In honour of Father's Day; The Perfect...

... Bacon Sandwich, as created by Jamie Oliver.

We all know how to make a good bacon sandwich.  Of course we do.  But indulge this slightly homesick British expat please, and take a look at the original cheeky chappie expounding on the virtues of smoked back and streaky bacon, the importance of grilling from above rather than below, how we need to warm the loaf of bread, and the uses of Worcestershire and Tabasco sauces as key elements of a hangover cure.

I know what I'll be seeking out for breakfast when I'm over at BritMums Live! next weekend...  And yes, I AM talking about a proper British bacon sandwich.  Tut.  You lot have minds like sewers.

Things no mother should have to say before 8am...

On walking into my sons' bedroom first thing...


Good morning!

None of us really needs to see that, do we?

Well, if you want to see it, I suggest you look in the mirror.

No, I won't hold the mirror for you.

And your brother is not interested, either.

Well - if you're cold, getting dressed might help sort that out.

Into your clothes, not your dressing gown.

Yes I know your dressing gown is warm and cuddly but you're supposed to be getting up.

Yes, getting up now.  And then come in here and brush your teeth.

Now, please.

I've left your toothbrush on the basin in the bathroom.

Aren't you dressed yet?

NOW!

No, I don't like Shouty Mummy either.

No, she's not very lovely, is she?

Well, maybe if you did what you were asked to do the first, second, or third times, she might not make an appearance.

Yes, that is a good idea.

So, shall we try that?

I love you too, darling.

Yes, even that bit of you.

Yes, you do still need to get dressed...


*Disclaimer;  not all of the above may have been heard in the Potski home this morning.  But all of the above has been heard in the Potski home at some point before 8am on other, unidentified mornings...

Silent Sunday

It's not over 'till it's over... Saying goodbye to the baby years.

I am 46 years old.

I'm reminded of that every morning when I look in the mirror and seem to see a new grey hair blazing defiantly at me from what is still - for the moment - mostly brunette, or a new wrinkle when I hold my face 'just so' in the harsh morning light.  (Understandably I think, I tend to keep the holding of my face 'just so' to a minimum).

46 is not old.  There are still many things on my personal bucket list* that I fully intend to achieve, some of them, I hope, sooner rather than later.

I want to finish the novel I'm writing.  (I've reached 55K words, so it's no longer a distant dream but an achievable one, I think).  I want to find an agent to help me publish said novel (yes, still a distant dream, but I can always hope).  I want to climb dormant volcanoes in Indonesia, and walk in the Himalayas.  I want to speak Russian at least a little better than I do today.  I want to walk the Cotswold Way.  I want to learn to play the piano.

I want to go back to work in paid employment outside the home (not impossible, although it will be considerably easier to achieve back in the UK).  I want to eat sushi in Japan, and visit the red heart of Australia.  (I also want not to see any venomous creatures in that red heart...)  I want to go back with my husband to the hilltop in Kenya where we watched the sun set on Kilimanjaro during our honeymoon, and take our sons with us to experience the magnificence of Africa.  I want to finally get around to stretching the enormous dot painting we bought during our visit to Sydney 5 years ago over a frame and see it installed in splendour on the white walls of our flat in London.  And of course, I would quite like to lose half a stone.

All of these things are - one way or another - achievable.  Being 46 does not preclude any of them.

But what 46 does preclude, in my mind at any rate, is having another baby.

We have two amazing sons; our family is complete.  Adding to it is unthinkable; logistically, emotionally, physically.    I don't yearn with a passion for a third child; I do not want to go back into the mist and fog of those early baby days.

But every now and again, I have to admit that the thought that I will never cradle another baby - of my own - in my arms again makes me quite sad.

There's not much that I would say I am now too old to do, but having another baby fits right into that category.

It's not over 'till it's over.  But that?  It's over.


*With thanks to 'Talk about York' who got me thinking about bucket lists this morning

An expat confession...

Bless me, Interweb, for I have sinned.

I recently read a post on Buzzfeed which promised to tell me 'The 17 Best Ways to Annoy a British Person' expecting to chuckle my way through it.  Because we're easily annoyed, we Brits, aren't we?  Not in a 'stamping around, throwing our tennis racquet on the ground over losing matchpoint like MacEnroe did all those years ago' kind of a way*, but in a 'Tut.  Well, that's quite disappointing...' way, which is how we react to virtually everything from a mildly rainy day when we were promised blazing sunshine, to a traffic jam on our way to the airport causing us to miss our plane, to an empty biscuit tin, to being knocked out of the Football World Cup at the quarter final stage, or to bidding farewell to large parts of what were formerly outposts of the British Empire**.

But then I read #1 on the list; 'Make them a cup of tea without properly boiling the water first.'

And I thought - god help me - 'But I don't boil the water properly first, any more'...  I used to, you understand. And in the UK, I still do.  But here, I just go to the water cooler, which also gives out piping hot water (though it must be said, it's not boiling) and - oh, the horror - I just fill my cup straight up from there.  And then put a tea bag into it, wave it around a little, and I - I call that tea.

*hangs head in shame*

This got me thinking.  What else do I do now, as an expat, that I never used to do when I was living in Blighty?

I call pavements 'sidewalks'.  Because frankly if I said anything else, no-one here would understand what on earth I was talking about, but still...  Ditto (see that?  'Ditto'?  What's happening to me?) 'recess' for playtime, 'highway' for dual carriageway, and 'cookie' for biscuit to name but a few linguistic infractions.

If a traffic jam doesn't have more than 7 lines of traffic trying to squeeze into two marked lanes, I don't consider it worth remarking on.  It's just a normal intersection (Jesus, I meant 'junction'.  JUNCTION!).

I listen to Crap FM in the car.  Easy listening.  Smooooth music.  Because if I listened to anything like I used to in London (xfm, out of choice), I would be a nervous wreck in the afore-mentioned traffic jams.

I am capable of going to a dinner party or spending time with friends and not once mentioning my children's school, their next school, their previous school, or how any and all of these are fitting our children for their futures.  Which is quite refreshing, if you think about it.

I am also capable of spotting a new arrival from the UK at 20 paces at any social gathering, because they will be the one fretting about education and not understanding how the rest of us are so chilled out about it.  (Note: I am saving my fretting for the school year prior to our return to Britain, and since I don't know when that will be, why for now I just consider myself on sabbatical from the UK education system.  Shortsighted, I know...)

I make fantasy lists.  Not lists of what I would do if I were to win the lottery, oh no.  These lists are of what I would buy if I were to find myself magicked to the aisles of Sainsbury's or Waitrose on the Cromwell Road. Highlights include Marigold Organic Vegetable and - of course - Green & Black's chocolate, if you must know.

And, heaven help me, I encourage my kids to make fantasy lists too; 'We're going to England in a few weeks, boys; what shall we eat?'  (The answers to this one are many and varied and span the culinary gamut from Cornish pasties through roast lamb to sushi, with a quick stop on the way for Gran's lasagne and Oma's indonesian food).

I make scones.  Scones, god help me.  And what's worse - I like them and think to myself, 'Oh, that would be LOVELY with a cup of tea'.  Now, obviously scones have their place - smothered in clotted cream and strawberry jam (in that order, obviously), in a sea-front cafe in Devon or Cornwall, but in Moscow?  Really?

I make my own chutney.  A friend from the UK came to visit last summer and on discovering this fact her face said it all.  'Who are you, and what have you done with PM?'


If you are - or have been - an expat, what's your confession?


* which event, I am sure, still ranks highly in the  most embarassing incidents British people ever saw on tv because, really, for chrissake man, show a little decorum...

** I have it on good authority that this has been royalty's reaction to minor setbacks throughout the history of the British Empire, like losing America.  Or India.  Or - need I go on?

Question...

... what kind of fool, when about to start an entirely self-catered dinner party for 12 people, takes a look at the clock (5 minutes to go), the state of the kitchen (chaos), the heat on the barbeque which her husband forgot to start on time to cook the butterflied leg of lamb (not hot enough), and the table (a work in progress due to the fact that the dishwasher was started late and half the cutlery needed to make up the place settings is still inside it), and then thinks to herself;

'Oh, I've got that packet of fresh mint in the fridge, and loads of lemons.  Why don't I make some mint lemonade, from scratch, for those who aren't drinking wine?'

Face, palm.

Life is too short to...*insert personal preference*

Not long ago I wrote here of how I had in a moment of madness, briefly considered making chicken stock.  Myself.  From scratch.  (I know.  I'm shuddering just thinking about it).  If you missed the post, don't worry; I came to my senses before stinking out the entire neighbourhood.

Then, this evening, as I was sweating in the kitchen trying to char, peel and de-seed not one, not two, but fifteen peppers, I was forced to accept what I had long suspected to be true.

Life is also too short to char, peel and de-seed peppers.  In fact, it's too short to char, peel and de-seed ONE pepper, let alone 15.

This got me thinking.  There are a number of culinary efforts which, at the ripe old age of 46 I have decided are not good for my mental health.  Life, it seems, it too short...

1.  ...to cook shellfish at home.  Not that I've ever tried to cook it myself, you understand, which in itself is crazy as we love the stuff here in Potski Mansions.  It's just that I know I would spend the entire time worrying about under-cooking it, over-cooking it, checking it hadn't gone off, making sure all the shells were open, and no doubt blaming every illness for a subsequent 3 months on 'it must have been that shellfish we ate way back when...'

2.  ...to make my own pastry.  Life is definitely too short to make pastry, although for some reason this fact periodically escapes my mind and in a moment of madness I think 'Oh!  I'll make a quiche!  That'll be nice!"  which it never is.  I curse and swear my way through the whole experience and then watch the result of all my efforts disappear in 10 minutes flat.  Invariably I end up telling myself I will never - NEVER - do this again  So I don't.  Until the next time.

3.  ... to make scones.  This one came to mind because for some reason I have promised to make 24 tomorrow, for a stall at a fair.  It's the rubbing in of the butter that is the problem, you see - I hate the texture and the feel of the flour under my finger-tips - and it's bad enough making 6 scones, let alone 4 times that amount.  And the worst thing is that this is a repeat of last year's effort when I also made 24 - and told myself I would never - NEVER - make the offer again.  So I didn't - until they asked me.

4.  ...to make French onion soup.  I love it - but am the only person in the family who will eat it and let me tell you, 3 or 4 days on the french onion soup (to eat it all up, waste-not-want-not and all that) is not a good plan, for me or, indeed, for anyone else living in the same house as me.

5. ...to make Crostini and Pea & Parmesan dip.  I tried this once, and I think my subsequent scrawl in the margin of the cookbook by this recipe - 'Don't bother.  Sainsbury's version is far better' tells you just how impressed I was by the result.

6.  ...to make Baked Alaska.  Once upon a time a younger and more foolish PM decided baked Alaska would the be the perfect dessert for a dinner party.  All fell silent as she carried it into the dining room, a veritable feast for the eyes.  There was just one problem.  She had not taken it out of the freezer soon enough so was forced to borrow a pneumatic drill from the roadworks outside to serve dessert.  (Oh, alright - there was no pneumatic drill.  But I did crack a plate using a hammer to drive a knife into it.)


So come on, spill.  I've shown you mine. What is your culinary life too short for?