Dinner Ladies

Still waiting. And while I wait, I grow even bigger. There is a little goblin in my head who reminds me frequently that as soon as Number Four decides to grace us with his presence, I will no longer be able to consume Cheese Sandwiches and Galaxy Milk Chocolate with quite the same abandon. Far from being able to over-indulge with imagined impunity, the Food Police will be lurking at the outer reaches of my conscience again...

I was very impressed to read this morning about the School Chef of the Year awards, held at the Birmingham College of Food. I still hold a grudge against a certain Mr. Blake, not for the introduction of the school's salad bar which we all thought was the height of culinary chic twenty years ago, but for hauling me by the ear to the back of the lunch queue when he caught me climbing in the window of the school refectory. Well, none of his menus bore any resemblance to the imaginative and tasty offerings the finalists cook up for their school children every day. For just 80p per meal, these brilliant dinner ladies (and one dinner man!) come up with splendid lunches like Spring Lamb Kofta, Herbed Yoghurt, Tomato, Rice, Flat Bread and Mediterranean Salad - followed by Rhubarb and Custard Muffin with Strawberry Swirl Milkshake. For just 80p! Or try Seared Pork Medallions with Watercress and Feta Salad, Mediterranean Tomato Coulis and Creamed Potato - and Layered Pudding of Raspberries, Crushed Meringue and Creme Fraiche, drizzled with Lime and Mint and sprinkled with Chocolate. For just 80p! Quite Amazing. Congratulations to Mrs. Lynn Hawdon, who made off with the coveted title. The children of Middleton in Teesdale are very, very lucky.

Disaster has struck once more. Middle Son has been struck down with the most horrendous vomiting and diarrhoea, so my nights are fragmented and messy again. Smallest Son has the bottom symptoms only and Oldest Son has a science exam. The bank have not returned the necessary reference to the estate agent so it looks unlikely that we will be picking up the keys to the new house on Saturday as planned, and Number Four is nowhere to be seen.

Well, not exactly. At five o'clock this morning, he made a half-hearted attempt at making his presence felt, but it was hardly a serious bid for freedom. Enough to wake me, and enough to have me pacing the sitting room in the darkness with a cup of tea and the early breakfast news for company... but he soon changed his mind.

Sensible chap.

Smoked Haddock Chowder for supper tonight. With Bread and Cheese. And for pudding? Why, Chocolate of course... while I still can.

Maternal Amnesia

We are not going to be homeless, thank God. I have found us a lovely cottage to rent and we move in a week. What a relief, but still no sign of Number 4...

Oldest Son had exams this week - or so I thought. At only 12 years old, he began his GCSE programme two years early in September, and I am extraordinarily proud of him. Which is why, when he brought home his exam timetable, I pinned it up on the kitchen door next to the calendar So We All Knew Exactly When It Was Happening. On the morning of his first exam, I sent him off with a 'Good Luck' card filled with ridiculously embarassing emotional outpourings designed to make his teenage toes curl, and with the promise of Chocolate Brownies for tea on his return. Middle and Smallest Sons helped me crack eggs, weigh flour, break up pounds and pounds of chocolate, stir, mix, whisk, and finally lick all the utensils clean. And a very jolly time we had too, practising our rendition of Baa Baa Black Sheep while we worked. We put the brownies in the oven, wiped our hands and faces, and went upstairs to Tidy Up the bedrooms and clean the loo, and promptly forgot all about Keeping An Eye On The Time.

Oldest Son arrived home with a big grin on his face.
'How did it go?' I asked, in a Relaxed and Casual Manner.
'What are you doing, Mum?'
'I am cutting up the chocolate brownies' I replied, as I prised them out of the tin and chiselled off the black bits... 'How did it go?'
'Mum - You looked at the calendar wrong! Its not until next week!...'

Maternal Amnesia, otherwise known as 'Nappy-Brain', set in about twelve years ago and has become steadily worse. The condition is irreversible; the long-term prognosis is an inevitable and progressive total loss of brain function. Symptoms include memory failure, selective hearing, severe confusion, and problems with speech and understanding. And an inability to read calendars.

I redeemed myself slightly, by throwing together a Bacon and Smoked Haddock Rissotto and a Carrot Cake with Orange Butter Icing.

My lovely editor called, after reading my last post and persauded me that she could manage without the photographs for my article on children's party food. I felt a big twinge of guilt - not only for not keeping my promise to her and turning in a half-finished job, but also for even mentioning the whole thing in the first place. I had no idea that she occasionally 'tunes in' to hear the latest domestic ramblings of The Happy Housewife. I'll have to be careful - I wonder who else is listening...!!

All Good Things Come To Those Who Wait

At quarter to six this morning, I was struggling down the road with a huge sack of very heavy boulders. I tripped on the kerb, whereupon a lady - who looked just like Hyacinth Bucket - appeared and tut-tutted at me. "It's a boy" she said, "and a big one!" The veracity of her soothsaying powers was confirmed by her hooped earrings - the universal symbol of Really Good Fortune-Tellers the world over. I awoke, resigned to the outcome, and lay there fretting for half an hour that I still haven't got around to cleaning the fridge.

Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. The Husband and I have managed to remain civil to each other and live under the same roof for many years... actually, we had a very nice evening. I cooked some lovely buttery Charlotte potatoes, with a fresh tomato and rocket salad in a light dressing of honey and mustard, with His favourite - rib eye - steak, with caremelised shallots in a red wine reduction.

The Hunt For A House To Live In has proved far more difficult than I ever imagined. Not only do we seem to live in the most expensive area in the entire world, but landlords seem to expect four to six weeks notice that you might wish to move in... There is an empty cottage in a village about six miles away which is looking like a possibility, although I think it might require a tin-opener to install us, the children and all our furniture. But beggars can't be choosers, as they say.

My latest assignment from the magazine is an article about children's party food, which I have more or less written, but my editor has asked if I can also supply photographs. I should have said no, but she is so lovely and I don't want to let her down. So somehow I have to find the time to cook mountains of honey chicken and mango mini kebabs, cheddar and apricot hedgehogs, and banana and butterscotch fairy cakes, and get the digital camera out. On the upside, we will get to eat it all afterwards and perhaps an impromptu tea-party is just what we need to lift the spirits.

But first, I must clean the fridge...

The Great Cheese Swindle

I love Sundays. I get to curl up on the sofa with the children and watch a movie in the afternoon and read all the papers and not do any laundry... We quite often make a cake together - apple and sultana, or lemon fingers, or banana bread, and then I always, always cook a roast dinner in the evening. Last night it was chicken, with rosemary and mustard roast potatoes, sour creamed leeks, carrot and swede mash, steamed savoy cabbage, and oodles of bread sauce.

A little of what you fancy goes a long way, as they say. I do cook with cream and cheese because the flavour is fantastic and we all love it, but surely it is about moderation, isn't it? A sense of self-discipline, a sense of individual responsibility. What am I talking about? The food police. I was gobsmacked to read last week that they are considering regulating the amount of salt that will be allowed in the process of manufacturing Stilton. What? Yes of course it is very salty - that's what makes it so delicious - and yes, it probably would be dreadfully bad for you if you ate it by the truckload, but hey... isn't that up to me? Isn't it up to me to regulate what I put in my own mouth? Or are they worried that I'll be dangerously reckless, consume industrial quantities of Stilton daily and then sue the pants of them when I develop hypertension and heart disease? How do we, as parents, teach our children to develop a sense of personal responsibility in a cultural climate that encourages everyone to blame something, everything else for anything that just doesn't quite go your way? Oh yes, and then claim compensation. How do we effectively address the question of individual liability when we live in this nanny state?

It makes my blood boil. Which increases my blood pressure. Which makes my ankles very fat. Yes, Number 4 and I have still not parted company - thank you so much to everyone who has emailed wanting to know the news. I am sorry I have not written for a while, but we have had a horrendous week. Apart from the Considerable Stilton Upset, we have been issued with a Notice Requiring Possession from our landlady (that's eviction, to you and I) and our imminent house purchase has fallen through. In less than four weeks we will be homeless! I have spent the last few days desperately trying to find somewhere else to rent, while thinking about how I should be packing up the house and Not Giving Birth Yet.

So you see, the Fat Ankles were inevitable. It's enough to drive you to Stilton...

The Happy Housewife's Visitors' Book

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Ready, Steady...

Getting up from a sitting position would be a lot easier with the aid of a hydraulic lift. Going upstairs is analogous to conquering Everest without oxygen. Walking is slow, breathing is laboured... There are days when my ankles are all but a distant memory.

But apart from that... The sun is shining and a light smattering of snow lies delicately around the house. It is a beautiful day.

I made mountains of pancakes for Shrove Tuesday, which we ate at teatime with lemon juice and sugar (Oldest Son), butter (Middle Son), honey (Smallest Son), and cheese (me). Delicious! I have developed a bit of a thing about cheese - I mean more than my usual thing about cheese. I had to have cheese sauce on my fish cakes the other night, grated cheese in my rissotto for lunch yesterday, cheese with my vegetable soup and cheddar bread last night...

We are nearly ready - the washing marathon has begun. Having found the baby blankets and sheets, it now looks like a Chinese Laundry upstairs. The Husband has rescued the crib from the attic and I have washed it down and ordered a new mattress. Nappies, breast pads, cammomile bath wash, gentle shampoo, cotton wool, cotton pads, sanitary towels and cream - one pot for sore bottoms and a tube for sore nipples - are stacked on the bathroom shelves. The only thing we can't seem to find is the suitcase with all the baby clothes in it. Quite Important Really. Poor little soul can't arrive until we have something ready for him to wear...

Many thanks to Sue who has given me eminently sensible Visitor's Book advice, so I think we are up and running again. Do sign The Happy Housewife's Visitor's Book and say hello - It is always good to hear from you.