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.

The love of Stalker Cat

We were anxious tonight because Mishka was late. She hadn't dropped by this morning and she wasn't waiting impatiently in the driveway when we got home in the afternoon. As night settled she was nowhere to be seen.

It wasn't until after dinner that we saw her familiar shadow in the darkness. We opened the door for her and in she strolled, taking her pick of the four laps waiting for her. Our beautiful Mishka.

Except she's not ours. She's the stalker cat, the one who peered through the window and miaowed so insistently that we let her in. Time and time again, she came until we realised tonight that she hasn't missed a day in the last seven months.

Once she's here, she curls up on our laps and sleeps for hours. Or she sits on a chair in the kitchen and pounces on us as we pass. We don't feed her. We provide nothing for her. She comes here just for the love.

Mishka has a home and owners who love her very much. But for some reason, that's not enough and she feels the void with us. And in the meantime, she has filled the void in our lives. It's been a very difficult year and she turned up at just the right time. Beautiful girl!

Love is to be cherished in all its forms. Thank you, Mishka.

My Stars

My Stars
On the day I was born,
The unalterable stars altered.
If I decided to sell lamps,
It wouldn't get dark till the day I died.

Some stars. Whatever I do,
I'm a failure before I begin.
If I suddenly decided to sell shrouds,
People would stop dying.

Abraham ibn Ezra (1029 - 1067)


With the Christchurch earthquake this week, many questions arise about fate. Does it come down to what is written in the stars or is it blind luck?

A few months ago, at a conference, a presenter told us to be careful about 'your story.' She suggested that the same things happen to you over and over again because it's 'your story' and you have to be careful about the tale you choose to tell. So if you're story is that you can never get anywhere on time, then the world will conspire against you so that you will never be anywhere on time, no matter how much you try.

Seems like a defeatist attitude to me.

Surely,I can ignore the stars and write my own destiny.

The boy emerges

Five days felt like forever when we were waiting for Keegan to arrive. An eternity. Every night, I would go to bed still pregnant, and every morning I would wake up - still pregnant. It was interminable. It felt as though we had missed our window of opportunity and that this baby would never come into the world.

And then, of course, the contractions started and within a surprisingly short time, I was holding a baby. Four beautiful days with a boy sleeping in the cot next to my bed. Just the two of us getting to know each other.

They are the days you wish you could pour into a bottle and relive whenever you want. Where is a pensieve when you need it?

Nine years later and my boy is almost up to my shoulder. He asks questions that show he's starting to make connections with the broader world and he is becoming increasingly more balanced in his emotions. He's bright and quick and funny - deliberately funny. He hugs us, loves and, and - mostly - gets along well with his little brother.

I couldn't imagine this boy nine years ago when I looked into the eyes of my brand new baby. It feels like the world's longest 'hatching,' watching my boy break free of his first shell and grow into a man. In another nine years, when he turns 18, I'm sure I'll look at him and marvel that I couldn't see this man hidden behind his nine year old eyes.

Happy Birthday, Keegan. Thank you for coming into our lives.

A confession

A few weeks ago, when I was visiting my parents they found a humongous caterpillar in a bush.

They set it aside to kill and, when they weren't looking, I released it back into the garden.

I know they eat up beautiful plants but without caterpillars there are no butterflies.

Plus, I hate to see any creature die. Hope it made the most of its freedom!

Shh! Don't tell!

The gift of Good Fortune

Just before Christmas I was given a Fortune Plant. The rules are simple:
1. You can't buy one for yourself but have to be given one.
2. Put it in a sheltered place, water and fertilise it and...
3. As is grows (slowly), so too will your fortune.

Ruth and Randolph gave it to me before they moved to Brisbane - just in time for the floods! Luckily, their good fortune held and they moved into a house that was high and dry.

In the time they had the plant, it seems to have done very well for them so I'm hoping that if we love and nurture it, it will do well for us also. Please don't let me kill it!

The interesting thing is that a Google search shows there are many different types of plants that are known as Fortune Plants. From the sound of it, many cultures have been keen to bring wealth into their homes any way that they can!

I'm certain a feng shui guide will tell me placing this in my hallway will cause all my fortune to escape out the front door. However, I'm keen to believe it's going to attract fortune, causing it to stream up the steps and into my life.

Thank you Ruth and Randolph. May your good fortune continue in Brisbane. And Fortune Plant, please thrive and prosper in my home!

Home Again

The best moment of the last two weeks was undoubtedly putting my key in the lock of the front door, flinging it open... and finding everything exactly as it should be.

I loved being in Victoria with our families and adored the opportunities we had to catch up with people and revisit places from our childhood. Christmas was especially amazing, as the boys are still filled with wonder at its magic. They are very good at living in the here and now and it is easy to get caught up in their excitement as they embrace each moment.

Yes, our time away was wonderful. But we were anxious to be home.

We left early this morning, hoping to be home just after lunch. It was a catastrophic fire day, over 40 degrees with howling northerly winds. Even with the air conditioner on, the car was hot. We were still two hours from home when Xavier was car sick for the first time. It was excruciating trying to clean him up by the side of the road in the heat and the wind but we managed. And we kept going, deciding not to eat on the road, but to come home immediately.

And how special it was to come home to find no disaster had befallen it, that everything was clean and tidy and in its place. My fish were all still alive and hurried to the front of the tank, where they have been staring at me ever since. I wonder how quiet and still the house was to them!

The boys wasted no time in playing the keyboard and pulling out their old games. And their new games too. We read books, played Uno Attack and made slushies with our new Christmas present. There was even time for some shopping to restock the pantry.

Home again.

Best of all, we are just in time to see out a year that has not been kind to us. I realise that the worst has not befallen us, that we are a long way from the rock bottom that so many others in our world endure, but this is easily the most difficult year we have faced.

After seven years, this is the year we finally unclenched our fists to find our dreams had fallen to dust in our grasp. There were no diamonds there, just ashes.

We have been rebuilding now for five months. The turn of the new year fills me with hope and I try to forget the other times that I have hoped and wished on the new year.

2011 will be our year.

Sooo relaxed...it's Christmas!

I love this time of year. Not only am I on holidays but the whole world feels decorated. Our Christmas tree is up, there are red bows around the trees in our street, and every public place is awash in red and gold and green. We have finished our Christmas shopping and have only to wrap presents and finish (start) writing out cards. Bliss.

It's impossible to go anywhere though without people complaining about Christmas. When we had the shop, it was a constant stream of customers all saying the same thing: 'I hate Christmas.' Did they mean it? Or was it just something to say? Was there any joy in the day, or was it the lead up to Christmas they hated? I never could figure it out. And never wanted to be in that place where a time of celebration and family could be so unpleasant.

Since we had the boys, there is renewed joy in Christmas. Their faces light up at every image of Santa and they spend hours working on their letters to Santa. They count down the days with delight, poke the presents under the tree and admire Baby Jesus. Bliss!

Today we took the boys to see Santa. This was the first year Xave would have his photo taken with him - mostly because I insisted that I'd waited long enough to see him sit next to Santa, and this was the year it was going to happen. Both boys loved it and talked happily with Santa and Mrs Claus on the magic sleigh.

Mostly, I'm just rejoicing in the fact that I'm actually relaxed for once. With all the time in the world, I'm much more patient with the boys. There's time to read, exercise and play; we can go to the park, play boardgames and read multiple bedtime stories. No wonder Christmas is a joy!

Every three years

My holidays had a slightly delayed start, with this morning taken out to attend a Mandatory Notification course. It was my third time since arriving in South Australia nearly 8 years ago so, of course, I knew what to expect.

Except it's always harrowing.

I always think it will be fine, but it's not. I'm so glad reporting abuse is a mandatory part of our job, but I hate being reminded of the desperate situation some children are in. I hate being reminded that children die at the hands of adults. Or that children can be crushed and scarred because of the evil actions of grown ups.

At the end they showed Daniel Valerio's battered, smiling face and it broke my heart all over again. I can't believe it's been 20 years since he died. I read the newspapers back then and the horrific details of his abuse still remain vivid in my mind.

I came home to my beautiful boys with their sweet, smiling faces. At 8 and 6, nothing bad has touched  them. They're well loved, respected and protected - at least as much as any parent can protect her children.

Still picturing Daniel's face, I tickled Xavier and said, "Life's hard, isn't it?"
He laughed and agreed: "It's hard catching Pokemon."

If only all our children had such hard lives.

Next Blog

I am addicted to the Next Blog button.

There is probably an unwritten rule that I am breaking here - Thou shalt not idly flit through Blog Land.

But I can't help myself.

I used to play that game on trains: Who are you Strange Lady with your red dress and your pink stilettos? What keeps you awake at night? What is your deepest joy? Who do you laugh with?

Next blog... next blog...next blog...

A moment in someone else's life, a glimpse at family, hopes and dreams, passions, successes and failures... Just for a moment, a glance at a life I'm not living.

It reminds me how big and broad life is, how many choices there are, how many ideals and beliefs. And yet, it also makes me realise we're all living the same lives - as parents, spouses, siblings, sons and daughters, friends... We all want to love and be cherished, protect our children, laugh with our friends, work and play. We all have emotions and fears no matter where we live or what we do.

The world isn't quite so big when there's a Next Blog button.

School holidays are exhausting



Xavier asleep on a chair




Absolutely nothing more comfortable than Daddy

 The boys are loving their holidays, but amazingly, they're more tired than when they're at school. They still get up at the ridiculous time of pre-6am, but they're sound asleep on the couch half an hour before bedtime. Surely, when they're at school their brains and bodies are more active! We're not even doing anything too exciting - a trip down to the park is about as good as it gets!

Today was one of the first gorgeous days of spring so we took the boys down for a run at the castle playground. It was swarming with hordes of kids which, was only to be expected on a rare sunny day in the holidays. But the playground is huge and the boys had a glorious time playing hide and seek and managed to get themselves completely coated in wood chips - it was even in their hair! We did eventually find a quiet, shady spot for a picnic - the highlight of the day.

The boys just get better and better as they get older, but I wonder if I'll look back on these as 'golden years' when the boys played hard, were easily amused and weren't embarrassed to be seen out in public with their parents! I'm loving every minute of it, anyway.

The boys were certainly in bed early tonight. I've just realised that daylight savings starts this weekend - goodness knows what that will do to their systems!