Crikey, it’s been a week. A strong, positive Monday can set the tone for the rest of the week. If Monday’s go a bit pear shaped I tend to follow suit. With my childbearing hips this can mean navigating myself sideways through the child safety gate. It was going to be a week of sidewinding.
When you see your child’s school telephone number pop up a whole host of rapid-fire questions come to mind. What’s she done? What’s been done to her? Did I remember to take her to school? I’ve got a Skype call in an hour how am I going to juggle this one? A mix of ‘good’ questions – those that show motherly concern and general ‘sheeeeet’ !
Another aggressive game of Tig had resulted in S rolling her ankle yet again, the same ankle she broke about this time last year. A trip to A&E is a pretty standard affair now. We know where to go, what they’ll ask and are au fait with X-ray procedure. The upshot was another fracture, another moonboot, another 4 weeks of not being about to play outside with her pals. Her Monday was decidedly worse than mine.
Fast forward to Friday night (taking into consideration an awards night, a new client visit, a week of broken sleep etc) and I’m shagged but not in the Biblical sense. The kids are fractious, hungry and tired. A bit like me. I’ve whacked a ready-made Shepherd’s pie in the oven. They’ve picked at it and now want pudding. When I say ‘want’ pudding I mean they’re on the verge of going feral. There is literally nothing in the cupboards, or is there? As a child of the (early) 70’s, I was raised with an interesting mix of food. Convenience food had really started to take hold and Mum was all about the rehydrating, ‘pinging’ was a few years off but freezer food was a pretty big deal. I bloody loved Findus pancakes (‘chicken/horse and mushroom a clear fave) followed by an Angel Delight and I’d be happy.
I decided to take a leaf out out of my Mum’s Bero cookbook (kindof) and make chocolate custard. I had custard powder, I had drinking chocolate, I had a glass of wine in hand. I was going to make something amazing.
Oddly enough amazing turned out to be gopping. In later years my children would be right in describing my cooking as ‘brown and a bit shit’. What I made for them resembled sludge, a consistancy that of about-to-set ‘Plaster of Paris.’ I tried to polish this particular food turd with sprinkles. It made no difference. They rejected my offering and instead asked for Greek yogurt and honey, reassuring me that they are far more capable to making good food choices that I am, even today.
Pass the Smash.