The Party, The Hangover and The Cure

I got invited to a first birthday party last week. Usually my mind delves into the catalogue of readymade excuses to see if any fit; dog ate my homework, gastro/food poisoning, washing my hair, allergic to balloons/blue icing/children. This time I didn’t want or need an excuse, this was a grown-ups party, the one year anniversary of a business. This meant I had an excuse to iron a shirt, drink cocktails, eat my body weight in canapés and schmooze with business types. Parenting dictates that normal procedure is to put on whatever is closest to hand, drink strong coffees, eat Max’s leftovers and talk to Mums about our kids; so this would make for a nice change.

The party was in Sydney, now for a man that often struggles to motivate himself to jump on a tram and meet friends in a neighbouring suburb this was a big deal, huge even! But the lure of a grown up party was strong and I did it, I booked flights, babysitters, ironed a shirt and combed my hair. As is customary when things seem to be seamlessly in order everything went wrong. The party was from 6-9pm, my flight was booked for 3:50pm and I would arrive on time cool, calm and collected. I get a call at around 1pm from the babysitter letting me know that she won’t be able to make it, count to 10 Matthew, 1, 2, 3, faaaark!

I spend a small eternity on hold listening to annoying happy jingly music whilst waiting to speak to someone from the airlines customer service. I get through to someone, I remain calm, I tell myself I will go to the ball and I pay to reschedule for the next available flight at 5pm which would see my arrive fashionably late. I get to the airport, I check in, I drink a beer, I listen to a tannoy announcement saying that some poor bastards flight has been put back by two hours, I check my ticket and realise that I am that poor bastard. I order another beer and fight off the tears but inside I am sobbing my little heart out in an angry fashion. I would now be arriving at the party that ends at 9:00pm at 8:58pm and that is beyond fashionably late.

There is no going back now, flights and hotels are booked and I’m a little bit tipsy so my judgement is clouded, I’m still going, I drink another beer. The emotional rollercoaster that this day has become continues to unfold when another tannoy message announces that the earlier one was a bit premature and that the flight has now been brought forward by an hour to 6pm, emotionally I was a bit angry, a bit tired, a bit happy and a bit drunk; what I needed was a drink to calm my nerves.

I boarded the plane, as a long legged individual I had the benefit of extra legroom which was offset by the fact that I was the person who had to save everyone in the event of an emergency, I found it a struggle to fasten my seatbelt. I had another beer to stop myself from falling asleep. Touchdown, taxi, venue! I put on my game face, casually nodded at some of the other party goers as if we went back years and made my way to the bar, “the drinks are complimentary this evening sir”, this was already the best first birthday I had been to by quite some distance.

I woke up with the sort of hangover that makes you vow to never touch a drop of alcohol ever again. The one where your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and has the same texture of sand paper. The one where your breath smells like you were licking a pub floor at closing time. The one where the slightest movement makes you feel like your head could actually break into lots of little pieces. The one where you look in the mirror and you don’t want to acknowledge the reflection as your own. The one where you wonder whether all those jokes you thought were hilarious the night before were in fact worse than your usual ones.

I’ve tried lots of different hangover cures through the years from milk the night before to hair of the dog to greasy food; they all have their limitations. On Friday morning I found the best cure yet – waking up in a beautiful Hotel. A powerful shower to blast away the cobwebs, a fluffy robe that feels like a hug from Mum, a Do Not Disturb Sign that is lost on Max and best of all a buffet breakfast. You can always tell the people who don’t stay in a hotel much by the excitement they display when studying and planning their strategy to tackle the buffet. I don’t stay in hotels often and I was genuinely excited, I planned for a four course breakfast starting healthy and getting more greasy towards the end. I necked three revitalising juices and a cleansing juice and I felt strangely revitalised and cleansed. So my hangover cure is to recover in a Hotel, it’s not the most practical and it may be the only time I recover in such extravagant surroundings but it worked.

What is your go to hangover cure? When was the last time you vowed never to drink again?

How to Treat a Teacher Right

A few years ago I decided to retrain as a teacher. I felt I had something to offer the profession. I went back to university as a mature aged student, did what I should have done the first time around and worked my arse off. The first time I stood in front of a motley crew of Grade 6 boys I realised that all the learning and theory in the world would not truly prepare me for the reality of teaching. Over time I got used to the challenges that a roomful of boys trying hard to out-boy one another brings but I never quite got used to the parent baggage that comes with the job. Parents do little to improve an already tough gig so for any parents out there here is my guide to treat a teacher right.

Impromptu Meetings – Do not turn up 10 minutes before the start of a school day and expect to have an in-depth analysis on the latest concerns you have about your child’s development. Those ten minutes are set aside for last minute preparations and a bit of healthy panic. Make an appointment like you would to see any other professional.

Teachers are Teachers – I once had a parent ask me if I’d be a father figure for her son, whilst that might unknowingly happen during the course of teaching, she was asking for something else, something that extended beyond school hours. Teachers are not interested in being your friends, they may be friendly but ethics and discretion dictate that friendships are not wise. A colleague of mine found herself in the unusual situation of being asked “how are you’re boobs?” by one particularly fearless and inquisitive Dad after she had come into school to show off her little boy to colleagues.

Be Receptive to the Concept That Your Child is Not Perfect – Teachers will not always give you the glowing feedback you were hoping for. They are not making these things up, there is not a collective school wide conspiracy against your child and they are not necessarily being led astray by the child that you secretly hate. Sometimes it is possible that your little cherub is just being a pain in the arse. A parent once contacted me to complain that her child was not selected for the school netball team, the fact that she was not very good at netball didn’t occur to this particular parent who vowed to “take the matter further”, insert expletive here.

Find a New Hang Out – Different schools will have different policies on this but at one of the schools I taught at parents would congregate outside the classroom about twenty minutes before the end of the day. They would have a little chin wag, wave at their children, hold their finger to their lips when their child screamed “Mummy!” and then repeat the cycle. Some teachers will politely ask you not to but all teachers would secretly like to tell you to piss off and chat somewhere else. Some parents take this to the next level and actually come into the classroom when you are teaching to talk with you, this used to send my pissed-off-o-meter through the roof.

Teachers Not Babysitters – Do not drop your children at school and wash your hands of their education. Teachers can only do so much and if you want your child to be the genius you’ve always suspected they are you must play a part in that too. Read to them, ask them about their days, help with their homework, come into school to help out when asked and generally share the load, you might even enjoy it?

Presents – I was once bought a bath mat to say thank you for all my hard work throughout the year. It’s an awfully big assumption to assume that you have an understanding of my taste in bath mats and an even bigger one to assume that I actually needed one; most people have that area covered. I don’t want 20 boxes of chocolate, again my taste in chocolate is quite specific and a box of peppermint creams will not cut the mustard. What I and nearly every other teacher I have known appreciate most is wine, give me a bottle of claret and your child and all their siblings will receive gold star treatment for the remainder of their stay.

Love Thy Teacher – Teachers cop a lot of flack. Don’t get me wrong you get some duffers thrown in but that’s the same in all professions. It baffles me that people hold such negative opinions of those who teach others to read and write. People who consistently give up free time with their own children to plan and prepare for other peoples. People who spend as much time with your children as you do yourself. People who do all of this for a meagre wage and not a lot by way of thanks just because they care and they can.

And just for laughs I was once taking a Prep PE class. I had all the little dears lined up and eating out of the palm of my hand (not literally). One of the Preps, a particularly boisterous young man, stepped out of line walked towards me and prodded my penis. I must have missed the lecture on how to deal with that one and instead gave him the benefit of the doubt that he didn’t have a full grasp of the human anatomy. He then steps back into line and declares as loud as he could possibly manage “I just touched Mr Ross’s penis!” A court case flashed before my eyes – “I touched Mr Ross’s penis today Mummy”. In order to negate this from happening I had to inform my female Principle and then have a meeting with the Mum. I think for two weeks there were group emails going back and forth titled “Prodder (I’ll call the boy prodder, it seems to fit) and your privates”.

As always linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess

Mrs Under Says………..Returning to Work

I carried my child around with me for nine beautiful months, feeding him, keeping him warm and safe. I then give birth to this little miracle of mine and experience all of the incredible emotions and pain that goes with that. I spend the next year giving all of me to him because that’s just what comes naturally. Something that didn’t come so naturally was returning to work full time.

My employers were supporting our Visa application, they held the power and they knew it and they insisted that I return to work on a full time basis. Compounding my anger, bitterness, resentment and lots of other unhealthy emotions was a side serve of panic. We have no family in Australia that can assist, we have no place in childcare, what we do have though is a Dad who shows potential.

Rationality goes out of the window a little bit where the welfare of your child is concerned – is he up to it, will he be able to hack it, will he drop him are all questions that went through my head. I wrote lists and lists and lists of what to do and what not to do. That first day back at work was the longest of my working life and I phoned Matt so many times that in the end he switched his phone off. Remarkably I got home that night and father and son looked okay, maybe even happy, the house not so much.

There were definite perks to going back to work and in truth work felt like a little break in those early days. The more time goes by though, the harder it is to walk out the door each morning and say goodbye to my two boys. Matt tells me about all the little adventures they get up to, the latest developments and the challenges that have peppered their day and as much as I want to hear all of these things it’s incredibly difficult to feel like I’m parenting vicariously through Matt.

Ultimately though things are the way they are because it works for us. It helps that we both have an appreciation of what each other does, I can tell when he’s had a bad day with Max and I appreciate the need to vent, swear a little and drink some wine. Likewise he knows what it’s like to go to work and miss out on the bits and pieces that are parenting.

Matt has stepped up to the plate and surprises me on a daily basis with his commitment to raising a happy, healthy and loved boy and his lack of commitment to housework. He has found a way to make an income from home which is an unexpected bonus. Don’t get me wrong, I am still waiting to be showered with gifts and holidays, a girl’s got to dream, but he is doing something constructive with the scraps of time he can spare.

Hopefully one day I will get to be 24/7 Mum again, I miss being that woman. I miss sharing the experience with other Mums, I miss being the first person he calls out to when he needs someone, I miss seeing him change in front of my eyes and ultimately I miss ‘just’ being Mum.

From Mud to Mouth – Smoked Trout and Dill Fishcakes

There are a few boxes that I like to tick before cooking a new recipe. What can I harvest from my allotment? Will Max eat it? Will I eat the leftovers? Is it time and money efficient? Do the flavours work together? Is it healthy? Will I earn a few Good Husband Points? This particular recipe requires a giant red permanent marker to emphatically tick all of those boxes. Did I mention it only requires 4 ingredients?

This is a little insight into the rambling and roving thought process behind the recipe and how it came to be. A quick scan of my humble allotment and I noticed we had some dill that needed picking before it goes to seed. That’s a good start; dill only likes to hang out with fish so we can start thinking about dill and fish. One fish that is delicious, cheap (about $6 per fish) and often overlooked is trout and in its smoked form Max loves it, furthermore it saves time on the cooking. The best way for me to get Max to eat a new flavour is to somehow turn it into something resembling a patty complete with crispy edges and succulent centre.

Root vegetables, beans and pulses can be used to bind patties but the vegetable that will work best with smoked trout and dill is the humble potato. If that potato happens to be floury and fluffy you won’t even need egg or breadcrumbs to prevent the disaster that is a fragile fishcake. It would be good to add a bit more green and another level of flavour, one way I get Max to eat spring onion is to add it to mashed potato; the Irish call this Champ I call it mashed potato and spring onion. And there you have one oversized paragraph that reveals the method to the madness.

Ingredients (Makes 6-8 patties)
1 smoked trout
1 bunch of spring onions (the greens only)
4 medium floury potatoes (Maris Piper, King Edward, Coliban)
A bunch of dill
A little olive oil to fry
That is all

Directions
Preheat your to 200 degrees C. Take a fork and repeatedly stab your potatoes like they did something wrong and put them in the oven. Baking the potatoes delivers the most fluffy results and this recipe is all about fluff, if time is your enemy you can bake them in the microwave.

Meanwhile remove the flesh form the fish. The skin will peel off in one long and pleasing strip if you make a little nick up around the neck (do fish have necks?). Take a fork and place on the spine (like yours it runs down the middle of the back) of the fish and gently pull towards you. The fish will come off in nice big flakes leaving behind a Tom and Jerry like fish skeleton. Break the flakes up into a bowl (keep an eye out for any rogue bones)

Chop up the spring onion greens and finely chop the dill.

Once the potato has cooked scoop out the flesh and combine all the ingredients in a bowl and season with salt and pepper.
Using your hands (obviously) take the mixture and roll it into patties the size of a kittens head. If you want to joosh them up a bit sprinkle some sesame or poppy seeds either side.

Add to a pan with a small amount of hot oil (add more for further crisp factor) and cook on a medium heat, turning when the edges look nicely crisped.

Further jooshing for yourself or the more discerning child could be in the form of a creme fraiche or yoghurt , lemon and dill sauce. Bon appétit peeps! This is one of those meals that can be enjoyed by the whole family and comes in under $15

Things I Thought My Wife Was Saying To Me…..That Were Meant for our Toddler

For nine years it’s been all about me. If a bottom was being complimented it was a fair assumption it was mine (unless there was a rugby match on the telly), if a meal was being offered I was the most likely benefactor. But there’s a new kid on the block who has stolen my thunder. The addition of our plus one has seen me reply to many questions intended for The Boy.

“You sit there and watch Peppa Pig and I will go and get you a drink”

It’s fine I’ve actually watched all of the Peppa’s, the next one is not out for a couple more days. I’d love a gin and tonic though with a squeeze of lime.

“Quickly pull your trousers down”

Oh you mean him, sorry of course, excuse me I’ll just do these back up.

“You have THE most delectable bottom in the whole world”

Thank you very much Mrs Under yours isn’t too bad either. You don’t think it’s too……ah you’re talking to Max aren’t you?

“Dinner time! What would you like?”

Ooh this makes a nice change! How about that lovely spaghetti dish you did that time with prawns and chilli?

“That outfit looks amazing on you. All the girls are going to be checking you out”

It’s just something I threw together, it was literally the only clean thing in the wardrobe. And don’t you concern yourself with other girls, you know I only have eyes for you. Hang on why are you walking away?

“Stop poking and prodding your doodle or else it’s going to drop off”

I wasn’t poking or prodding, I was making a minor adjustment. Is that true that it can drop off?

“Come on off to bed with you, I’ll tuck you in and read you a book”

But it’s only 7:30pm? This is when I like to collapse on the sofa and complain about the dire state of Australian television shows. Unless of course it’s a steamy Jackie Collins title you’re offering? You weren’t talking to me were you?

And so most weeks for the briefest of moments I get my hopes up that I may be the beneficiary of some Max treatment. Slowly I am learning that I have slipped down the pecking order and I now occupy a place somewhere between the goldfish and Max’s Thomas the Tank Engine collection. It’s taken me 33 years to get here but I think I have finally arrived at the realisation that it’s not all about me.

Does this sort of honest misunderstanding take place in anyone elses households or is it just mine? Can anyone add to the list?

My Cold Weather Tipple

As soon as the mercury begins to plummet and trust me it has, my tipple of choice turns from gin and tonics to whisky. There’s something very pleasing about the warming, sweet, smokiness of a good whisky, I suspect I may also have watched too much Mad Men, if that’s possible? Anna is adamant that whisky is nasty stuff but I like a challenge and set out to change her mind. Traditionalist whisky drinkers turn their noses up at hot toddies but what do they know, a good hot toddy on a cold day will convert the staunchest of whisky critics. It’s like mulled wine only much, much better.

Some turn to toddies for the medicinal qualities that citrus, spice, heat and alcohol bring to the table, but I drink them with or without a sniffle, in fact sniffle-less is more pleasurable. Whiskies are far ranging in their subtleties and ideally you will taste a few to find ‘the one’. For any entry level whisky sceptics I recommend a nice, sweet bourbon and your local bottle shop will steer you in the right direction I’m sure. If you’re all about rum a spiced rum ticks boxes too. Recipes are generally there to be tinkered with, use them as a guideline and tweak to your taste, the addition of orange zest was all my own but works really well. I also have a hunch that using a bit of warm ginger beer would works wonders too.

Toddies taste better in front of a fire, so if you have one light it up and get cosy, blankets are good too. I picked up an old chiminea at a bric a brac market recently and it’s become my winter companion. I get lost in it’s flickering flames and warm embrace, my inner Neanderthal can’t get enough. Don’t judge me but I’ve taken to filling my coffee cup with a nice toddy for afternoon strolls in the park with Max, father and son have never enjoyed the park so much!

Ingredients (for each toddy)
60ml water
5 cloves
Cinnamon stick
3 slithers of peeled ginger
1 strip of lemon peel
1 strip of orange peel
60ml whisky
2tsp honey
1-2 tsp lemon juice

Directions
Put the water in a small pan along with the spices and peel over a low heat. Bring to a gentle simmer. Meanwhile rinse a heatproof glass with hot water and dry.
Pour the whisky into your warmed glass and then pour over hot water and spices. Stir in the honey and lemon juice, taste and adjust to how you like it.

What do you turn to to warm you’re cockles when things get frosty?

Life’s Little Treasures

When me and Anna landed in Tullamarine airport nearly six years ago we arrived with a couple of suitcases stuffed full of clothes. Before leaving England we sold our house and all our worldly possessions, all those bits and pieces we had collected through the years, all of which told a story or served a purpose. It’s a strange feeling to say goodbye to all of those bits and pieces that have been a part of your home and your life for so long, on the one hand it’s sad to see them go but I also appreciate being unburdened of stuff.

Before you could say “g’day mate” we set about filling our 2 bed unfurnished apartment with all the necessary bits that make somewhere habitable. I’ve never had that immediate need for everything before, turning up and having to buy a doona, cutlery, chairs and so many other bits and pieces that day was not a whole lot of fun. 6 years in and our little home feels a bit more like home having accessorised with the little gems that you stumble across at your own pace. I thought I’d share some of my favourite niks and naks with you; they all contribute to the story of our life Down Under.

Type Writer – I found this type writer in hard rubbish, in England there is no hard rubbish and it still blows me away what people throw out, it has to be the most efficient form of recycling? I used to get Anna to drive around the suburbs when it was ‘their turn’ and see what treasures I could find, it was like Op Shopping without the stale smell. I got a new ribbon for it and it works like a dream; I will occasionally sit down and write a letter to a relative or friend back in Blighty. I suppose it’s become more significant since I’ve started blogging, a little tip of that to what I love to do.

Surf Board – I had never surfed before I arrived in Australia and its now part of who I am and what I do. There is something restorative for mind and body about surfing, nothing else matters apart from the now. I won’t go any further without pointing out that I’m not a particularly good surfer, if you were being cruel you might even go as far as to say bad; but I love it all the same. This is my first board, it’s big and clumsy like me but it is symbolic of how much my life has changed since being down here.

Resin Leaf – I got this for Anna for Mother’s Day. I could sell you a line about the leaf representing our love for each other which will never change, but that would be a load of old bollocks. I just think it’s really beautiful. I got it from an artist in Tasmania, that’s where they all hang out and I love it to the point that I think it might actually have been one of those presents that is actually for aimed at yourself.

Chiminea – I picked up this old chiminea at a bric a brac market recently and it’s become my cold weather companion. There is something very evocative about lighting a fire, it takes me back to all those old camping trips and some great memories I shared with friends back home. It extends the evening now that it’s getting dark and we often find ourselves out there in the pitch black under a blanket, staring into the it’s flickering flames and sipping red wine.

Retro Chairs – Another hard rubbish find, they looked ever so sorry for themselves with tatty stained material, springs bulging out of every angle, nasty orange varnish and broken arms. We had never restored furniture and always thought it would a bit of fun. Well it wasn’t much fun, it was a lot of hard work but we sanded, re-sprung, re-covered, re-attached and we ended up with two pieces of furniture that we love and I know will come with us wherever we go next.

Sideboard – Whenever I fancy a Sunday to myself I head down to Camberwell market for a wander and a rummage through the many stalls. Most of it is tat but that makes it all the more rewarding when you find something you love and nab it before anyone else. I saw this sideboard and noticed a lady talking to the stall owner about it. Without knowing how I was going to get it home I stuffed $20 into the stall holders hand and asked him to hold it for me while I went to get the rest. It cost me $150 and some dagger looks from the lady, no harm done. Apparently it came from an old private school; it’s got a beautiful solid wooden frame with metal legs. It might not be for everyone but this is my favourite piece of furniture.

Mixer – I picked this up for $10 at a garage sale which just happened to be on the same day as Anna’s birthday. It’s big, heavy and pleasing on the eye. I copped so much shit about giving her a second hand $10 mixer for her birthday but she loved it and I knew she would, she shares my love for a bargain. Baking has never been so easy and come the weekend there is generally something in the oven wafting just baked smells around the house.

Max’s Hand Casting – I got these done for Mothers Day last year. I did it largely out of panic and lack of alternative inspiration but I love them so much. They came out so clearly and they hang in the garden and serve as a reminder of just how little my little boy once was. The caster offered to inscribe them or varnish them but I love their simplicity and they are very dear to me.

There you have it, our life Down Under brought to you by the objects we have surrounded ourselves with. What are the little treasures that mean most to you?