Life is getting more busy than
usual, triggered by our decision to introduce a bit of upheaval in our lives
(because, you know, an unplanned pregnancy when you’re 178 isn’t quite enough
upheaval). And so in just over 2 weeks
we’re giving up the lease on our house, putting everything we own into storage,
and leaving this Godforsaken country and its shitty summer weather for the balmy
(ahem) climes of Florida for a couple of months.
The enormity of what is staring me
in the face started to dawn on me last week, when I started making my To Do
list - top of which was finally getting
my finger out and introducing the Grub to the NHS.
Actually, if that makes me sound
like a contender for the Daily Mail’s Worst Mother Award (“22 Weeks’ Pregnant
and STILL in Denial”), I did flag it at my GPs, ooh, about 2 weeks ago. The booking-in process last week went a bit
like this.
“So you’re, what, about 12 weeks
now?” asked the most unobservant lady in London, as she pushed my distended
naval out of her face.
“Ummm... Actually, closer to 22”.
Silence.
“Right. Pause. Well.
Pause . Here are the choices
we have for such a late registration.
Recently moved here? Failure by
your GP to report? Under the care of
another borough? Unaware of pregnancy?”
“Do you have a box for lethargy,
other things to do, and a bit of denial?”
We decided to blame the GP.
She then scanned (“Would you like a
photo?” “No thanks, I have the ones from the earlier pregnancies still at the
bottom of my handbag, if I get a rush of blood to the head I can look at one of
those”), I had a little doze, the Grub waved hello, and off I went, clutching
my orange book – the one you have to KEEP WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES. Which is fine if you’re the person who walks
up and down my street dragging a suitcase behind you all day long, but
otherwise – well really, I’m just glad I remembered to take it off the bus with
me on the way home.
On the other end of the fun
spectrum, the next day a client (yes! I
have clients! Although it helps that she’s also a friend) brought me to Taste
London for a v posh lunch thingy: a
multi-course tasting lunch WITH WINE (sob), each course cooked by a different
renowned chef. It was fabulous. Amazing food (Wolfgang Puck! Angela Hartnett! Jason Atherton! AND they were all there to chat to) and
brilliant company. Noone talked about
children or pregnancy, or the dangers of eating blue cheese / seafood / 2lt tubs
of ice-cream. Just grown up food and
grown up conversation. Bliss.
At some point in the week I also
went to the Boy’s sports day (he outdid himself, and me, in terms of
disinterest and laziness), got a new work project, and played Ms Nightingale to
a vomiting toddler.
That last bit wasn’t much fun. On the plus side, we’re getting to the stage
where our children can communicate verbally what’s wrong with them when they’re
under the weather. On the negative side,
one half of our current quota of children remains largely incomprehensible, so
her distress at being sick is equally matched by her distress at not being
understood. So on Saturday night, 20
minutes before the babysitter was due to come, she lay flopped on the bed,
whimpering, a mild shade of green, before suddenly becoming quite
animated. Yellow ball? Yellow ball!
YELLOWBALL!!!!
Alas, yellow ball means nothing to
me, and so I ignored her increasingly distraught proclamations, until –
Bluuuuuuuuuuuuugh. All over, annoyingly,
the Boy’s bed, pillows, floor, duvet and scratchy-elephant thing (she is
nothing if not prodigious in her vomiting.) Half an hour of phone-calls, laundry
and carpet-scrubbing later, we went through the motions again. Yellow ball?
Yellow ball!
YELLOWBALL!!!!!!!!!.... Bluuuuuuuuuuuuugh. This time she was in her own bed, tucked up
with her own pillow, duvet, and cuddly toy. The third and fourth times– and by
now my Saturday night was comprehensively destroyed, because nothing kills
plans like having vomit that smells of cucumber in your hair – she was on my bed, pillow, duvet etc. “YELLOWBALL.....”
Once cleaned, I mused, aloud, if I should get the sick
bowl, my cupped hands clearly not up to their usual standard. “YELLOW BOWL!” she roared, coherently and
enthusiastically.
Well blow me down if I might not –
finally – have a clever one on my hands.
It goes without saying, of course,
that she hasn’t puked – on the bed, or in the YELLOW BOWL - since.
Needless to say I’ve been too busy
this week to cook anything other than the usual suspects - pasta, mashed
potatoes, fishy things – and soup. Lots
and lots of pots of soup.
It’s nearly July - of course I’m cooking soup.
This one went down well at the
weekend. (Until it came up again – but
don’t let that put you off.) You need a
blender, unless you, and your children’s superheroes of choice, like chunky
bean soup.
(Finally, the photos are getting fancy...)
Quick-ish
Pasta e Fagioli soup
(Quick-ish, because making it the
traditional way – where you make the soup then cook the pasta in it – takes way
too long for my liking. So instead I
made the soup and while it was cooking – heretic that I am – cooked the pasta
separately.
Also I can never be arsed fishing
little bits of rosemary out of soup before I blend it – although I concede that
that is preferable to having to spit out teeny weeny blended bits of rosemary –
and so made some garlic-rosemary oil which I stirred through it, which although
a bit faffy, was the perfect solution.
You Need (for 4 large helpings):
- Olive oil
- One onion
- 2 carrots
- 1 celery stalk
- 1 tin of tomatoes
- 2 tins of borlotti beans
- 1 litre stock
- A couple of handfuls of short pasta – macaroni or similar (or just pieces of spaghetti which you’ve broken up)
Peel and dice the onion and fry with
the olive oil in a deep pan over a medium heat. Reduce heat and cover, leaving
to sauté for about 7 minutes, until soft.
Peel and finely dice the carrot, and
finely chop the celery. Add to the onion, increase the heat and stir well to
mix. Leave to sauté and if it starts to
stick add a half glass of water.
Meanwhile, cook the pasta
separately, for about a minute or so less than instructed on the packet. (The pasta will be sitting in the soup for a
while, so will cook more then).
Once all the vegetables have started
to soften – about 5 minutes – add the drained beans and the tin of
tomatoes. Bring to the boil, then add
half the stock and bring back to the boil again. Cover, and leave for a few minutes for the
beans to heat through.
Blend – either by transferring to a
food processor (what a pain in the arse) or with a hand-held blender (my
preference) – until either completely smooth or still a bit chunky /
beany. However you and yours prefer it.
Mine like it completely smooth – because that’s how Batman likes it,
apparently. It should be really quite
thick, so loosen it up with the rest of the stock – as much as you need to get
the consistency you like (Batman likes it fairly thick) then add the drained
pasta.
Lastly, make the oil. Place a large dollop of good olive oil in a
pan with 2 garlic cloves (peeled and cut in half) and a few springs of
rosemary. Place over a low heat and ignore
until it starts to sizzle, then shake it a bit, and ignore again, until the
garlic starts to go brown at the edges.
Turn off the heat and remove the garlic and the rosemary, then swirl the
oil through the blended soup.
It really sounds like alot of faff,
but it’s not really. And it’s the
perfect lunch for the absolute shocking weather we’ve been having. Finally, when regurgitated, it washes right
out. What more could a hungry parent ask for?
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