.....again. He must have timed his summer hols with ours. Lovely waking up of a morn and sauntering down stairs to a leisurely breakfast...well, in between the food fights and normal sibling warfare that is part and parcel of family life that is.....cruising out to the pools for an all day dip. Now he`s back. In the corner. Beating away on his drum most heartily with that stupid grin on his face. Where are the darts? And his bloody loincloth looks like it hasn`t been washed a while too. "Shut up!" I screech," I am going as fast as I bloody can!"
" Mummy! Will you please stop shouting at the wall! " Bat Boy wailed, rolling eyeballs up in an enviable Exorcist movement, "No wonder everyone thinks you are bloody weird!"
"Stop swearing!" I admonish.
"Why?" Bat Boy counters, " You are always bloody swearing!"
"No, I bloo...blo..antly don`t!" I stammer back.
"Chill out,Mummy." smiles three year old The Booby Slayer.
"Yeah...chill out,Mumsy," adds Bat Girl," The world ain`t going to end if our bento is burnt!"
"When I feel stressed, I like to play with my willy," interjects Bat Boy.
"Thanks for sharing,love." I grin, somewhat forcibly." But we didn`t need to know that."
The drum beat notches up as I text hubby ` Your son is talking about willy sports in public again. Fatherly chat required tonight. Thank you`. Oh bloody hell, I can smell something burning.
"Bloody hell," shouts out Bat Girl," The pizza for our lunch box is on fire....again, Mummy!"
The drum beat fills my ears as I feel the house lurch and the smell of the sea assaults my nostrils.
"Coming!" I cry out, sounding like Alpha Dalek from Dr Who.
" I am feeling a bit stressed,Mummy!" cries The Booby Slayer." Can I play with Bat Boy`s willy?"
"No, you can`t!" I firmly reply while attempting to put out the pizza bonfire....
Showing posts with label twins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label twins. Show all posts
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Saturday, 13 November 2010
The Kitchen Crusader.
A dear friend of mine once remarked, as she deftly produced a tray of mouth watering muffins that "Cooking is a science. Follow the rules and success will be yours!" Well, I stunk at Science in high school and I double stink at cooking. So much so that Tokyo Gas has been known to cordon off the area around my house whenever I so much as rattle a baking tin. I`ve spent hours slaving in the kitchen, cookbook bound back in a torturous position, gleaming shiny utensils at the ready but the end result is nearly always the same. No matter how accurately I weigh out the ingredients, mix, blend, stir, whip, spoon, beat or scream at it, the end result looks nothing like the picture in the cookbook. Okay, I hear you all say, trying desperately to be diplomatic and encouraging, the proof is in the eating. Uh, uh,I nod. But would you like to try something that looks suspiciously like a three day old turd from a terminally creature?
I have to give it to my kids. They`ve managed to find their niche and settle in comfortably with my culinary catastrophes. But there again, it probably just boils down to a simple case of survival. You have to eat to survive. There are only so many days you can go without food. What doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger, right?
Only the other day, strumming through one of my many cookbooks, I came across `Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies`. `Chunky` and `chip` as in `chipped` are words that could be easily used to kindly describe my previous endeavours, so I took up the gauntlet.
I weighed and mixed everything to a `T`. I swear I could hear Delia cheering from the heavens above. Into the heated oven they popped. My little brown masterpieces soon to be thrown into scrumptious stardom. A mere fifteen later and the balance had once again shifted to inedible infamy.My little spoonfuls of chocolate heaven had merged into one giant cookie pie. Not to be daunted, I dug out a knife and uttered a few soothing expletives.
"Aren`t cookies round?" asked one of Batboy`s friends, eyeing up the plate on the table as if it were a giant cowpat. "Well!" I exclaimed sunnily," There are all different sizes and shapes of cakes and cookies in the world! These are my very own Volcano cookies. Der Der" I sing to a crowd of seven year old boys looking not at all convinced. "What`s that in the middle,Mummy?" asks Batboy, fingers poised. "What`s what?" I enquire, a touch of impatience colouring my previous optimism. "Oh, that`s part of a melted M & M," I quirk back," An orange M & M." I add with authority. Silence then, from another lad. "It looks like poo when bits of food come out with it!" and just as I was pondering why anyone would be studying their poo poo that closely, the room burst into laughter and wee hands grabbed handfuls of `Volcano cookies`.
I would like to point out that I am at a natural disadvantage with this whole cooking lark. I reckon it`s pure genetics....down my mother`s side. Most kids earn pocket money from doing weekly chores. As a child, me too, only the real dosh was to be earnt from my father`s bribes. My Mum is one smart lady but, putting it nicely, cooking wasn`t her forte at that time. Many an evening, we`d sit, my brother, sister, father and I. At the table. Some charred offering laid before us. Mum in the kitchen. My father used to have to go in and gently stop her from banging her brains out on the newly installed, latest hi tech cooking machine."Now listen,kids" he`d whisper during one of Mum`s head banging fits," Your Mum tried really hard so let`s try really hard to enjoy this," as my brother sawing away at something unrecognisable, successfully cut through, making contact with the plate, sending a piece of something black zooming mere inches past his ear, "And if you make it look good,I`ll give you extra pocket money." This caught our attention. "How much?" sneered my wee sister. "An extra fifty pence" swung Dad. " Fifty measly pence for a theatrical performance that would leave Laurence Olivier standing?"I scoffed. "Okay...okay" Dad hushed," You lot drive a hard bargain. Seventy pence and that`s my final offer!" A show of wee hands high five over the table just as Mum made her appearance. "I am sorry,kids," she apologised, face creased up in culinary agony," I think I made a mess of tonight`s dinner." Only to be met with incredulous cries of "What?....This?...This food is gorgeous,Mum!....What are you going on about?" I think we got off a lot lighter than Dad. Being kids, we were a lot more resilient. After a while, we perfected the IT DIP technique. In Trousers Dump In Toilet.
I cling to hope. My Mum is a great cook these days. Maybe it`s a mellowing with age thing.
"What`s that on the floor?" shouts hubby pointing at one of my `Volcano Cookies lying redundantly on the kitchen floor," Has the cat gone and pooed? Look, he has! There`s a bit of undigested cat biscuit in there!" I sigh and reach for a wine glass.
I have to give it to my kids. They`ve managed to find their niche and settle in comfortably with my culinary catastrophes. But there again, it probably just boils down to a simple case of survival. You have to eat to survive. There are only so many days you can go without food. What doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger, right?
Only the other day, strumming through one of my many cookbooks, I came across `Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies`. `Chunky` and `chip` as in `chipped` are words that could be easily used to kindly describe my previous endeavours, so I took up the gauntlet.
I weighed and mixed everything to a `T`. I swear I could hear Delia cheering from the heavens above. Into the heated oven they popped. My little brown masterpieces soon to be thrown into scrumptious stardom. A mere fifteen later and the balance had once again shifted to inedible infamy.My little spoonfuls of chocolate heaven had merged into one giant cookie pie. Not to be daunted, I dug out a knife and uttered a few soothing expletives.
"Aren`t cookies round?" asked one of Batboy`s friends, eyeing up the plate on the table as if it were a giant cowpat. "Well!" I exclaimed sunnily," There are all different sizes and shapes of cakes and cookies in the world! These are my very own Volcano cookies. Der Der" I sing to a crowd of seven year old boys looking not at all convinced. "What`s that in the middle,Mummy?" asks Batboy, fingers poised. "What`s what?" I enquire, a touch of impatience colouring my previous optimism. "Oh, that`s part of a melted M & M," I quirk back," An orange M & M." I add with authority. Silence then, from another lad. "It looks like poo when bits of food come out with it!" and just as I was pondering why anyone would be studying their poo poo that closely, the room burst into laughter and wee hands grabbed handfuls of `Volcano cookies`.
I would like to point out that I am at a natural disadvantage with this whole cooking lark. I reckon it`s pure genetics....down my mother`s side. Most kids earn pocket money from doing weekly chores. As a child, me too, only the real dosh was to be earnt from my father`s bribes. My Mum is one smart lady but, putting it nicely, cooking wasn`t her forte at that time. Many an evening, we`d sit, my brother, sister, father and I. At the table. Some charred offering laid before us. Mum in the kitchen. My father used to have to go in and gently stop her from banging her brains out on the newly installed, latest hi tech cooking machine."Now listen,kids" he`d whisper during one of Mum`s head banging fits," Your Mum tried really hard so let`s try really hard to enjoy this," as my brother sawing away at something unrecognisable, successfully cut through, making contact with the plate, sending a piece of something black zooming mere inches past his ear, "And if you make it look good,I`ll give you extra pocket money." This caught our attention. "How much?" sneered my wee sister. "An extra fifty pence" swung Dad. " Fifty measly pence for a theatrical performance that would leave Laurence Olivier standing?"I scoffed. "Okay...okay" Dad hushed," You lot drive a hard bargain. Seventy pence and that`s my final offer!" A show of wee hands high five over the table just as Mum made her appearance. "I am sorry,kids," she apologised, face creased up in culinary agony," I think I made a mess of tonight`s dinner." Only to be met with incredulous cries of "What?....This?...This food is gorgeous,Mum!....What are you going on about?" I think we got off a lot lighter than Dad. Being kids, we were a lot more resilient. After a while, we perfected the IT DIP technique. In Trousers Dump In Toilet.
I cling to hope. My Mum is a great cook these days. Maybe it`s a mellowing with age thing.
"What`s that on the floor?" shouts hubby pointing at one of my `Volcano Cookies lying redundantly on the kitchen floor," Has the cat gone and pooed? Look, he has! There`s a bit of undigested cat biscuit in there!" I sigh and reach for a wine glass.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
It's a Conspiracy.
And no,it isn't the heat getting to me....even though it is.The shoes are at it again.The ones that I am actually able to buy in my size,at a whopping ogre of 26.5 that is.And by 'at it' I don't mean having loud,multi orgasmic sexual liaisons transforming my genkan (japanese porch) into a carbon copy of Imelda Marcos's walk in shoesRus.Shoes and I seem to rub each other up the wrong way,leaving me grasping for the nearest Ampanman band aid. There was the time,when the twins were small,I was on double diaper duty.To save time and my poor nasal orifices I threw the sweet smelling little bum parcels onto the landing ,only to hear the little stink bombs ab sail down the stairs.No problem,I just picked them up from the genkan a while later.Next morning,there I am,seizing the day,door open,double pram loaded up,friend waiting.As soon as I squeezed my foot into the shoe,I knew the day had gone pear shaped.Or it might have even been a sarcastic love heart shape,a wide gamut of browns lounging in the heel,that instant recognisable pong of Eau de la L'Enfant Bum Bum Bouquet.I could hear my sock screaming as brown molecules began to fuse with fibre.Before I had even had the time to gather myself and act,a shadow fell and my friend gestured for us to get going.My foot hovered for a fraction of a second.The logical thing would have been to make a joke,change sock and shoe but I was a first time mummy of only nine months or so. I hadn't yet experienced the gauntlet of unfathomable occurrences that would leave a seasoned matriarch unfazed. These days,I'd cackle with glee.Hold the little blighter up and shout for the neighbourhood "AWOL poo!" while my mums in solidarity would nod,laughing at the memory of their own AWOL poo experiences.That day,I was humiliated, my mind raced concocting a whole trilogy of explanations."Oh that little lump?Yes,it's new homeopathic cure for Athlete's Foot,you know?" or "Damn! Look I've gone and stood on our new bug repellent.Oh...you've never heard of ExTurdinate? A death sentence for bugs but totally safe for the kids.I can highly recommend it"I can still recall vividly the protests of sock as foot slid into shoe and that was me for an hour or so.
The average life span of a pair of my shoes is weeks.They split,break,rupture,end up stinking so bad that a date with doctor garbage is their only salvation, and rip the skin off my toes with malicious glee.When I've been bothered to return shoes,the sales clerks,in all continents,eyed me warily as a possible heel.
And here we were today.The morning school drop off.Torrential rain.Out come my new tartan design just under the knee rain boots.Co-ordinated with my red poncho,I reckon I cut a dashing figure before 8am. We're on time and cruising.E.T.A 10 minutes to the drop off point,my left sock suddenly feels wet.Well drenched actually and as I lift my foot to investigate,half of the sole flops down.Like some damsel in a the hero's arms from a black and white."Bugger!"I shout out."Bugger!" gurgles The Booby Slayer back in the pram.Remind me to invent a soundproof rain cover when I have time.I manage to make it to the drop off zone by sliding one foot along the ground.Call me Quasimodo but in Japan,my shoe size is far from sub standard.I turn the pram against the tide of begruntled adolescents,skulking along to school,all of whom have instantly spotted the only foreigner and are gawking.Gawking just as my boot utters it's death rattle and the entire sole detaches from the boot,collapsing ,tartan insole and all,into a puddle.A few bubbles rise to the surface and then nothing.Nothing which is now what is separating my foot,apart from a shell shocked sock,from tarmac.I continued to slide my foot as any kind of upward movement would give the boot free reign to slide down my calf and off onto the road in some kind of suicide pact.Never have the words "Stiff upper lip" rung so true in my head.I put my head down and slid all the way home.No brownie points for guessing what half of the local high school kids were talking about today!
Now if it had been the AWOL poo poo,I could have flicked it at them.......
The average life span of a pair of my shoes is weeks.They split,break,rupture,end up stinking so bad that a date with doctor garbage is their only salvation, and rip the skin off my toes with malicious glee.When I've been bothered to return shoes,the sales clerks,in all continents,eyed me warily as a possible heel.
And here we were today.The morning school drop off.Torrential rain.Out come my new tartan design just under the knee rain boots.Co-ordinated with my red poncho,I reckon I cut a dashing figure before 8am. We're on time and cruising.E.T.A 10 minutes to the drop off point,my left sock suddenly feels wet.Well drenched actually and as I lift my foot to investigate,half of the sole flops down.Like some damsel in a the hero's arms from a black and white."Bugger!"I shout out."Bugger!" gurgles The Booby Slayer back in the pram.Remind me to invent a soundproof rain cover when I have time.I manage to make it to the drop off zone by sliding one foot along the ground.Call me Quasimodo but in Japan,my shoe size is far from sub standard.I turn the pram against the tide of begruntled adolescents,skulking along to school,all of whom have instantly spotted the only foreigner and are gawking.Gawking just as my boot utters it's death rattle and the entire sole detaches from the boot,collapsing ,tartan insole and all,into a puddle.A few bubbles rise to the surface and then nothing.Nothing which is now what is separating my foot,apart from a shell shocked sock,from tarmac.I continued to slide my foot as any kind of upward movement would give the boot free reign to slide down my calf and off onto the road in some kind of suicide pact.Never have the words "Stiff upper lip" rung so true in my head.I put my head down and slid all the way home.No brownie points for guessing what half of the local high school kids were talking about today!
Now if it had been the AWOL poo poo,I could have flicked it at them.......
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