One Day

I had the kids’ babysitter in yesterday, and so had a very full and productive day planned.  It was to involve:  a gym session;  a peaceful brunch in a nice cafe, while reading the paper;  a passport application;  some writing; and possibly some toddler entertainment.  As well as emails and telephone calls etc.  Who couldn’t achieve all of that in 8 hours?

(Ahem...)

Intention:  Leave house as soon as babysitter arrives – 8.30am – but in any event NO LATER than 8.50am.  Thus, be dressed in gym clothes by 8.30, have change of clothes and everything else i need for the rest of the day packed into gym bag.  Be on treadmill by 9am.

Sad Reality:  Boy won’t get out of his bed, and Girl won’t leave his room.  So I stay up there – mainly to referee them, and also to ensure Girl doesn’t crawl into the toilet / down the stairs / get her head stuck in banisters railing.  By 845 I’m seriously pissed off.  WHERE IS SHE??  Leave kids alone for half a minute while I belt down to my room to retrieve phone, only to see several texts and missed calls from the babysitter who has been standing outside – keyless – since 8.30.  Thrust the reticent children into her arms and start looking for gym clothes. Everything looks ridiculous – unsurprisingly, as all my gym gear was bought in 1997.  Finally decide I don’t care, and pack gym bag:  clothes, mobile, keys, wallet... wallet... Where’s my fucking wallet?  Have a vague memory of having put it Somewhere Safe Away From Marauding Looters last week, before we fled the city. Search high and low.  Finally find offending wallet in – tadaa! – my handbag.  (Looters would never have looked in there.)

I am at the front door, primed for my escape, but the Boy, hearing the door open, has miraculously appeared and is clinging to my leg.  “DON’T GO!  PLEEEEEEEEEEEEASE MUMMY DON’T LEAVE ME...” He starts to cry as I close the door in his face.  I make it to the gym, addled with guilt, at 10.10, where everyone is decked out in club-esque gear, looking very cool.  Everyone, that is, except for me. 

Intention:  Buy the paper after workout – no later than 1015am - and retreat to the nice deli down the road for (well earned) breakfast and lovely half hour’s calm newspaper-reading session.

Sad Reality: The newspaper-buying bit goes according to plan – albeit an hour and a half late – but the blasted deli is on its summer holidays.  Seriously - there’s a big sign in the window saying it’s closed for August.  What does it think it is – Parliament? My only other option is the Starbucks at the end of my road, but (a) I’d rather swallow my knickerbocker-esque work out “shorts” than eat the food at Starbucks, and more discouragingly (b) there’s a good chance I’ll be spotted by the Boy, who likes to run in and steal lollipops and sugar sachets. I wander about aimlessly for a few minutes, then decide to jump straight to the next carefully thought out part of the day.

Intention: Do a big grocery shop.  (I know – the glamour). Normally I’d consign this task to the  internet, but having just got back from visiting my in-laws on Sunday night, there isn’t a bean – or a nappy - in the house.  The plus side is that being on the ground means that I’ll spend less money than usual, and won’t get side-tracked by the online sales tactics (“Have you forgotten the premium smoked salmon?” “Have you run out of cavier?” “You might also like some offal” etc etc).  I also wanted to check out the white marinated anchovies which Nicky had recommended to me in last week’s comments, and see if I could overcome my innate fear and loathing.

Sad Reality: I spent twice as much as I usually do on a load of unneeded, overpriced food, which is sure to either go off before the day is out, or be scoffed by the kids.  I also failed – MISERABLY – in the Great Anchovy Test.  I just couldn’t do it.  I actually gagged looking at them.  In addition, I took at least an hour and a half longer than the internet shop takes – although granted, we had food – and nappies – in the house by 3pm.  On the plus side, I decided that I can’t be arsed to have different sized nappies for the kids any more.  She’s a 4+, he’s a 5+;  so I’ve split the difference, and from now on, they’re both in size 5. (It is an indication of how pathetic my life is that I find this not only comment-worthy, but also revolutionary.)

Intention: Go from supermarket to post office next door, and get application for UK Passport for The Boy. (We’re off to Turkey at the start of September, and lest he decides to stay on there and sponge off the system, he needs to have at least 6 months left in his passport on our return.  Typically, he will have only 5 months and 2 weeks left on it;  the Irish passport office is muttering things about a seven-week lead time, the kindly UK folk will let me have one within a week.) Fill in application and call passport office to arrange an appointment, preferably for today.  Then head to Knightsbridge to collect application from Irish Passport Office, Just In Case.

Sad Reality: I’m too laden down with shopping bags to face the Post Office, so decide to head home instead.  By the time I get there, my hands have been severed from my wrists by the carrier bags. I walk in and the Boy is delighted to see me, notwithstanding the Door Closing incident. The guilt lifts. He helps (“helps”) put away the shopping by eating one thing for every one thing he puts away.  Within twenty minutes the ruinously expensive raspberries, strawberries and grapes are gone.  I won’t let him have any of the chocolate (I think it’s the only thing I bought myself – not bad going for a £200 grocery bill) and he’s prostate on the floor, hysterical with grief. As I step over him to leave for the post office, he grabs hold of my leg and won’t let go.  I drag him through the hall and repeat the Front Door Closing technique.  I can hear his howls four houses away.

It is 320 by the time I get to the post office.  There are THIRTY TWO people in front of me, two desks open, and two of the slowest people known to man working behind them.  It is 430 by the time I leave. 

I’m too depressed to continue.  It’s just as well really that a novel isn’t written / movie isn’t made about me, because (a) it would be short, dull and repetitive (with lots of gaps); and (b) I’m not sure that even Anne Hathaway has the artistic creativity to cover the emotionally-charged facial expressions I go through on any given day. 

On the plus side, I did finally manage to read the paper- once the carnage from having SIX toddlers in house for tea was cleaned up and a lasagne (this one – perfect for the useless summer weather we’re having right now) was cooking in the oven. 

I started buying the Times on a Monday – sporadically, natch - specifically to read Caitlin Moran’s column.  On the plane back from Ibiza on a Monday in June – possibly the last time I read an entire paper uninterrupted – I read the Times for the first time in ages, and they had published excerpts of her book How to Be a Woman, which (a) I loved so much I bought the book (the only one I’ve read so far this summer, but a fantastically excellent one, which I can’t recommend enough) and (b) led me to assume – wrongly, as it turns out – that ergo she would grace the pages of every Monday Times.  She doesn’t – and I don’t have time to buy / read the Times every day in my quest to read her.  Notwithstanding that, I still like the Monday Times, specifically the section for semi-brain-dead folk like me (aka Times 2) and therein found the following yesterday, which I made today (and served as a side with salmon fillets).  Actually, it’s a variation on the original, which uses feta instead of chedder (although NB to Mr/Mrs Monday Times Sub-editor that the printed recipe neglected to tell the reader when to add the feta...), the purchase of feta being one of the many many things I forgot to achieve yesterday.

Courgette and Cheese Pancakes

(Adapted from Lindsey Bareham’s “Dinner Tonight” column in The Times;  I’ve written her measurements, but didn’t use any myself, relying instead on greed (plenty of cheese) and chance. Basically you’re making a thick pancake batter and adding chives, grated courgettes, and cheese. It seems to be a fairly forgiving recipe - the pancakes were bloody fantastic.)

You need (for 4 people):

• 3 courgettes
• 2 eggs
• 50g of flour (About three heaped tablespoons)
• 20g of butter, melted (about two heaped tablespoons)
• A bunch of chives (I used two spring onions, finely chopped)
• 50g of grated cheddar (or any other hard cheese, or feta)
• 150ml of crème fraiche (LB uses this mainly to top the finished cakes, with a spoonful of it in the mixture;  I didn’t bother using any – diluting the batter instead with a splash of milk - and I don’t think the recipe suffered)
• 50g / 75g of parmesan, grated (LB uses 50g in the pancake mixture;  the recipe forgets to tell us what the other 25g was used for.  Clearly the sub-editor was asleep yesterday. However according to the side blurb, she tops the pancake with both crème fraiche and parmesan; if you’re using this as a side, as I was, then feel free to omit all toppings).

Grate the courgettes on the large hole of a cheese grater.  (LB recommends salting them for 20 mins before use;  you won’t be surprised to hear that I couldn’t be arsed to do this, and instead just grated the courgettes straight into the batter when required.)

Break the eggs into a bowl, whisk in the flour and the melted butter, and mix to a smooth batter. Add a dollop of the creme fraiche, if using, or a splash of milk. Then add the chives/spring onions, cheeses, and the courgettes.  You’re aiming for a thick vegetable/cheese-heavy mixture.

Heat a frying pan – unless it's non-stick, add some oil or butter. Spoon the batter mix in – small amounts for dainty bite-sized fritter-type cakes, large amounts for stand-alone or side-dishes. Cook for a couple of minutes on each side, turning when brown and crisp, and slightly risen.

If possible, eat straight away;  otherwise keep warm in a pre-heated oven. Either way, eat on their own or as a side while proof-reading the day’s paper.