inner pickle

Sunday Night Rewind: For the love of cookbooks

 

{Sunday Night Rewind - on Monday morning! Technical difficulties last night! This post originally posted on 28th May 2009.} 

 

cooking the books

Hello hello!! It's 10pm and I'm halfway through cooking a huge bolognaise and raspberry muffins and choc chip biscuits to take with us to a family holiday house up on the Hawkesbury River, tomorrow morning. 

The house belongs to our friend Roo's family, his grandparents I think, and there's no electricity or running water as I understand. But apparently it has a fantastic kitchen. Awesome!

Our friends are doing the adult catering and I'm doing kids. 

So if this is disjointed, apologies: it's because I keep leaping up to take something out of the oven and stir a pot!

Anyway, I'm going to share with you another of my weaknesses. I know, I have so many. And this one is serious. 

Cookbooks. So many. And this is only the beginning...

It's a real problem. And in the spirit of full confession, this doesn't even include the ones I'm currently cooking from:

There they are, on top of the microwave. 

In the scheme of things though, cookbooks, although prolific, really only scratch the surface of my problem...

I love love love these gorgeous shelves, they go right to the ceiling, right up the stairs. And the kids and I spend a lot of time sitting on these stairs;

reading cookbooks, of course.

xxx

 

Sunday night rewind

This entry was first posted on Thurs 11th February 2010, which isn't that long ago I know, but if you're a new reader here since then I thought I'd set the scene before I drop another medieval dinner on you later this week! I'd also love to know what you know...

what do you know

By the time you get here, mid thirties, and maybe you've travelled around a bit and met lots of people (I love people), you realise that everyone's got something they know about. 

I've met people that know lots of stuff about science (my brother in law Owen). Some that know about coffee (Adam). Or cows (Hi Dad.) There are people that could tell you everything about Mussolini (my good friend Kevin), or musical theatre (my sister Naomi) or, I don't know, I could go on. Everyone you meet knows something. 

What do I know about? Not much really. But I do know a little bit about food. Actually: medieval food.

Unfortunately (and frankly, intensely surprisingly), it doesn't deeply fascinate everyone else in the world the way it fascinates me. 

I wrote an undergraduate honours thesis on the food supply arrangements of the First Crusade. (And KLUNK, that's the sound of the first sleeping head hitting the table). 

I began a PhD on the logistics of feeding the armies across the crusading period (1096 - 1292) (KLUNK, KLUNK). I'll go back to it one day. 

So, medieval food. 

Wanna eat some?

I have, on occasion, invited people for dinner and served them an entire medieval meal made from authentic fourteenth century recipes. No forks, of course. A trencher (board) shared between two, served in courses accompanied by hippocras. FUN. Really. 

So I thought I'd make you some of my favourite medieval food. Some of the flavours and spice combinations are a bit odd, or should I say, unfamiliar. But in principle, medieval food is simple, wholesome and seasonal. Very modern really. 

Please, stay tuned. I'll be right back with my jumbles. And dariole (custard tart). And roast shoulder of lamb with pancetta which either comes from Le Ménagier de Paris (my favourite) or Tractatus de modo preparandi et condiendi omnia cibaria (tee hee! sorry). 

This'll be fun, I promise. 

While we're cooking, please, tell me what you know about! Hello? Please wake up?

xxx

 

Sunday Night Rewind

This post was first published on Tues 20th October 2009. Two years ago. There are people who will read this (again) who read and commented on its first outing, and THANK YOU so much, particularly long-term readers and friends, for taking this little Inner Pickle journey with me. I'm grateful for you, every day. I love this place. And I am so thrilled you are here too. 

 

more corners of home

 

dinner time, our place, tonight

 

You know I don't really know anything about blogging.

I only read my first blog this year, Soulemama, which impressed me no end, in fact, the first post I read was this one, which impressed AND inspired me. She made a felt pea, for heaven's sake. 

Were there really women not so wrung out by life and small children that they were doing such excellent crafty things? 

In May this year I had a revelation... not only were they doing them, they were blogging about doing them. Perhaps I could blog too! I love writing! Given I'm not overly crafty, I thought I'd blog about my edible craft, food! Food and feeding small children!

I thought maybe Mum and my sisters might read it.

Then I found myself digressing.

I started with food then got sidetracked into taking photos of what I'd accidentally left out of the dinner as I cooked it.

Turns out I was a long way from taking photos of a gorgeously dressed little girl playing with a felt pea I had made. 

Even my best-brownie-ever claim was hijacked by small child sticking her fingers in the photo to pick up the crumbs. 

But still, here you are! 

Thank you SO MUCH for reading my blog. I know you're there, I see the stats, even if you don't comment. (PLEASE comment! Have I told you lately how much I love reading your comments?! Thank you to my fabulous regular commenters, you make my day.)

I got an email today from a lovely reader in Germany (Hi Andrea!) who found my blog through my sister Naomi, and who reminded me why I love this so much. 

And why it doesn't matter that I'm not fabulously inspirationally crafty or artistic, that in fact, it's the underbelly of parenting that you relate to. (Or the picture of the garbage bin the kids are nearly put in, thanks, Andrea!)

So while I was going to continue my corners of home thing after I'd decluttered and sorted out the house, I realised you don't care if there's stuff all over the mantlepiece and last night's quinoa on the floor under the kids' stools (in themselves pretty scrappy) - here's one of my favourite places. Our dining table.

Organic pumpkin soup and spelt bread. IKEA cups. 3 bowls - Adam is due home any minute and his is still on the stove staying warm. No kids because they're allowed TV time while I'm cooking dinner. 

Thanks for reading, it's so nice to know I'm not going barmy on my own. 

xxx

Sunday night rewind

{Blog post originally published on 17 September, 2009. Hope you've had a lovely Sunday, lovely folk. See you tomorrow! xxx}

Families are full of stories. 

My Mum has a hundred of them, one which has always stuck with me. She told me once about an aunt of hers, Aunt Lillian, who married Oz, I think in about 1920. 

Oz was from a wealthy farming family, the Lammonds, and was set up to inherit very well. 

Oz, however, had itchy feet. He didn't want to start working on the family farm straight away. He wanted to go do stuff. 

When he told his father this plan, the old grumpy patriarch said he'd cut him out of the will if he didn't buckle down and get to work.  

Oz went anyway. And was cut out of the will. 

He eventually went south to Currarong and somewhere out the back of beyond he found a farm for rent. He eked out a living with Lillian and four bright young children. And pretty much had nothing. No money, no transport, no shoes on the kids' feet. 

Lillian homeschooled. She taught the kids elocution, music and literature. And she made do with a dirt floor. 

One day she walked into town, an hour away. And she bought a teacup.

She took it home, and made a cup of tea in it.

Her relatives were utterly horrified. The children have no shoes and you bought a TEACUP? How COULD you, Lillian? 

And Lillian said: 'Because I just wanted something beautiful.'

I remember Mum had tears in her eyes when she told this story, filled with empathy for this very intelligent and cultured woman with her precious teacup and dirt floor and judgmental in-laws. It's so different for so many of us now. We're very lucky. 

Some of us choose to spend our beans on overseas adventures. Some choose to buy incredibly beautiful clothes. Some love cars. Some spend it all on someone else. 

Me? I have a beautiful teacup which makes me think of Aunt Lillian.

What about you? Is there anything material that matters to you?

xxx

P.S. Thanks for the story, Mum. 

Sunday night rewind

{A reposted post from two years ago, which I'm hoping might amuse you unless you've read it before and then you are probably my sisters who were the primary readers of this blog two years ago. And in that case this awesome shot of my very grey hair taken yesterday is for you. Yes I can hear you both snorting on two different continents. I'm doing it. I'm growing in the grey. The end.}

 

Originally posted Tues 16 June, 2009

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