I must admit I do love Christmas. There have been good bits and bad bits, and perhaps most importantly there has been ham.

Christmas has a smell that you can recognise anywhere. It's a mixture of cinnamon, nutmeg, all spice, Grand Marnier, and flustered present buying stress sweat. I love the decorations and the food. The novelty of people actually making an effort to smile and be cheerful. The traditional Christmas Eve movie, National Lampoons Christmas Vacation. You know exactly what is going to happen yet you laugh every time. It's the one time of the year that I really love all the tacky trimmings. At the hospital where I used to work, we would dress up one of the skeletons with tinsel and baubles and he would sit with pride next to the front desk. It wasn't really Christmas until he was sitting out there topped with his Santa hat. No one cares how silly they look with their tinsel wrapped hair and flashing reindeer earrings. Everyone's a child, regardless of whether they are 5 or 95. Joy is in the air and the closest thing to bar humbug are those black and white lollies you buy at the sweet shop. Well at least for the most part.

Pre-Christmas Bob made his presence known. A simple trip to the den of iniquity also known as the Knox shopping centre, was punctuated by frequent trips to the rancid public conveniences to remove all traces of food from my body. I do fear I may have mislaid a liver or at least a kidney down that pungent porcelain but I was not in the mood to search and am willing to live with whatever I have lost. Whilst this does not in and of itself scream Christmas, I did get to experience all this with the joyous tunes of Deck the Halls, Jingle Bells and Joy to the World, screeching out of the tinny speakers in the water stained roof of the bathroom.

Ah the joys of Christmas shopping, the goodwill in the car park, the kindness shown to shop assistants. Oh wait a minute that's bizarro world. This is the worst part of Christmas. The time of year when people feel it is their right to screech like banshees and behave like morally bankrupt, self-centred two-year-olds all in the aim of buying a Wii or a copy of Twilight, to ensure they and only they have the Christmas of their dreams. There was the rude middle-aged woman berating a poor shaking pimple-covered shop assistant who was trying his best to maintain his composure. She ripped the receipt from his hand, screamed over him as he tried to explain and was generally a complete cow. Call me crazy but I don't think that is the best demonstration of Christmas spirit when buying Lego for your grand kids. There were the people swearing at each other in the car park because someone stole someone's car park. I do think the height of Christmas spirit are the thieves who break into people's cars at shopping centres to steal the presents in the boot. Bar Humbug! Thankfully David did the majority of shopping this year or I think I would have been emotionally defeated weeks before the big day.


I managed to bake and chop and stir and blitz with minimal damage. Though I will have to admit that my attempts at Turkish Delight ended up more comparable to 1980's version of The Blob than the delicate rosewater delight I was aiming for. It is actually possible to bake away to your hearts content with a nuclear powered air conditioner (sorry global warming but it's Christmas and there must be mince tarts), a chair in front of the oven, bucket loads of salty potato chips and a never ending supply of cold water. Collapsing, vomiting and nanna naps on tiles are optional. No? You don't believe me. Okay compulsory then.

The house managed to get decorated and thanks to the efforts of my industrious mother, the house was cleaned before the invasion of the hordes from the west, I mean the family. They know I love them, I'm just rather comfortable with our quiet and sedentary life. The addition of 7 extra people, including 3 children aged 4, 5, and 6, was like being strapped into one of those astronaut training centrifuges going at about 50 g (note that 3-6 g sustained for more than a few seconds can cause blackouts and death and you kinda get the idea).


Bob was kept relatively at bay on the big day thanks in part to a promise of gold, my left kidney, a date with a Victoria's Secret Model and my first born son (sorry Thomas, but it's just one of those things). There may have also been some influence from my rash decision to up my meds for the big day, for which I have well and truly been chastised by my very disappointed, zero-tolerance body.

My long thought out decision to wear a sleeveless baby doll top to accommodate for both the traditional Australian Christmas day heat and the obligatory ham and turkey OD was found to have a large flaw. Halfway through the day my eldest was nice enough to point out that if I bent over you could clearly see my mid-30s, 2 children, womanly pancakes. Thereby turning to stone the unlucky viewer. This is not the first time my children have chosen to inform me of my poor fashion sense at an inopportune time. Pre-Christmas my youngest decided to inform me that the maxi-dress I was wearing was completely see through. He had noticed this earlier in the day but decided to burst my blissful bubble of ignorance halfway through our weekly shop at the local supermarket.

I was very impressed with my culinary efforts on the day, so I must brag a little. There was turkey cooked to perfection. Potatoes and pumpkin baked in a bath of chicken stock, herbs, garlic and large globs of butter, which they soaked up and caramelised to gooey goodness. Warm roast duck salad with chilli, lime and general Asiany delights. I forked out for the good ham, and it was good, oh so good. Five days later I am vaguely aware through the haze of my ham induced high that I may be about to OD. A shudder of fear runs through me every time I look at the dwindling leg sitting in my fridge. Deep down I know that each slice brings me closer to the inevitable time when this pink salty nirvana will be over and the withdrawal will begin. Yet I continue to chase the porcine dragon with wilful abandon. There were other gastronomic delights, babaganoush, macadamias roasted with rosemary and sea salt, triple cream brie, smoked salmon and capers, but none truly compare to the Babe version of china white wrapped lovingly in its vinegar soaked ham bag.


I managed to have a glass of champagne, scored with the presents and overall the day went pretty well. No family feuds erupted and the kids didn't fight, scream or cry despite the ingestion of copious amounts of sugar. The good crystal survived the day, the dogs didn't attack the children despite repeated poking and even the teenager managed to speak in full sentences rather than the normal grunts. There was genuine laughter and smiles throughout the day and even after about 10 hours of family bonding we were truly disappointed that the day was over. If that's not a Christmas miracle I don't know what is.
So there you go that was Christmas for this year and we all managed to survive. The aftermath wasn't pretty but that's always the case, Bob or no Bob.

So I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas.

OK that's it I'm off to nourish my ham addiction.

Michelle :)