It’s Like Torture. But Worse.

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I spend an inordinate amount of time singing to the children. This is often not of my own volition.

Theo: ‘Sing the dog song!’

Mabel: ‘YEAH, SING IT MAMA!’

Alice: ‘How Much is That Doggy in the Window?’, I ask.

‘NO! NOT THAT ONE!’, they roar in unison.

Alice: ‘…what other dog songs are there?’

I know where this is leading.

Theo: ‘The Dog Song!’

Mabel: ‘THE DOG SONG, MAMA!’

Alice: ‘Oh. You mean, as always, The Elmo Song. But about a dog?’

‘YES!’

(The things I have sung this song about, I couldn’t begin to tell you. Well, I could. We would meet at a bar and talk about our days; you’d tell me about the project you were working on before we combed the emails The Person You Flirt With had sent you for cryptic nuances. And then, when it was my turn I’d say, ‘Well, today I sung the shit out of The Elmo Song. For 8 hours. Oh, you don’t know it? It goes like this…’)

Alice: ‘This is the song, la la la la, The Dog Song. This is the song, LA LA LA LA, THE DOG SONG!’

Alice: ‘Now…what do dogs like?’

Theo: ‘Food!’

Mabel: ‘STICKERS!’

Theo: ‘No, no, NO, Mae-Mae! Dogs DO NOT like stickers!’

Mabel: ‘Oh.’

Alice: ‘And why not? I thought that was a good suggestion.’

Theo: ‘Because the dog has claws! They aren’t like hands! He couldn’t get them off! He wouldn’t like stickers!’

Alice: ‘Oh, yes. I see. But don’t you think the dog could just enjoy looking at the stickers?’

Theo: ‘…But…his claws!’

Mabel: ‘…the dog likes flowers now.’

Alice: ‘Are we all happy with that?’

‘YES!’

And we take it from the top.

For the rest of the day.

Six Foot, Seven Foot, Eight Foot, BUNCH!

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We always have the radio on in the kitchen. We listen to some old time a.m station. It soothes me.

Harry Belafonte’s ‘Banana Boat’ invariably comes on once a week. It is one of the songs the children and I can agree on. Hearing him sing ‘Hides the deadly/Black Tarantula’ makes me happy in a way it is hard to explain. It’s just one of those songs that makes you feel better no matter how you are feeling. It is worth listening to veritable hours of ads for life insurance and naturopathic treatments for erectile dysfunction just to hear that opening Day-O while I am loading the dishwasher or neutralising whichever turf war has broken out between the insurgents.

Theo: ‘I like that song. It’s by the Wiggles.’

 

You See What I’m Working With?

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It is bed time. But someone had a nap today.

Mabel: ‘Mama, lie down. Close your eyes.’

I comply. She pries them open.

Mabel: ‘Say you like it! Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. I’m the Christmas Mae-Mae. Open your present, Mama. It’s a flower! Here, this is Theos present. No, don’t open it! Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Look it’s my bum!’

Day-Before-Payday Breakfasts: Fun with Polenta.

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Get swept up in New Years Resolutions.

Somehow commit to doing only things that will guarantee to bring with them an abundance of stress and washing up. Vow ridiculous things that, perhaps, in the haze of champagne and idealism, actually made sense.

Pledge to get more creative about breakfast! Be resolute; mostly that little good will come from this. That now, instead of flinging toast at the children as they sit, dazzled by whatever electronic entertainment you allow until you are rightly caffienated, you will torture yourself to create an opportunity for Wholesome Family Togetherness. But that’s parenthood for you.

The reality of this lofty goal will see you storming about the kitchen in your undergarments; bleary-eyed as you bang all the pots and pans together, as if trying to cast a spark from the rubbing together of two sticks. You will fall over the cat and shake your fist at the toaster, that haughty bastard. You will yearn for the days when breakfast meant a coffee and a fag.

Then you will brush the hair from your eyes, drink a cold cup of tea with three sugars and smash out something delicious and beautiful, because you adore your children and they deserve the very best. Even though it is taking years off your life.

Enter:

Polenta Three Ways (Hello, freaky google searchers. And welcome.)

Have no idea how to cook polenta. Place a pot of water on the element until at a rolling boil. Then unceremoniously dump a serving of polenta in there too. I went with a 3:1 ratio, water to polenta, because it felt right, you know? It worked out okay, I think. Look, I have no idea. Stir with great vigour over heat for 10 minutes or so, until the polenta has combined and scrapes freely from the side of the pot. It should be like a single substance now, a beautiful combined entity. It will taste like nothing. It’s consistancy should be like that of a very smooth scrambled egg, though, which as a Vegan is exciting (our lives our dull, but our karma is good).

 

ONE:

Polenta with button mushrooms, black beans, tomato and coriander.

Polenta / 1

 

Season the bejesus outta that thing. I added a heaping tablespoon of Olivio and got liberal with the salt and pepper. Listen, polenta is never going to be the star of the show. But it will hold its end up if you treat it right.

Pro-tip: Serve this as brunch to those who mock your Veganism. This shit is delicious. And won’t leave you feeling burdened like porridge.

 

TWO:

Polenta with brown sugar, soy milk and bananas.

Polenta / 2

 

Pro-tip: The children will love this. A great option for gluten-free baby breakfasts.

 

THREE:

Pink Polenta!

Polenta / 3

Pro-tip: Natural pink food colouring can be made by grating a fresh beetroot and the pressing the juice out through a sieve! The taste is undiscernable, but the colour is POW!

—

Wrangle your disinterested children away from the television. Ignore their bitter cries for Bob the Builder and bloody boring old bloody jam on bloody boring old toast. Lay before them a sumptious feast; prepared with love and minimal expletives, considering the conditions. Stand over them expectantly, awaiting the appreciation you so deserve. Keep waiting. Keep on waiting, sister.

—

OUTTAKES:

Polenta / 4