Ringing of the School Bell

Boy #2 starts school tomorrow. Tomorrow? How did that happen? I just went to check on him in bed and he seems so small when he's lying down that I can barely make him out under the duvet. How can it be that he's ready to make first his foray into the big bad world when a too-hot risotto can still reduce my hungry boy to frustrated tears, and when after his bath I can bundle him up in a towel and carry him into the bedroom to find his pyjamas?

And yet. He's totally ready for it.

He has an answer for everything, does Mr Independant, and loves nothing more than to mix it up with his older bigger brother just for the hell of it if he feels things are getting a little boring. He plans to be a pizza-delivering train driver when he grows up (well, it's a niche, I suppose), and when he can, helps out with what he considers 'manly' tasks around the place whilst adopting a deep, matter of fact tone of voice. He likes to make conversation whilst on the loo when making a delivery (cough) during which he will make pronouncements on trains, planes, and the state of world in general. (I call being on the receiving end of this conversation 'being in the presence of Deep Thought'...)

He may get himself into trouble frequently but he knows the value of a prompt apology; after an unfortunate incident on holiday at his grandparents involving boistrous play, some floor-length curtains and a curtain rail that ended up where it shouldn't have, he was quick to own-up, quick to say sorry, and then just as quick to forget it and get excited over the subsequent opportunities that this accident afforded for diy. There was plenty of standing around with hands on hips, and speaking in a deep matter of fact voice whilst passing Grandad various tools to replace the rail. My father said wistfully to me afterwards; "He doesn't mess about, Boy #2, does he? Says sorry, draws a line under it - 'that's life, you know grandad' - and moves on. And expects you to, too..."

We looked at each other, simultaneously realising that that's a skill a lot of adults have yet to acquire.

All in all, I think Boy #2 will be OK when he starts school tomorrow.

I, on the other hand...

In which I trawl through my draft archive...

My blogging mojo has stayed on holiday, it seems. Apparently there is a lot of this about right now, so I count myself in good company. However, that doesn't get away from the fact that the longer I leave it between posts the harder it gets, so here's one I made earlier and stored away in times of more plenty - at the end of last year, actually. In desperation and in search of inspiration, I just read it through this evening and despite our change of location, some of it (no names, no pack drill ,but cereal bowls and hormones may be involved) still seems relevant...

I feel as if I should have a sandwich board around my neck that reads:

'Treat with caution; Hormonal Female on the loose. May bite. Approach at your own risk'.

I started the day smoothly enough, but mid-morning bang! The Hormone fairy came to visit (any men reading, look away now) and I morphed from a fairly reasonable human being into a teenage witch (substitute 'w' with 'b' if you feel inclined). Not the normal fairly reasonable witch I've come to expect over the last few years. oh no. Instead her spikier cousin, freshly pissed off by who knows what and who, it seems, has a lot of unanswered QUESTIONS that no-one is able to answer. Or perhaps, they just don't want to get close enough to hear what the questions are. I know you don't want to know either (oh look, Aunty Paranoia has arrived too, how lovely!), but I'm going to ask them anyway...

Like...

How can a short walk with a preschooler, billed pre-departure as an exciting 'expedition' to the post office (I know, the glamour of my life knows no bounds) so quickly descend into a shouty stampy argument on the pavement outside our house over whether it's possible to scoot wearing new gloves. Even when they do look like fishes.

Like...

How long does a person need to stare vacantly into space to convince the older lady in front of them in the post-office queue that they they really DON'T want to engage in conversation about the second older lady who just stopped the queue-standing first older lady to ask if her fleece (featuring an attractive print of cats and dogs) had been hand-made for her? Would you think that would mean vacant space-staring would be required all the way to the counter, for the complete half hour it would have taken to reach it? I mean, I'm asking that question because I actually don't know; I bailed after 5 minutes of expectant looks and hopeful mutterings about long-dead cats and dogs thrown in my direction (I just have one of 'those' faces, it seems, even when I'm choc-full of Nastiness hormones) and headed to the bakers for a restorative ring donut which only made me feel dirty and used once I'd eaten it and - oh god...

Like...

Is it really so hard to put a dirty cereal bowl in the dishwasher rather than just leaving it on the work surface? I mean, IS IT??? IS IT???

Like...

How can I seemingly miraculously have been cured of my craving for chocolate and sweet stuff (I'll take this morning's donut under advisement, your honour), not really have indulged in either for around 3 weeks, and HAVE LOST NO WEIGHT? Tell me, HOW??? In fact, how can it be that I have in fact apparantly put weight on in the last day or so and....

Oh.

Right.

Which leads me to my last question....

How can a 42 year old woman forget something so obvious that occurs every month, for goodness' sake?

(And no, it wasn't pregnancy. Rather the opposite...)

Little Dish & the Russian Ingredients Challenge...

So, it's review time again. Last summer, when I was (sob) still living in London, Little Dish were kind enough to send me some ready meals for my boys to try. The taste test was - mostly - a success, and I blogged about it here. Not so long ago, they got back in touch and asked if this time I would be interested in reviewing the 'Little Dish Favourites Cookbook'.

Now, I live in Russia these days. (You might have noticed - that fact has featured on The Potty Diaries once or twice...) And whilst there are many things you CAN easily buy here, like, um, well, honey... and umm vodka, healthy ready meals are not one of those things. Consequently scratch cooking is majorly back on the agenda in the Potski household (except for Fridays which is religiously Pizza night - I deserve one night in seven off, surely?) and having fallen into something of a rut on the meal-planning front, any and all inspiration is welcome.

So, the Little Dish Favourites Cookbook; how do I rate it?

The opening section on First Tastes contains simple and practical advice on weaning your baby. It probably wouldn't do as the only book in your repertoire, but it contains easy purees and is a great place to start, especially if you're a first time mum and have no idea where that might be.

It does contain a recipe for homemade chicken stock and whilst I have nothing against that per se I would say to all new mums introducing solids for the first time: on the subject of home-made chicken stock; DON'T DO IT. Your house will stink, you will stink, and since Waitrose (amongst other places) now sells a perfectly good salt, additive and preservative free alternative, buy a couple of packs there, stash one in the freezer for when you next need it and save yourself a whole heap of time and effort. (Sorry Annabel Karmel and any other Domestic Goddesses reading this, but life is just too short to make your own chicken stock...).

The main bulk of the recipes come under the Family Dishes section and in the interests of properly reviewing this book, I decided that rather than just reading it and making my mind up, I would walk the walk and use it to cook from. I chose one recipe per day for 5 days this week, and here are the results (It would have been 6 but, come on, Friday is pizza night after all...). So. What did I cook, and how did it go?

Sunday: GG's Chicken Supreme (p 78)

This was easy to make (even when having to substitute Russian ingredients like Smetana for the soured cream), and it was great to know that having put it together the evening before, I had minimal fuss on Sunday evening to pull dinner out of the hat. Plus it was absolutely delicious. We all loved it - even fussy Boy #1. I will definitely make this again.

Monday: Monty's Favourite Fish Fingers (p54)

Not a success. In fact, after my first bite I took pity on my sons and told them they didn't have to eat it, and we dined handsomely on vegetables and ham instead; however, this is much more down to the completely rubbish quality of white fish generally available here than anything wrong with the recipe. In actual fact I would expect this recipe to work fine with most fish you could get from a fish counter in the UK.

Tuesday: Chicken Enchilas (p76)

Pretty yummy. Boy #2 and I wolfed it down, Boy #1 - after initial negotiations concerning non-consumption of the flour tortilla had been concluded - did the same. With the exception of the tortilla, obviously. (What it did contain, which he usually never eats, was cheese. He didn't notice. This is a Result in my book - it's going on my List).

Wednesday: Easy Fish in Foil (p50)

I know, it's not fair to make the book run the fish gauntlet twice but I'm looking for any way I can to make the fish available here palatable. This time I used imported frozen salmon (from Norway), so the start point was a bit better, but I have to say the reaction from Boy #1 was still wholly unexpected. He pronounced the first bite 'Delicious!' and came back for seconds. Yesss!

Thursday: Spanish Tortilla (p122)

No fish today, and I decided to give ourselves a break from genetically modified meat with genetically modified eggs instead (seriously; you should see the size of the average chicken breast here. It would dwarf many turkeys back home...). This recipe was - OK. I enjoyed it, as did Husband who ate more than half of it without pausing for breath, but the Boys objected to the use of parsley and I would probably leave that out when I make it again for them (which I will). Again, it contained cheese and again, Boy #1 didn't notice (or at least, didn't identify that as one of the things he didn't like about it).

Overall then, I would give this book around 8 / 10. I will use it again, and already have my eye on some of the other recipes, so culinary boredom has been postponed for a while longer in the Potski household. Thankyou, Little Dish!

This was a sponsored post. (I got a free copy of the book, in other words).

Fisherwomen's tales

God, these summer holidays are dragging on a bit. Aren't they? I mean, I love my sons and everything but after a day as Camp Ents Officer, by the time evening comes around I'm too exhausted to even think about coming up with original thought to put on the blog. So I am - as you may have noticed - grasping for inspiration wherever I can find it.

Luckily for me there are loads of great bloggers out there with far more interesting stuff to say than I have, and today's shot in the arm came to me courtesy of the fantastic Troutie (who's been featured on The Potty Diaries before as British Mummy Blogger of the Week). Today she posted about having possibly her last pre-arrival of 2nd baby massage, and this put me in mind of a story told to me by a very good friend about what happened to her husband once on holiday.

At the time they were in the middle of an impossibly romantic and glamorous trans-continental relationship. He was living in Australia, and she was in London. They used to meet in fabulous places and 'catch-up' (if you know what I mean). On this particular holiday, they met at a well known spa in Thailand; and during the holiday my friend S found out to her horror that her unreconstructed bloke of a beloved had never had a massage. As a special treat, she arranged for him to have one, and decided to have one herself at the same time.

They duly went in for their relaxing experiences. As they came out, she asked him what he thought of it. "All right" he replied. "But my legs got very tired."

S was confused. "Your legs? What do you mean?"

"Well, you know. They were hanging off the end of the table. I had to keep them straight, and it wasn't that comfortable, to tell the truth..."

S questioned him more closely. And let's just say, never having had a massage before, he hadn't realised that the hole at the top of the table was for your face. He thought it was a receptacle for... something else. God only knows what the poor masseuse thought when she came in to find him lying there completely the wrong way around, but she chose not to correct him and so consequently he spent the whole 40-odd minutes lying half on, half off the table, holding on for all he was worth, trying to keep his legs straight....

Men, eh?

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

I've got that back to school feeling. Not surprising, I suppose; after the initial boost at getting home, being surrounded by my own stuff again, and being a little more in control of my own destiny, it's hit me that my 7 week vacation is over and now that Husband has gone back to work and there are no grandparents around to help take the strain, it's just me and the Boys.

The Boys, and me.

Oh, and the great pile of papers that has built up over the summer and which - once we finally get round to buying a filing cabinet - needs to be stowed away before I go MAD with the clutter... I can't believe we've managed without proper storage for it all in the 6 months since we got here, but I suppose the extra wide window sills in our Russian dacha had to be used for something. Having said that, I discovered on our return that Husband has now filled the available window space downstairs and co-opted the ones in our bedroom as additional filing space, and whilst I'm no feng-shui disciple, enough is enough. A filing cabinet it must be, and fast.

There's something about imposing a little order on the administrative crap in our lives, isn't there? Which is perhaps why I've been drawn to this British Mummy Blogger of the Week. TheImperfectionist - who's tag line is 'ticking one item off the to-do list... and adding four more on the bottom' - writes of herself that she is:

'Organising a family and realising that I'm not Mary Poppins, tragically.'

I love her recent post on entertaining the imperfect way, and foresee many happy hours using the weird converter on snowy afternoons when they start in here, sometime around the end of September, probably...

For the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note: it says 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too...)

Smug parents r not us...

Oh, how I laughed when I read this post by More Than Just a Mother a couple of weeks back.

But then, in the taxi on the way back from the airport on Thursday, Boy #2 was asleep and Boy #1 and were messing around. I was tickling him...

Him: "You're a mongrel."

Me: "A mongrel? Really?" (I have heard this one many times before; it's courtesy of one of the characters in Boy #1's Crocodile Hunter film). "Oh dear."

Him (aware that I was unimpressed): "No, you're not a mongrel. You're a muthamucker."

Me (Don't panic. Don't panic. Keep smiling. Don't over-react. If he knows this is bad it's going to reappear. This is what you get for spending the summer in England. Who did he hear this one from? His older cousin? On the tube? On the street? Where? Where?) "OK. Right. Who did you hear saying that?"

Him: "Boy #2."

I might have known...

Thoughts on returning to Moscow...

On the Compound

Gosh, it's quiet. The compound is like a ghost town. Where is everybody? (The answer to that question: still on holiday, mostly. Apparently you're nowhere as an expat unless you take a minimum of 8 weeks out of your country of residence over the summer... We took 7. We're toast.)

On the Weather

Great, it's raining. Wouldn't you know it; Moscow has the longest heatwave in living memory and the day we get back it clouds over, starts tipping down and the temperature drops by 15 degC.

On the Unpacking

One of the advantages of having a Husband travelling back and forwards between London and Moscow whilst you stay on holiday with the children is that you can give him all the 'supplies' you've bought (children's clothes, toiletries and hard-to-get groceries like tomato puree and G&B's chocolate) to take back with him on his interim visits. At least, it is an advantage as long as you keep track of what you've sent.

(Note to self #1; next time, keep track of what I've sent. I imagine we now have enough shower gel to last until some time after we eventually return to the UK).

(Note to self #2: the next time you buy a blender - or indeed any electrical appliance - and send it on ahead with a Husband in his useful role as advance party sherpa taking your purchases to Moscow before you get there yourself, remember; Test the damn thing before you send it. )

On the Washing

Thank heavens I did so much laundry whilst I was away with the children. At least I don't have that to deal with now...

In that case though, what's that overflowing over the top of the laundry basket?

Jesus. Did Husband wash one single shirt whilst I was gone?

OK, yes, that's true. Two is more than 'one single shirt'.

I suppose I shouldn't really wonder if he washed the sheets...

Ah. Well, at least stuffed down the back of the laundry basket (because it's unable to fit into it due to the Great Dirty Shirt Surfeit) is better than still on the bed. I suppose.

On the contents of the Kitchen:

Now, milk... Let's have a look in the fridge. Oh, you've got to be kidding me. How out of date is that ham?

And those eggs...?

And the butter?

And the - sod it. Let's just throw the whole lot out.

Damn, it's good to be home.

And actually, it is.