The Reluctant Chef

I burnt dinner last night. It was a nice cut of steak that I seared on both sides before leaving it to cook gently in the grill pan. Nothing to it, but when I pulled it out of the pan, it was more singed than seared.

I’d love to tell you this was a one off incident, but it’s not. I burn everything. Steak, sausages, hamburgers, stir-fry, rissoles, spaghetti sauce – if I have cooked it in a pan, I have burnt it.

Now I know what you’re thinking: Turn the heat down! Unfortunately, this is a problem that can’t be solved by mere temperature. It’s much more serious than that. No, I’m afraid that I burn things for one simple reason: lack of interest.

It’s not that I don’t like food. In fact, I love it. It’s the cooking process itself that is so incredibly tedious. It all starts out well. I can marinate, I can preheat and I can toss the meat on the pan. And then everything goes downhill. I get side tracked. The kids are fighting, or they need to go through the shower, or most likely, I’m in the middle of a really good book. It’s hard to worry about a piece of meat when a character’s life hangs in the balance. Surely, it will be right for one more page…

The weirdest thing is that my husband of 18 years seems largely oblivious to the fact that I cannot cook. I don’t think he realises quite how often he walks into the kitchen, sniffs the air and says, ‘Did you burn something?’ Not a trace of sarcasm evident, just genuine curiosity.

This lack of awareness is mostly because we have always shared dinner duties and my husband is an amazing cook who does all the technical stuff. He bastes and blanches, rests and reduces, pares and poaches, and then tops it all off by pouring delectable sauces over every meal. The only time something burns in his kitchen is when he puts a match to it and flambés it. And given that he used to let his culinary talents loose at least four times a week, it only left me a few nights to whack a casserole in the oven. Even I could manage that.

Now, alas, our situation has changed and for the next few months, I’m doing all the cooking. All of it. That’s seven nights a week, week after tedious week. Unfortunately, the kids are at that simple stage where they favour meat and three veg or stir-fries, so I’ve had to drag out the grill pan in order to give them some variety.

It’s killing all of us.

So, really, the only option remaining is for me to step up, reclaim the pan and start serving up some well cooked meals. I’m intelligent. I’m capable. If I can manage a career and a household then I can stop feeding us charcoal. And I will… right after this next chapter.

 

Uploading Privacy

I cannot believe it’s been thirteen years since Sun Microsystems Chief Executive Scott McNealy declared ‘You have zero privacy anyway. Get over it’. I tend to think it’s the much more recent Facebook that has ‘unfriended’ our privacy, while forgetting that we’ve been gleefully handing over our most personal information for years.

We think we’re in control while we’re surfing the net in the privacy of our own homes, but we don’t understand quite how big our cyber footprints really are. Marketing companies no longer have to pay big dollars to collect our information as we conveniently serve it all up to them while we hang out with our friends online. That’s bad enough, but worse is when we cast ourselves as victims bemoaning the lack of laws to protect our privacy.

Unfortunately, you don’t need to be Kate Middleton to find your most private moments circulating around the world. In a recent scandal, photo sharing site Photobucket was hacked with private images stolen and distributed widely online. Suddenly, ordinary people got an unexpected glimpse of the celebrity fishbowl world that Prince Harry inhabits as their explicit photos were online for all to see. (Anyone for a game of strip billiards?) However, the difference here is that Photobucket users published their own images, naively trusting in the security of the online world.

However, it seems that society is changing along with technology. America’s notoriously wild Spring Break is now a shadow of its former self, as college students realise it’s easier to avoid embarrassing situations than it is to dodge embarrassing photos. Students are drinking less and keeping their clothes on as they protect their online reputations and future career options – who knew students could be so smart?

I like to think I’m pretty clued-up about privacy but maybe it’s time to rethink what I share online. I mean, do I really want to explain to future generations quite what Grandma was doing at Glenelg on New Year’s Eve?

Let’s face it, just because you can upload it, doesn’t mean you should!

Running Into Week 6

Well, here I am, six weeks in and still running.

When I began this quest to be a runner, I promised myself that I would try it for at least a month before I contemplated quitting. And then, if I made it through the first four weeks, I would push it out for another four weeks - or preferably until the end of term. A neat ten week block.

Much to my astonishment, I have not been tempted to quit at all. It took a long time for it to stop hurting - especially as my poor calves shrieked in agony with every step - but mostly it was getting over the hurt of making my body keep moving when it just wanted to stop. Hardest of all was finding the self-belief that I could do it, that I could run three minutes, five minutes, eight minutes...

Last week I ran 20 minutes without stopping. It was slow, but I was so proud of myself because I do not think I have ever run a full 20 minutes without stopping - almost 3km. Now that I know that I can do it, I'll see if I can increase the pace a little. So far, I have not even been close to an asthma attack - and have not had to use my inhaler mid-run since the first week. I cannot believe I can do this!

I still can't say I'm loving it, but I'm finding it addictive. I even bought a running magazine last week. Who knew such things existed?

Next run is 22 minutes without stopping. I can definitely do it! Give me another month and I might well be at that magic 5km mark.

Six year blues

I've been very flat all year, something which has taken me by surprise. On the whole, I tend to be very happy just sliding through life. I have a great family, I love my job and I'm too busy to sit around contemplating the inadequacies of my life. But not this year.

I'm still busy and I still have a great job but it doesn't seem to be enough any more. It's embarrassing to admit how much I love my job. I teach high school English and thrive on it - the students are fantastic and I love sharing knowledge and watching them grow and learn. I'm never in doubt that I make a difference in many of my students' lives. Perfect, right?

But now, it's suddenly hard to walk out the door each day. It's not that I've stopped enjoying it, but more that I just want to sit home and read books all day. Everything else feels more important than work.

So what has changed?

I wonder if it is simply that six years is the longest I've ever worked in one job so a sense of familiarity (boredom?) is kicking in, that I've never experienced before. Perhaps I'm out of challenges and need to find something else to stimulate me at work. Perhaps I'm not working as closely with other teachers this year - maybe some collaboration would make a difference. Possibly, I just need to laugh some more!

The most obvious answer is to change jobs and find some more challenges, but that seems a little drastic.

Perhaps I just need to give into my inner bookworm and explore some other worlds far more exciting than my own :)

Living in the past

Time travel has long fascinated people. References to time travel can be found in myths and tales dating back thousands of years. What does the future look like? How could we change the past? H G Wells fired up the sci-fi enthusiasts with The Time Machine in 1895 and storytellers have continued to reinvent the concept ever since. For decades now the Doctor has zipped in and out of time in his TARDIS, interacting with key events in our history as he tries to save the world yet again.

Currently, I'm in the midst of Stephen King's 11.22.63 and I'm cranky that I have to leave it behind to go to work. Ironically, this novel sat on my dresser for over six months while I built up the courage to try it out. Time travel is a genre that I adore, especially when my mind is twisted into knots by paradox after paradox. It is also a genre that can leave me disappointed, when it promises much and delivers something quite different. Earlier this year, I tried Felix J Palma's The Map of Time only to find the time travel element seemed a mere technicality at the end. Clever, but not satisfying.

However, it's not just impossibilities that fascinate me. I love Diana Gabaldon's Cross Stitch series because it features (relatively) modern people living in past eras. There is something irresistible about being forced to start again in an alien world when the protagonist is isolated - all the people they have known are gone, and every social convention needs to be rediscovered as they find their place and start new lives.

I suspect this aspect appeals to me because we've moved to new cities quite a few time. Most notabaly, I remember arriving in Mt Isa in 1995 and being quite delighted that the only person I knew in town was my husband! It was exciting starting from scratch, meeting people, finding work, and establishing ourselves once more. As I get older, I'm more than happy to stay put, but the idea of change still calls to me.

Right, well, time I got back to 1963 where my hero is trying to save JFK from assassination. And, I'm sorry to say, I don't really care if he does or doesn't manage that feat; I just want to read more about him living life in a world that died fifty years ago.

Oh, how I need a time machine! Perhaps I will have to write my own...

Etymology

I made an unusual error yesterday - I set homework for the Year 8s when I didn't know the answers. At this level, it's almost embarrassing - surely I should know more than thirteen year olds! But it's a new unit exploring the origins of language, specifically looking at Old English definitions. So I have spent this evening at www.etymonline.com doing some research. Some of the more interesting things I have learnt include:

* Thrill originally meant to pierce
* Spider originally meant to spin
* Silly originally meant blessed

I have also discovered that rare was a term originally used to describe undercooked eggs and was not used to describe meat for another century or two. And a tadpole was so named because it was considered to look like a toad head.

It's quite fascinating to see how language evolves and changes over the years. At least, I'm finding it interesting - the Year 8s are not so impressed! However, I did make them invent some words of their own last week and I was amused to hear them still giggling about them this week. Perhaps that's why language continues to develop - it's so much fun to play with sounds and meaning!

Booked!

It's been almost ten years since we sold our house, packed up all our possessions and waved goodbye to Brisbane. In the first few years we had a flood of visitors from up north but it has gradually reduced to a mere trickle. We had always assumed we would be back up there multiple times but we have never made it. Now, however, we are heading back!

I've booked almost everything this morning - accommodation and most of the entertainment. No flights, unfortunately, as we're going to road-trip it. Ah, foolish, foolish people! When we left Brisbane we travelled with a 10 month old baby - I suspect that will be much easier than travelling with 8 and 10 year old boys. Oh well, I'm sure we will survive.

Hope you're ready, Brisbane - can't wait to see you again!

xxx

Less Painful

Week 2 of this running program and it is all so much better. My legs don't ache nearly so much and it is actually getting easier. Yes, easier! This has come as a complete shock to me which means, I suppose, that all my previous attempts at fitness have never lasted more than, say, three days. Not when it comes to running anyway. So it was quite astonishing to discover that my fifth run was the magic one, the one where I managed to do all my repetitions without too much trouble at all. I didn't even swear during the walking bits!

This week of the program involves 90 seconds of running followed by 120 seconds of walking, and repeat for 20 minutes. So far, it's proving to be a little more challenging, but not nearly as difficult as the effort required last week to simply get started. I may be able to train up this old, aching body after all. I'm certainly motivated to keep going and see how much I can do.

My lungs are on board, my legs are on board, now I just need my knees to play along!

Trying to run

My legs hurt. Every part of them, from top to toe. Mostly, it's my calves, but if  I move the wrong way, pain flares in my shins and thighs, and all the other parts I have no name for because I have done my best to ignore them over my whole life.

Legs are for getting from A to B to C at a nice brisk pace. They are not for running. Only lunatics run. Except that secretly I have always wanted to be a runner, jogging along looking fit and fluid as I get in 'the zone' and discover those things called endorphins.

But the only way to become a runner is to run. And running is painful. It's agony. It makes my lungs shriek and my legs scream. It is torture and I have avoided it whenever and wherever possible. In the last couple of years I have questioned my body's ability to be able to do it at all after 15 years of running retirement. Except when I watch The Biggest Loser I see people running who are far older than me - and obese as well! Surely I could still do it. I bought new runners at the end of last year and have been thinking about it ever since.

This week I stopped thinking and started running. For the last 4 days I have been out running. It is still agony and it still torture but I am determined to persevere. Right now I'm doing the Couch to 5km program which is supposed to get me fit in 8 weeks. Week 1 involves running for 60 seconds then walking for 90 seconds - repeat 8 times each session, three times a week. It sounds so simple yet I'm finding it really hard. However, I am determined to stick this out. It has to get easier, doesn't it? If I keep going then surely it will hurt less. Surely I can run further each time.

It is still torture. It is still agony. I'm hoping I can make myself go out again tomorrow. This feels like the hardest and stupidest thing in the world - making yourself do something that hurts so much!

Boots of gold

Last week I spent $80 on soccer boots for my little boy.

I hadn't planned to mention that to anyone but my husband spilled the beans. The other soccer mums were horrified, pointing out - quite rightly - that I could have bought boots for $40. What happens if they don't fit next year? they asked. What happens if he doesn't play soccer next year? 

Fair comments but they missed the point entirely.

For my little boy's entire life we have bought him only the cheapest of everything. Or we've made him go without. Or wear shoes with holes in them just a few more weeks. Or struggle into pyjamas two sizes too small. And, of course, 95% of his clothes have first belonged to his brother.

So there we are shopping for soccer boots and, finally, things are better financially, not wonderful, but better.

And soccer boots are amazing. Sure, there are some plain ones, but many of them are bright, multi-coloured explosions. My seven year old's eyes got bigger and bigger. 'I love those,' he said. 'No, those ones!' Finally, he settled on lairy gold boots with black pumas leaping across the tops. He tried them on, clomping delightedly across the floor. Done. I paid for them and he carried them out of the shop with a huge grin on his face.

If they don't fit next year, it doesn't matter.

If he decides not to play soccer next year, it doesn't matter.

For once, he got exactly what he wanted. At the next soccer training he pulled them on joyfully and ran across the pitch. He was still grinning. And so was I.