Technically yes. Literally, no.

I examine the contents of the fridge waiting for something to leap out and inspire me. My elder daughter saunters into the kitchen. As she examines my spine she reads my mind, “howabout egg nests?”
“Oooo egg nests…..we’ve not had those for…..?”
“Donkey’s years!” I lean on the counter, transported back a couple of decades, when there was just the two of us.

Back then, my troubles were of an entirely different order.

Working parents still share these difficulties, how to create a meal that everyone will enjoy with limited time and fewer financials. Her request for ‘egg nests’ was code for ‘lets make it together.’ Whilst she impaled a potato, I would peel the others. Dollops of mashed potato would flop around the counter as we fashioned nests and tried not to burn our fingers. I would put the casualty eggs to one side to scramble at another time, as only perfect eggs could sink into the nest. With a few minutes under the grill and a sliver of butter, they would emerge steaming and lightly browned, a feast fit for one and a half. A cozy treat on dark, damp evenings, something we know as comfort food.
Nonna comments, “it sounds more like it is breakfast to me.” We ponder upon this too, another different era in another European country, in the days before cereal had been invented.

I pull out the tatty recipe book from the Potato Marketing Board, spiral bound and well thumbed. Nonna adjusts her spectacles, I clean mine. My younger daughter leans on her Grandmother’s arm for a closer look, “yuk, I don want English food!” The trigger word jump starts the boys into action. We all gather round the book. “Tell you what. Look at the pictures and choose one of these 5 recipes for supper. Potato kipper scramble, potato nests, potato scotch eggs, Spanish omelette or potato and egg curry. Whichever one gets the most votes, is the one that I’ll cook for tonight.”
“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“A kipper?”
“Fish, or rather smoked fish.”
The collective ‘yuk’ is drowned out by gagging noises.
“Smokin is bad! Jus say no to drugs!”
“Wot ee say?”
“Er………. it was drugs awareness week.”
“Eets not dat type of smoking. It’s a kind of preservation, like bottling or canning.”
“No bottles. Alcohol is poison of young minds.”
“Wot eee say?”
“Er……alcohol…….drugs awareness week. Remember?”
“No. You are wrong. It stops the food going bad, you know?”
“Bad food. We are not like dah bad food wiv dah alcohol and dah smoke.”
“Wot eee say?”
“Er…”
“I am not like dah spicy.”
“Curry doesn’t have to be spicy, I can adjust it to make it milder. Anyway curry is the national dish in England.”
“But we are hate dah England.”
“Wot eee say?”
“He’s………American, not English.”
“Scotch is being just like dah English. I am hate dah Kingdoms.”
“Wot he say?”
“More of the same.”
“Eee az some very funny ideas.”
“So no-one’s particularly taken with the egg nests then?” I note rhetorically.
“We are be liking dah Spanish.”
“You are?”
“Wot eee say?”
“Spanish. He’ll eat Spanish food.”
“No! I not eat it but I am like dah sound.”
“Wot eee say?”
“He likes the sound of Spanish food.”
“Eee’s a liar.”

Technically yes. Literally, no.

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2008/11/technically-yes-literally-no.html

Patron Saint of superstitious people

Many years ago in England, I gave my daughter a St. Christopher’s medal, a very small one on a fine golden chain. To my surprise, she wore it. She always wore it. Soon after that, we began to travel, or rather move lock stock and barrel to the United States. Subsequently, as she became an adult, she traveled even further a field, to China, Tibet, Mozambique. I had forgotten about that little medal. I had no idea that it traveled with her.




My son cycles through his current favourite scripts. Because they are scripts, they are word perfect with no detectable speech delay. Because they are acquired from here and there, they demonstrate a wide range of accents and emphasies. He voices his scripts as he plays a Wii game with enraptured, high energy joy, oblivious to everyone and everything around him. Whilst he plays I go about my evening chores, a combination of laundry and cookery when my daughter appears, “I’ll do that for you mum.”
“I think I got some flour on those dark jeans.”
“Ah, it’ll brush off.”
“Don’t try this at home!” he chants.
“It’s so easy to sort and fold the laundry now.”
“Oh that’s very kind of you dear, but you don’t need to bother, I’ll do it in a minute. Don’t you need to finish your packing?”
“Batteries not included!” he shouts.
“Nope. The back packs full. I’m happy to help, especially now that it’s so much easier?”
“Easier?”
“French Fries! Get your French Fries here!”
“Yes, everything of yours is sludge coloured and everything of hers is pink.”
“Hmm yes, it is a worrying trend.”
“Be a man no more, be an ape.”
“The sludge? Got to be expected at your age.”
“Actually I meant the pink.”
“Got to be expected at her age.”
“Whacked out on Vicodin!”

I reflect upon this conversation the next day, in the utility room. I empty the washing machine after dropping her at San Francisco airport for her flight to Australia. I lift out the little medal and turn to see Nonna hovering, “ooo gawd!” she flutters, as I hold it out for her to see in the palm of my hand. She steps back into the kitchen to grab the cruet, “ere, throw some salt over your shoulder, quick! I won’t tell anyone! Ave another Vicodin and stop it wiv your worrying.”

Patron Saint of superstitious people

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2008/10/patron-saint-of-superstitious-people.html

My Grandmother's Chest

* I read my email as my girls prepare for their respective sleepovers. I read one note from a chum, a round robin about ovarian cancer. It also lists the main symptoms. The one that catches my eye is the term ‘persistent lethargy or over tiredness.’ This seems to be a symptom common to so many diseases. How should I be able to distinguish between general fatigue and sickly fatigue I wonder? I yawn as my daughter drags a sack two thirds the size of her own body mass into the kitchen.
“Got everything dear?”
“Er…..yes I think so.”
“Ooo look! You’ve forgotten your toothbrush, over there.”
“Oh.”
“Did you pack some toothpaste?”
“Er……no.”
“What about your pyjamas?”
“Nope.”
“Cuddly blankie?”
“Yes.”
“Clothes for tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Wash cloth, soap, toiletries.”
“Toilet? They have a toilet.”
“Nevermind, I’ll put some bits and pieces together for you. So what do you have in there?”
“Three blankets, my Webkinz, my toys and some snacks.”
“Maybe you should take a sleeping bag instead.”
“No they make up a bed for me.”
“Then why do you need so many blankets?”
“Er….I just need em.”
“Are the snacks a gift? Shall we wrap them?”
“No, they’re to eat.”
“But you’re having supper there.”
“Still gotta eat.” I give up and head off to fill in the missing blanks when I bump into my older daughter with her sketch book under one arm, “all set dear.”
“Yup.”
“I think you left the tent in the garage.”
“I don’t need the tent.”
“No tent? Is there a cabin?”
“Nope, sleep under the stars in my sleeping bag.”
“No backpack?”
“It’s only one night mum!” I leave the minimalist at the bottom of the stairs and whip up to gather supplies for the maximalist.

I nip downstairs again when Nonna is saying her goodbyes at the door. We watch her together as she hurtles off on her bike, care free and devoid of possessions. I shut the door and we totter through to the family room where my youngest daughter attempts to stuff additional Pokemon into a sack all ready to burst.
"Careful, you will split dah bag!" warns Nonna.
"This dumb bag. It's pathetic."
"Tell you what, you can borrow dah suitcase dat I brought from home."
"That's ain't big enough either! It's only a little diddy English suitcase." She flounces from the room, temporarily defeated. Nonna turns to me, "how long is she go for? How long are dey both go for?"
"One night. She'll be back at 8:30 tomorrow morning.......her sister......any time in the next few days, assuming she doesn't get too many punctures."
"I wonder ow long it will take?"
"What?"
"To whittle her down to just a sketch pad?"

My Grandmother's Chest

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2008/10/my-grandmothers-chest.html

Chomping at the bit[e]

I rush around the kitchen, chopping and chiding.
“Will you still eat the coleslaw if I leave the sultanas out?”
“Of course Mother dearest. You know me, I’ll eat anything.”
“The goat’s cheese has herbs and garlic in it. Will that still be o.k. for you?”
“Of course.”
“Well I didn’t want to overload the garlic in case you were going out or something.”
“Out?”
“You know. Meeting your chums. I wouldn’t want you to gas them with garlic breath.”
“My friends aren’t that picky.”
“It’s so tricky to take account of everyone’s needs and yet still keep pushing the healthy diets.”
“Just as well some of us are easy to accommodate.”
“I’m hoping that I’ll be able to persuade them to eat the flan if I pile enough caramelized onions on top.”
“Well if not, I’m always here.”
“I’m not sure if the Rosemary glaze will be too over powering for the carrots……or rather…..the children?”
“No problem, all the more for me.”
“I’ve cheated a bit.”
“Really?”
“If they won’t eat the goat’s cheese I’ve put Parmesan on the Bruschetta. Nonna likes the Bruschetta, so I’ve made extra. I’m trying new tricks to get cheese into them. Do you mind?”
“Coronary please!”
“I slipped some finely chopped olives into the mixture. I hope they don’t notice.”
“Chunks Mother, I love chunks.”
“Yes, but chunks are much easier to pick out. Their finger tips are surgeon’s scalpels.”
“No progress on the knives and forks then, what a surprise.”
“I also need to ease up on the puddings. Too many diabetics around here. The fruit campaign is going to suffer.”
“Well there’ll be a few more diabetics in the future if you don’t get a grip.”
“Quinine’s supposed to be good for leg cramps, but I’m not having much luck selling that one either.”
“Nonna doesn’t strike me as a gin and tonic kindofa woman.”
“Hmm….the butter and olive oil consumption as doubled.”
“Very slick. All this effort! Why do you bother?”
“Well I have to keep trying or they might fade away completely.”
“Do you really think he’ll have a go?”
“Him? Oh no, he won’t eat any of this, not one scrap. It’s all for everyone else.”
“Oh……so what will he eat whilst we’re scoffing this down?”
“Ritz crackers.”
“Ritz. That’s it?”
“What do you mean ‘that’s it?’ It’s a hellavan advance on Goldfish Crackers missy!”

Chomping at the bit[e]

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2008/10/chomping-at-bite.html

Woe Betide you

I have always been a very quick learner.

Back in the 70’s when money was tight, my mother would spend an entire weekend cooking and baking. Sumptuous smells would waft up our three story, narrow Victorian terrace. It was so familiar and deliciously enticing.

It meant that my mother would be harassed. It meant that the kitchen would be an impassable road block full of dirty pans and dishes. It meant sandwiches for two days running. Sandwiches with margarine because all the butter had been cooked. Sandwiches with crusty jam of some obscure flavour that had grown fur at the back of the cupboard, like gooseberry or damson. A wicked combination of sensual torture. By the middle of the first day we would recognize the look. We would peek around the kitchen door, “when’s lunch mum?” A harried woman would look up, brush a lock of flour powdered hair behind her ear, pursed lips and furrowed brow, “food! You’ve only just had breakfast!”
“That was ages ago. I’m starving!”
“If you’re hungry…….eat some fruit.” She might just as well have said ‘eat a house brick.’ Any further protest would be met with ‘if you don’t want fruit you can’t be very hungry then.’ It was a scripted exchanged that soon fizzled out. We’d be reduced to searching the sofas and chairs for half eaten sweets and other fluffy rejects.

The oven took precedence. To save money on gas, the tiny oven had to be permanently full, fed with tray after tray, sheet after sheet, casserole after casserole in a never ending conveyor belt of food. The oxygen content of the fetid atmosphere would fall as the squirts of lemon fought with tomato juice, onion breath and hot air.

By Sunday evening, order and cleanliness would have been restored. Whilst my mother soaked in a bath of steamy Skin so Soft, we would sneak into the kitchen to steal. The counter would be laden with boxes, tins and Tupperware, each neatly labeled with indecipherable handwriting, code and dates. Miraculous. The condensation on the black window panes contained more nutritious molecules than anything less accessible. Should anyone be brave enough to lift a lid they would be rewarded with a vision of symmetry. Everything would be 24 or 12 with the occasional six. We were all thieves but none of us were conjurers. It was an impossible pattern to defeat.

I have time to remember these things as I finish up the fourth load of washing up. Remember, as I tidy away the pen and labels with different codes. Reflect, as I push all the boxes that cool to the back of the counter and reach for a carton of Goldfish Crackers to feed my own starving. Maybe I can squeeze in a quick shower in the next 24 hours? But first I have to find the child that hides from the stench of cooking.

Woe Betide you

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2008/10/woe-betide-you.html

Telescopic or Micro?

I make careful plans. In order to take a night out, I need to ensure that the three hour evening routine, from 5 p.m. until 8 p.m. is squished into the already packed 3 until 5, afternoon routine.

Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.

My family members, without exception, do not fare well with changes in routine. Even adult members are resistant, and inclined to confusion. No-one responds to pressure.

The telephone answering machine tells me hurriedly, that the first baby sitter has abandoned ship. I pout unfairly, as this message is really a welcome prompt for me to alert the back up baby sitter.

I seriously consider spending the school hours making a power point presentation for clarification, but the worm disables my plan as it munches it’s way through all of the networked computers. The constant beeping of the antivirus software works like a clarion call on my ever withering brain cells. I decide to adopt my mother, or rather pop her voice box on my shoulder to eliminate any negative thoughts that seek to invade:- ‘people go out and about all the time! Don’t be such a fuss pot! You are not indispensable you know!’ I tuck my mother under my bra strap for later use, as Nonna appears. “So!”
“Are you ready for a cup of coffee and the BBC?”
“Eh? Yes…..I mean no…….I mean………wot you are go to see tonight den?”
“Er…….whatever’s on I suppose.”
“Wot time you go?”
“Just after six. Sixish. Around six.”
“Matilda?”
“Not Matilda, Matilde. However, she can’t baby sit tonight so I’ve asked Harry.”
“Ooo dat will be nice, to have a man for a change.”
“Short for Harriette.”
“Oh.”

The school day is a blur of cooking, laundry and cleaning until 2:20 p.m. and time for pick up, although I would really prefer a ‘pick me up.’

As we drive home in a squall of screams, it dawns on me that this is not a good omen. Once inside, the children kick back as I read daily school reports to work out the odds of a successful re-scheduling of the afternoon. I determine that the route to hell shall be my sole salvation. They take full advantage of the trampolene and every other conceivable instrument of relief.

I brief the children of our impending ‘date night’ and await fall out, again. As they all fall about pretending that death is imminent, I pause for additional thoughts.


I break precedent and cancel homework and children’s chores. This wipes out three hours in an instant. I double electronics time from 30 minutes to one hour which in turn provides me with 60 minutes to make packed lunches, tidy toys, make supper for five, find library books, pack backpacks with sublime efficiency, unfettered and uninterrupted, to be ready, early.

When Harry calls to leave a message at 5:50p.m. to say that ‘summats cum up,’ I am strangely unsurprised, although I can only just catch it over the ambient level of noise together with two slamming doors. From behind the first door, their father pops, breathless and ever so slightly eager, until he sees my face and his crest slips. From behind the second door, my daughter pops, smothered in bike oil and assorted forest debris, “Whatsup with you? You look like a wet weak Wednesday.” This is exactly what my own mother would say to me.
“Thursday! Thursday! Thursday!” pipes a small one.
“Is it Wednesday?” enquires Nonna, enunciating all three syllables perfectly.
“Abadonship! Abadonship! Abadonship!” bleats another, with several worrying undertones. My younger daughter unglues herself from the telly, “hey! You could baby sit us instead!” It’s more of an announcement than a request, as she mistakenly believes that her big sister is a soft touch.
“Ah. Is that what it is. Babysitter bailed?”
“Indeed.”
“That’s o.k. You go off. Nonna and I will baby-sit the little tikes,” she offers graciously, with a sweaty arm around Nonna’s shoulders.

We say our farewells.

I park on the back step to put on my shoes, my kind of ‘dressing up’ for a night out. I hear my Warrior Woman warp into action behind the door, “right then you lot. Turn those off. We’re going to have story time and then make dirt and worms for dessert, for after you’ve eaten your salad, if you eat your salad.”

We sit in the car on the driveway and breathe in silence.
“So what do you want to see and where are we going to go to see it?”
“Um…..anywhere that doesn’t show cartoons.”
“Hmmm I’m not feeling that animated myself.”
“Maybe we could just sit and chat awhile?”
“Or a nap awhile?”
Nonna spots us through the window, parked on the drive. She steps closer to peer. Behind her a herd of small bodies leap around the room like party revelers, a clear sign that they’re all enjoying a tale, as the expressive aural tradition is always so much more effective.

Nonna flutters her fingers. A wave or a prompt? I turn the key in the ignition and the engine burns into action, “quick! Before we doze off!” I remove my mother from my shoulder strap and tuck her into my empty retainer box for safe keeping.
“You certainly know how to light my fire,” he sighs wearily.

Well I can’t be a damp squib all of my life?

Telescopic or Micro?

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2008/09/telescopic-or-micro.html

An addition of an admirable admiral

“So why you are call im dat den?” Nonna enquires as I replace the telephone receiver after my international call.
“Call who what?”
“Your Dad. Why you call im Admiral?”
“It’s a family joke. Everyone thinks he’s an Admiral but really he’s only a passed over two and a half.”
“Eh?”
“Naval rank is indicated by the number of golden stripes on your sleeve, the cuff. When you reach a certain age in the Service, you are either promoted to captain and have three stripes or you’re not chosen, “passed over.’”
“Oh…I tink I see.”
My daughter charges into the kitchen flourishing a sheet of paper.
“Mom! Mom! Mom! Look I finished it. Whatcha think?”
“Oh that’s lovely dear. It looks just like him. You do have an eye for portraiture, highly admirable.”
“Um ……….wasat mean?”
“Oh it means …..that I admire or like your picture very much indeed. It comes from the Latin, admirari, ad-mi-rah-ree.”
“Ooo you are be speaking dah dead! Shush, he’ll hear you!” advises the protective big brother.
“I am heared!” pipes up the little one, as usual, all ears, “I am always liking dah Latins. I’m gonna be a high admiral when I am being growned higherer.”
“No…..yur part cat. Your…….cat part…….is not liking the water.”
“No stoopid……oopsie…….I mean……my cat part will be in dah boat……my human part will be an Admiral person, dry wiv dah "golden" cuffs.”

An addition of an admirable admiral

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2008/09/addition-of-admirable-admiral.html