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.

Spelt, walnut and cranberry hot cross buns

After many requests, I give you my recipe for spelt, walnut and cranberry hot cross buns. Now given that I mostly cook by eye or feel I had to guesstimate some of my measurements. For example, I use two largish handfuls of walnuts and I sort of sprinkle my cinnamon and all spice until it looks right. So you may need to fiddle with the measurements a bit until you get the right amount for you.

My arms of patheticness mean that I can no longer kneed dough or chop things. Instead I use a Kitchenaid to mix my dough and a food processor to chop my fruit and nuts. I also use a square silicon cake tin as nothing sticks and I don't need to paper or butter the tin. And a trusty plastic re-sealable sandwich bag makes a fantastic stand in for a piping bag. They freeze really well and I will often put half in the freezer for later use so they don't go off.

Making these usual uses up a full day of spoons. But they really are worth the effort.

Ingredients:

Buns.
700gm plain spelt flour ( I use an organic white spelt)

80gm castor sugar

2 sachets dry yeast

2 teaspoon cinnamon 

1 teaspoon all spice

180gm dried cranberries

200gm walnuts

pinch of salt

1 teaspoon vanilla essence

100gm butter

300ml milk (I use a lactose-free milk by Zymil)

1 egg

Crosses.

2 heaped tablespoons spelt extra
water

Glaze.
1/4 cup castor sugar
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
water

Method.

To make buns.
1. Mix flour, sugar, salt, yeast, cinnamon, and all spice, in a bowl.
2. Chop up walnuts and cranberries (I do this in my food processor as my hands are too weak to cut them) and stir through flour mix.
3. Place butter and milk in a saucepan over low heat. Remove as soon as butter is melted.
4. Make a well in the centre of the flour, fruit and nut mix and pour in warm butter/milk liquids. Mix through.
5. In a separate bowl beat egg and vanilla together. Add to dough.
6. Kneed mixture for 10 mins by hand. (I use my Kitchenaid with it's dough hook as I can no longer mix by hand. It is a rather heavy dough so if using a machine to kneed dough, do it in 3 batches for 5 mins.)
7. Place dough in a oiled bowl and cover with Gladwrap. Set aside in a warm spot for 40mins.
8. After 40 mins cut the dough into 16 equal pieces. Lightly kneed each piece and form into a ball. Place all 16 pieces into a square cake pan.
9. Cover with Gladwrap and set aside for another 40mins.
10. At the 30min mark pre-heat oven to 200C.

To make crosses.
11. Mix 2 heaped tablespoons of spelt flour with enough water to make a thickish paste.
12. Place mixture into a plastic sandwich bag.
13. Snip a corner off the bag.
14. Pipe mixture over risen buns to make crosses.

15. Place now crossed buns in oven for 20 mins. (I tend to turn mine 180 degrees at the 10 min mark to ensure equal browning.)

To make glaze.
16. Place sugar and extra cinnamon in heavy based saucepan.
17. Add a small amount of water to cover sugar.
18. Bring to boil and leave for 1-2mins and take off heat.

19. Take finished buns out of oven.
20. Whilst still in tin, brush glaze over hot buns.
21. Leave 10mins in tin before transferring to a wire rack to cool.
22. Toast and slather with butter. Enjoy!

Cheers

Michelle

And a good song to listen to whilst you chomp down on your fresh hot cross buns.

What's For Dinner Mum?

This is an old post I originally wrote for 12 More Pages back in 2010. I've only just realised I never put here on the blog, after searching and swearing for the past hour. So here it is.

(photo)

Ok I've decided to jump right into the day-to-day practical issues that haunt all of us with Bob. It's these bland and normal daily chores that often seem to cause the most grief. Making dinner. Who would have thought it could become such a drama. Yet each day when that time rocks around and that simple sentence is spoken aloud “What's For Dinner Mum?”, it's just another reminder of the obstacles we have to face. I'm sure someone without a Bob in his life would wonder at the ability of such a boring daily chore to arouse such feelings of dread, guilt and hopelessness. For those poor buggers who innocently utter these words please note that you may have your spleen pulled out through your left nostril on occasion. It's nothing personal. But those four little words can be like fingernails on a chalk board some days. So the question remains, What is it about dinner that does this to us? 

The time of day: ok I know for most of us mornings are like diving head first into the bowels of hell. There's something about Bob and mornings that just doesn't mix. It's the whole oil and water thing and I'm sure Bob is one of those trans-saturated-clog your arteries kind of fats. But the late afternoons and evenings can be just as bad. By that time you've spent very available drop of energy going to work (if you still can), getting kids to and from school and after school activities, attempting household chores and generally just making it through the day. The idea of then having to prepare a meal can feel like trying to scale Mt Everest in your Sunday Best. Where's my Tenzing Norga? 

The thought process: now it's time to think what can we eat? I couldn't count the times I've stood staring into the fridge trying to decide what we can eat. It doesn't matter that all the ingredients are there. You still have to put together a plan. You can't really make a meal out of oranges and butter (though I'm sure that's someone else's idea of bliss). This means you have to use what little brain reserves you have to put together something edible and hopefully nutritional. Though sometimes just edible will do. Eat a banana if you want nutritional. And the enigma of trying to coordinate the mashed spuds to be ready at the same time as the steak. Is it really possible? I'm beginning to think it's an urban myth. 

The standing: oh the dreaded standing. Gravity is so not our friend. Bob makes standing complex at the best of times but add in actually trying to undertake another task and we can have Chernobyl all over again. If you're lucky you get the shakes while standing at the bench and you get to play the ever delightful Russian Roulette with your fingers and the knives. The more complex the meal the more standing involved and that's just bad. 

The heat: heat. Oh heat. You are my kryptonite. Unless you are sticking to salads or go for the raw-marcrobiotic-vege diet thingy, you have to deal with heat when preparing the meal. How can a beautiful golden mouth-watering roasted potato fill me with dread? Or worse yet why can standing next to the stove making rich gorgeous spaghetti bolognaise make me want to cry? Damn you Heat! (Think dramatic Lorne Green pose right about now). 

The Nausea: oh nausea my moody friend. Bob and Nausea hang out a lot together and they can make for a delightful food preparation time. The smell of food, or some days just the thought, can make you want to vomit. It's an undeniable mathematical certainty. Lets see if I remember the formula, it goes something like this: 

Bob + (end of day exhaustion + standing + heat) (smell/thought of food) = nausea³⁰⁰. 

This can make trying to prepare dinner a bit of a “pesky” chore. 

Ground Hog Day: and perhaps worst of all, even if you do make it through, you know it will all happen again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next and........ Just call me Sisyphus. This is the reality of the horror show that is dinner. 

So what can you do? Legally you kinda have to feed the kids and the husband or you might get a visit from child services or the police. That motherly gene always kicks in to fill us with guilt if we don't provide for our family like Martha Stuart. Damn you Martha and your delightfully presented gourmet meals. I can think of a number of places I'd like to place your handcrafted personalised seating cards right about now. But I digress, here are a few of my top tips: 

The Chair: invest in a chair that'll fit in your kitchen. Simple I know, you feel like a fool that first time, but it's worth it. I have prepared many a meal sitting on a chair next to the stove (and on occasion sitting on the floor). 

Water: guzzle it. Chug it down, before, during and after. Stick an IV in your arm and suck it straight into your veins (well that might be a bit excessive but you get the point). We all know the benefits of water but this is one of those times where we need to amp it up. 

The re-heats: if you find that you have a day where you feel a little better (notice I didn't insult anyone by saying a good day). Make meals in bulk that you can freeze. Things like soup and stews are fantastic re-heated, they usually taste better the next day anyway. They can also be jam packed with vegies so you have the nutritional thing sorted and you can use cheap meats, and lets face it anything cheap is good these days. Even if you're just having a normal cooking day. Double the mixture to freeze the left-overs. Then when those days come, and you know they will, you are set and Mr Microwave can do all the work whilst you lie curled up on the couch. 

Meal choice: this is the one it's taken me a long time to work out (I can be rather slow on the uptake). You don't need to have a fancy new meal every night. Prior to Bob I was a bit of a foodie so this has been a hard lesson. But if you think back to our childhoods, it was pretty much meat and three veg every night and we made it through all right (well apart from Bob, but we'll ignore that inconvenient fact). One pot is the way to go. Stick everything in at once and let it take care of itself. Stews, soups, even roasts are all meals that once the prep is done you have to do very little else. You can even buy pre-chopped vegies these days. However, if you decided that French crepes or risotto are the way to go (and that's your right), then I truly hope you enjoy lying on the gooey kitchen tiles discovering all the little bits of food that have hidden away under your fridge and have formed their own furry colony and are plotting to take over the world. 

Get the Kids to Cook: despite what we were taught to think, kids can do things for themselves and why can't cooking be one of those things. Let face it if they can program an ipod or send a text to 20 people at once (how do you do that?) they can manage to make a meal despite all their protestations to the negative. “But it tastes better when you make it Mum”, I think not, your arms aren't painted on my dearest child. If they are younger then maybe they can help with the prep work, the chopping or mixing. If they are older there is no reason why they can't follow a recipe and make diner for the family. This also gives them a skill for when they leave home. Do we really want them to head off into the world alone surviving on Pepsi and two-minute noodles? It also gives them a sense of helping out when they can't actually help you feel better. It's gives them back a little bit of control and this is healthy for them. Both of my boys cook and I've had everything from scrambled eggs with spinach, hollandaise and smoked salmon to roasted chicken with oregano and tomatoes and homemade strawberry lassi. Now that's better than a restaurant, and no need to gussy myself up. 

The BBQ: The epitome of maledom, the BBQ is yet another way to make dinner preparation more bearable. Let the testosterone fly and let the males of the house light up the BBQ to cook. Pretty much anything can be prepared on a BBQ these days. Even if it is only the meat, it means that all that heat is kept out of the house and that is a bonus not to taken for granted. For those men with Bob I know it can be hard to relinquish the BBQ tongs to those of us in the oestrogen camp but its worth it. And besides you can sit in a chair with a cool glass of water and direct your wife/girlfriend/sister/daughter in the intricacies of the BBQ. We'll even let you believe that we couldn't have done it without you. 

Takeaway: and if all else fails, that's why God invented takeaway. It's ok to have takeaway. We wont burn in hell for all eternity if we present our families with a limp, greasy, happy meal. It doesn't make us less of a parent or wife. Isn't it better to have takeaway and have Mum able to walk tomorrow, than stubbornly persisting with cooking and being laid up for three days (been there, really slow learner). Plus these days you don't have to just go with Maccas or KFC, many restaurants and cafe's also have takeaway/home delivery services, so you can have a decent meal. 

Now I'm not saying I have this all sorted. As I have said I am a work in progress, but I'm getting there. It can be hard to relinquish these sort of tasks, as much as we may have hated them pre-Bob. We're not talking logic here. It's just another little piece of our old lives gone. Another little reminder of the changes that have occurred. But when you look at it with fresh eyes, it's just food. Wouldn't we say to someone else in our position that it's not that important? Isn't it better to be able to spend time with our families than cook a bowl of Martha's famous Cape Cod Bouillabaisse? If its a choice between sitting and watching my kids play sport whilst eating luke warm hot dogs, or sitting at home killing myself preparing a nutritionally balanced, gourmet dinner, it's that botulin brewing hot dog every time. The kids will remember you at their games years down the track, but wont have a clue what you cooked for dinner that Tuesday night in August 2009.

Cheers 
Michelle :)


Okay so the connotation may be a little different but I listen to a lot of Nina Simone, often whilst cooking. And it does mention sugar ;) 

What's For Dinner Mum? (12 More Pages Guest Post)

Ahhh... the joys of domestic duties when you have a chronic illness. Sometimes you have to laugh, even if the laughter is hysterical. I'm guest posting on 12 More Pages again this week. Remember to check it out for some great Dysautonomia information.

Ok I've decided to jump right into the day-to-day practical issues that haunt all of us with Bob. It's these bland and normal daily chores that often seem to cause the most grief. Making dinner. Who would have thought it could become such a drama. Yet each day when that time rocks around and that simple sentence is spoken aloud “What's For Dinner Mum?”, it's just another reminder of the obstacles we have to face. I'm sure someone without a Bob in his life would wonder at the ability of such a boring daily chore to arouse such feelings of dread, guilt and hopelessness. For those poor buggers who innocently utter these words please note that you may have your spleen pulled out through your left nostril on occasion. It's nothing personal. But those four little words can be like fingernails on a chalk board some days. So the question remains, What is it about dinner that does this to us?

The time of day: ok I know for most of us mornings are like diving head first into the bowels of hell. There's something about Bob and mornings that just doesn't mix. It's the whole oil and water thing and I'm sure Bob is one of those trans-saturated-clog your arteries kind of fats. But the late afternoons and evenings can be just as bad. By that time you've spent very available drop of energy going to work (if you still can), getting kids to and from school and after school activities, attempting household chores and generally just making it through the day. The idea of then having to prepare a meal can feel like trying to scale Mt Everest in your Sunday Best. Where's my Tenzing Norga?

(Read More...)