inner pickle

salad days

My fella Adam loves salads. Kind of unexpected in a bloke, you'd perhaps think the big classic roast dinner or lovely Italian pasta might be the big hitters (that's me TOTALLY projecting, they'd be my favourites right there) but Ad loves a salad. Pretty much anything green and fresh. 

Here's one I made on Sunday to take to my sweet nephew Nate's 2nd birthday party/picnic in the beautiful botanic gardens in Camden.

Spinach + roast pumpkin + cherry tomatoes + toasted pinenuts and sunflower kernals

Dressed with mix of olive oil + balsamic vinegar + lemon juice

Fresh and yummy.

My sister Suze made the birthday cake:

Oh yes. The classic awesomeness of a butter cake with spectacular green icing and freckles. Doesn't get any better.

Butter Cake (our Nan's recipe)

125g butter, softened

1 cup white sugar

2 eggs

2 cups self raising flour

1 cup whole milk

Beat butter and sugar until creamed. Beat in one egg at a time.

Stir in one cup of flour. Add half the milk. Stir in the other cup of flour. Stir in the other half cup of milk.

Bake in moderate oven (180deg) for about 30 mins.

Really, greasing, flouring and lining the pan takes longer than throwing this cake together. And it never fails. It's an awesome recipe to have memorised. 

Icing is usually approx 2 cups icing sugar mixture + 3 teaspoons of milk + 2 teaspoons of soft butter or margerine. Add food colouring by drops and decorate with treats!! 

(Birthday cakes tend to break colour/sugar/additive rules in my house but you usually only get one piece and birthdays are a wonderful excuse to break some rules.)

Birthday boy.

Is that REALLY a chocolate freckle? Has MUM seen it?

xxx

why it's wonderful not being medieval

All of you who know me know I'm a bit of a medieval head. 

I studied medieval history at university, got all serious and post-grad about the logistics of crusading, I listen to a lot of medieval music (search for Hildegard of Bingen on iTunes if you are at all interested and have a listen to some of the heart-stoppingly beautiful recordings made). 

I read a lot of historical fiction and I sometimes just have to cook civet of rabbit or sugar wafers or tourtel (herbed egg tart) or orange omlette for harlots and ruffians (seriously, an authentic fifteenth century Italian recipe, reproduced in The Medieval Kitchen.)

I'm not, however, in the least bit interested in pretending to live in the Middle Ages. 

I'm too bloody relieved to find myself in the twenty-first century in Australia.

I must have been asked a hundred times if I'm a re-enactor, somebody who dresses in authentically historical clothing and sets up camps in authentic ways etc. Ah, no. 

And here's why (in no particular order and not exhaustive):

- Epidurals

- Baby Panadol

- Safe C-section births

- Feminism

- Washing machines

- Refrigeration

- Espresso

- Chocolate

- Potato, for that matter

- Hygiene

- Internet

- Penicillin

- Glass windows

- Sewerage

- Contraception (particularly prophylactics other than bloodletting)

and the main reason: THYROXINE.

It's been just under a week and oh yes, I am a completely re-made woman. I'd gotten so used to running on empty that I'd forgotten what it felt like to be charged up. 

Thank you to a lovely reader from the US, Rebecca, for her detailed and incredibly thoughtful advice and research on Thyroiditis. Notwithstanding all her excellent naturopathic advice, I'm on the drugs for now and will do a controlled trial off them in a few months. 

Happy happy happy. 

Hope you're all marvellous.

xxx

recipe histories

This Apple and Almond cake has a history. It was originally an Apple and Walnut cake. I got the recipe from my friend Gill, who made it for us in May in Canberra (delicious). 

Gill got the recipe from our friend Jodi (as in Jodi and Andrew of Bretzels fame). 

Jodi, I think, got the recipe from our friend Larry's Mum's sister. Or something. Might have been his grandmother's sister. 

Anyway, this cake is SO YUMMY and you have to try it. I cut the sugar in half and it's still great, and as I don't adore walnuts as much as I adore toasted almonds, I used those instead. I also changed the spices and added more... I love apple and spice.

here 'tis:

Apple and Almond Cake

2 Granny Smith apples

1/2 cup raw sugar

125g melted butter

1.5 cups plain flour

1 tsp cinnamon

1 cup rough chopped toasted almonds (or raw walnuts. Whatever you like.)

1 egg

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp nutmeg

1/2 tsp cloves

1 tsp bicarb soda

Method:

Cut the apples into chunks and mix with the sugar and nuts (I left my apple unpeeled.) Beat the egg into the cooled butter and add to the apple mix. Mix the flour, the bicarb and your spices into apple mix. Spoon into ring tin and bake for 30 mins at 180 deg.

Jodi had warned me that when you spoon it into the pan it looks so chunky you don;t think it will become a cake. Very true. But it comes out as an excellent cake. 

Not sure how kid friendly it is really - depends on your stance on nuts. 

More for us. 

We've got two birthdays this weekend so we got busy making cards today. 

This is a fun little craft project for kids:

I drew the stems, the kids pasted on the "flowers" (coloured mini muffin cases.)

Happy birthday to my darling friend Ness, and to my nephew Nate, 2 already.

See you on Monday, have a wonderful weekend.

xxx

cracker

Suddenly, after grey skies and damp washing and mildew-y shoes the sun came out. And what a cracking day it was today.

The kids and I went to a park at Rushcutters Bay this morning to catch up with some friends, Henry, pictured above, attempted to scale the harbour wall...

We snacked on raisins and wholemeal crackers while looking at this view.

Tilly wants a boat for Christmas. 

Come on Mum, I'm almost over! If you hang onto that camera (and not me) for just one more minute you can photograph me falling in!

My appetite for risk = low. 

The attraction of dry children in car on way home = high.

xxx

happy pants

Clipart photos today, thanks Microsoft. 

This is not what my washing line looks like. Not at all. Not only is mine in the rear courtyard of an inner city terrace, with very little sun or greenery, but mine is wet. It's been wet for over a week. And since you asked, yes, my happy pants are on the line. 

Here is where I wish I was:

or, you know, I'd settle for small (and quiet):

As that's not going to happen, here's my backup:

Hope you all had a better day! 

Here's my forecast for tomorrow: cloud clearing, mostly sunny.

xxx

the real masterchefs

This is a real photo, nothing staged, nothing moved, of dinner preparation tonight. Beef and Vegetable Pasta Bake in it's infancy (i.e. still on the stove), the mushrooms I forgot to put in it (yes, how could I forget? they were right in front of me), the cup of tea going cold, the puffed corn I'd resorted to to keep Tilly quiet and on the step stool and off the bench, the empty tomato tins... 

Really, the masterchefs are the women in the kitchen (and the occasional fella) every day, coming up with something nutritious that they and small people might like to eat. They might have a child hanging off one leg as they walk from bench to pantry, or they might have one "helping" at the bench, which means being extra diligent with knives/stove/glass canisters/even hot teaspoons still hot from stirring the stock. (Yep, hand up, bad mother.) 

The real masterchefs are the ones who are orchestrating small crafts at the same time as trying to cook dinner, anything to divert the "helpers". They're waving Sydney Morning Heralds underneath the smoke alarm as it goes off (again) and turning the sausages with one hand while picking up a helper who's fallen off the bench with the other. They're cooking every night for largely disinterested customers. Even old favourites can be met with the harshest of criticisms. Something new and creative tends to challenge the consumer beyond acceptable parameters. 

"What's THAT?"

"It's gnocchi.'

"I don't like it."

"You haven't even tried it."

"I know I don't like it."

"This is it. This is dinner."

"PLEASE can I have some tinned spaghetti?"

It's demoralising. Even if you love cooking, it takes energy to come up with something to serve every night. So this post is a big hooray for everyone who's doing it. For every one of you who does the majority of the cooking in your house, not just the special occasion polite claps all round aren't you clever cooking, but the it's five thirty, you're just home from work, the kids are tired and all you can find in the fridge is chicken breast. Right. What the hell are we going to do with chicken breast tonight. That kind of cooking. 

It's often a little thankless and there's no professional knives and enormous clean benches and kitchen hands to wash up but there are plenty of judges. In the room and out of it. "Don't like it, Mum" as well as "Are you feeding your children enough vegetables? too much carbohydrate? not enough protein?" So GOOD ON YOU. 

For inspiration and encouragement there are some gorgeous food blogs around like these: 

smitten kitchen

pioneer woman cooks

everybody likes sandwiches

the dinner files. 

xxx

winning

Hi!

Everybody goiter-free? Awesome.

In a week of very few wins, I thought I'd put my mind in Pollyanna mode and not lose the gorgeous and wonderful bits:

1. My brother announced his engagement. He lives in the US (i.e. not here) and sounds so so happy. I'm over the moon for him and Betsy.

2. Tilly (2), a very firm minded individual, took off her nappy on Thursday and said, "no more nappies, Mum" and has been nappy-free since. And (touch wood) no accidents. 

3. It may be unfashionable but I adore my mother in law. And she came to visit on Monday night. And bought a lovely bottle of red wine. And she wasn't even coming to see Adam (he was away for work this week.) 

4. I have a lovely new computer that works. 

5. When Henry sang a full round of the alphabet song in the car, Tilly applauded raucously and shouted "GO, GO, HENRY!" 

6. I saw an old friend today, Alex, who lives in Singapore now, and my beautiful goddaughter Caitlyn. There's nothing as good as a really long-time friend and a cup of tea!

7. I invented new food today. I offered to take a couple of things to my lovely friend Coralie's house today for Jack's 3rd birthday party. They were both delicious (if I may say so) and it made me so happy.

No photos, silly me, I'll have to make them again and photograph.

FABULOUSLY EASY DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE SLICE THAT LOOKS MARVELLOUS

3oz copha

1 (big) tablespoon nutella

1 packet arrowroot biscuits

2 tablespoons cocoa

1 tsp vanilla

1 tin condensed milk

1 cup shredded coconut

Crush the biscuits to fine consistency in a food processor. If you don't have one you could bash them in a bag with a rolling pin till finely crushed. Might take longer but would be quite cathartic.

Melt copha in microwave. Stir in Nutella till melted.

In a big bowl mix the crushed biscuits, the cocoa, vanilla, condensed milk, coconut and the copha/nutella mix. Mix well then press into a slice tin. Cover with shredded coconut.

Set in fridge for half an hour or so then turn out and cut. YUMMO.

SAVOURY MUFFINS

 

3/4 cup milk

1/2 cup olive oil (don't use extra virgin or anything strong)

2 eggs

2 cups self raising flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 cup grated cheese

1/2 cup finely sliced ham

big handful of chopped parsley

1/2 cup finely chopped red capsicum

salt and pepper

Mix milk, oil and eggs well. In a separate bowl mix flour, baking powder, cheese, ham, parsley, capsicum, salt and pepper. Add milk/oil mix. Spoon into greased muffin cases. (Or use canola spray. Please keep spray away from gas stove.) 

I made 24 mini muffins or you could make 12 full-sized muffins. 

Bake for about 15 minutes in moderate oven (180 degrees). Turn out while warm onto rack to cool. (I was busy catching up with Alex and left mine in till cold and they were a bit hard to get out cleanly.)

xxx

tired old thing

So I finally changed my blog's name. No one except my sisters seemed to get the A A Milne 'little smackerel" reference and when MUM claimed to have no recollection of Pooh saying "time for a little smackerel" (meaning a snack, of course) I slumped my shoulders and decided the searches and hits registering on this site relating to heroin should probably stop. ENOUGH ALREADY WITH THE "SMACK" GOOGLE SEARCHES. 

Starting tomorrow (I think) you'll be able to get here either via the little smackerel address (which won't change) or alternatively a new address: www.innerpickle.com.au

In other news, here is how I feel pretty much all the time:

Tilly, on Christmas day last year. 

I'm a mother of two under 5, one of which has special needs, so really, it's hardly surprising to feel knackered. 

Except I've just discovered there is a reason. Apparently my thyroid is cactus. Huh? Isn't that something that happens to old ladies? After two lots of blood tests and three doctors visits, the last of which I blogged about here (failing to mention the time spent wrangling urine sample pots out of Henry's hands) I told Adam they might as well take my thyroid out, the children had killed it. 

Anyway my darling sister in law Rachel stepped in when I suggested that I'd be taking the muppets to a nuclear medicine scan I needed, and babysat, which was fantastic, I thought, as I lay on one of those trolley xray machines having been injected with isotopes and instructed to lay perfectly still don't move a muscle for 20 minutes. AND the room was full of computers. That would have been a debacle with Mr 4-yr-old-techhead. 

Rach stepped in again today when I went back to the doctor to discover I have fabulously fancy-sounding Hashimoto's Thyroiditis (as above, thyroid is cactus) and nodules on the thyroid which need aspirating with fine needles. Oh this just gets better and better. The doctor mentioned goiter which again I'M SURE is something you get if you're old. GOITER? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Let's look it up...

Well I'm sorry I googled THAT.

So now I'm off to an endocrinologist who I think does the needle thing and hopefully drugs. Hard drugs. Because the natural alternative is a bucket load of iodised salt and kelp. Yummy. 

Hope you're all energetic and marvellous. And goiter-free. Happy days.

xxx

dairy me

You know, I think I know a bit about milk. I've drunk quite a bit of it, growing up on a dairy farm and all, and I buy quite a lot of it, my two smallies being a little addicted (we've cut back from 15+ litres a week now, it got a bit out of control.)

So it's weird, for me, being so confused by the milk aisle at Woolies. 

I called Dad, fourth generation dairy farmer, and asked him why all the full cream milk, which looks pretty much the same, comes at such varying cost. The home brand stuff is at one end and Dairy Farmers is at the other.

Dad was no help at all.

He agreed: full cream milk (i.e. not organic, which has a different process, and not a low fat or high protein or anything special) is full cream milk. It's not something that gets messed around with. It comes out of cows, goes into a vat, gets pumped into a tanker then goes to a factory for bottling. 

He suggested looking at the labels to see the makeup, the fat content etc. Maybe it was different.

Nup. It's all pretty much identical.

Now, I'm the first to profess some serious brand loyalty. We supplied our milk to Dairy Farmers all those years (Dad's retired now and has sold the herd.) And my cousin, a dairy farmer, was once in the Dairy Farmers TV ads. AND the lovely Farmer currently on the Dairy Farmers label is Martin, brother in law to a friend of ours from Camden. So he's virtually family. So do we buy the milk 'coz we like pulling Martin out of the fridge first thing in the morning? The home brand stuff is significantly cheaper.

Curious.

And this leads me to my old-lady hot drink of choice at this time of night: hot milk with cinnamon, a teaspoon of sugar and a few drops of vanilla. I'm such a nanna, I love it. Going to get Martin out of the fridge now. (Because it used to be our milk. And I like his hat.)

xxx

short cuts

 

After I almost lost my hair tonight in the fireball I created by spraying Canola spray directly into a pan on the stove, a gas stove, (yes I know I'm an idiot), I am reflecting on the effects of my short cutting, my quick fixing and my life of interruptions.

I'd like to blame my mother. The master of the domestic short cut. If there's a way to do a chore quicker and better she'll find it because when you finish doing whatever it is, you get to read. Or play in the garden. Or do something fun. And that's worth a short cut.

So, no ironing. I grew up clothed exclusively in non-creasing polyester cotton, folded off the line. Hemming tape. Scuff stuff. Nail polish on a laddered stocking. The slice we'd make for morning tea was actually called "Lazy lady". (It was EXCELLENT. Essentially a speedy chocolate brownie. Will post the recipe. But I digress.)

When I'm done blaming Mum for introducing me to aerosol Canola I can consider the influence of my friends.

One of my dearest pals of all time doesn't even use pegs on her clothesline. She hangs the washing out and when it's dry it falls off the line and onto the ground. She and her children always look very clean so this system obviously works. Love you, Nessie.

I short-cut every single day. Some days it's no underwear. No butter under the vegemite. And don't even get me started on the cleaning short cuts I make. Eek. 

Maybe that's why I'm doubly killed by the occasional need to write "home duties" next to "Your occupation". I'm so unbelievably crap at home duties that I almost set myself and the house on fire. My children quite frequently leave the house with spectacular bed head and I noticed in Woolies last week that Henry was still wearing his pyjama bottoms. I'd changed his top half and his shoes but neglected flannelette Elmo. 

And it's not that I'm short cutting and reading or gardening, greater the shame. Some days it feels like roller skates down a really steep hill. On concrete. Without the exhilaration (and the great early 80's perm and short skirt. And legs, for that matter.)

I'm off to make an instant coffee, speed read the Sydney Morning Herald headlines online and not do any cleaning. Again. No cleaning except for the big black smudge on the wall behind the stove which is all that's left of my eyebrows. 

xxx