Tag Archives: Kitchen

Day-Before-Payday Basics: Corn Fritters.

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Be busier than is advisable for a person who only gets 4 hours sleep a night. Have tiny mouths that requiring feeding. Remember that if the tiny mouths are full then the chances of them being able to make so very much noise is ever so slightly reduced. Feel ever so slightly buoyed by this. Try not to think too much about Sisyphus.

Stand before your pantry with a large bowl. Conclude that you are simply too tired to walk to the refrigerator so this evenings meal must be able to be sourced without you having to move more than your arms. Open a can of cream corn you have had since you brought your house. 5 years ago. To this add 2 cups of the only flour you have enough of to fill 2 cups. It will be Wholemeal. That you brought in a frenzy of virtue that sometimes catches you, usually after reading some kind of printed-on-recycled-paper Wholesome Holistic Sustainable Living Magazine for people who make more money than you. Which isn’t hard. Throw in a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar, 3 tablespoons of Olive Oil (this combination essentially equals 1 egg in Veganism) and season liberally with salt and pepper.

Corn Fritters

You are too tired to chop an onion, I understand. If, despite your exhaustion, you are able to make it out to the garden, a handful of finely chopped chives wouldn’t go amiss.

Use all the energy you have left to mix that thing until it’s combined. That is your upper-arm work-out done for the day. Look at you! Multitasking!

In a frying pan heat a drizzle of oil and place generous tablespoon sized scoops of this ugly duckling mixture into the pan at medium temprature, turning once the underside is golden brown, to produce a beautiful swan of a thing. Makes 6 huge fritters or 12 tiny ones. Maybe 9 medium ones? It’s not an exact science. This mixture can also be used for muffins! I know! Just add 1 teaspoon of baking powder and cook at 175 for 30 minutes. Two things, one recipe! We’re like pioneers!

Corn Fritters

Serve with (one of the 50 jars of ) tomato relish (your Mother made you for Christmas.) And maybe some steamed vegetables? Look, just slice them up an apple and a carrot, call it a day and a half and send everyone to bed.

Three things it is best to avoid: a strange dog, a flood, and a man who thinks he is wise.

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It is always best to tackle a daunting task first thing in the morning. That way, by the time you are actually conscious you will already be halfway through whatever drudgery you have set for yourself. My task this morning was to launder all my bed linen; duvet included.

Having stuffed my king sized duvet in the Fisher & Paykel ‘Gentle Annie’ ( washing machine of 80’s and 90’s childhoods everywhere), even though I know full well that they are wholly incompatible, (Do you ever get that? The idea that your sheer willpower alone will be enough to overcome technical difficulties?) I then set about preparing myself a lavish breakfast, the details of which I will spare you (it involved tofu) and setting down to eat it while the children roared about the house enacting scenes from their various favoured television shows.

It was at this time wherein, Dora the Explorer played by Mabel Tinksybell Ice-Cream (the actress’s preferred title at present) first alerted me to the situation.

Dora/Mabel: ‘Mama! There is a river!’

And, because I am a great believer in imaginative play, and always ready to assume a supporting role, went right along.

Plucky side-kick/Alice: ‘Oh no, Dora! A river! What are we going to do?’

Dora/Mabel: ‘Mama! The river is coming to get me! Mama! The river is in the kitchen!’

She was even standing on a chair at this point, clasping her little hands together. Adorable, I thought. Such commitment to the part.

Enter Buzz Lightyear/Theo.

Buzz Lightyear/Theo: ‘Mama. There is a flood. The washing machine is broken. I will call Pappous to fix it.’

Plucky side-kick/Alice: ‘Oh, bloody hell!’

You know how there are different kinds of ‘Today I flooded the wash-house’? Well today? I bloody flooded the bloody wash-house. Gentle Annie:1. Plucky side-kick/Alice:0.

Buzz Lightyear/Theo: ‘Mama? Is this a good flood? Or a bad flood?’

They will really ask you things like this, usually in moments you are trying to hold back a deluge with a tea-towel.

Sodden side-kick/Alice: ‘Uh…it’s just a flood, Bubba.’

Buzz Lightyear/Theo: ‘Yes. But….’

When I had finally restored some semblance of order and went to return to my breakfast, the cats had licked it all over. So I gave it to the dog. Who rejected it.

Life is made up of moments like this.

But then, when I came to my bedroom to write this, quickly and quietly before I had to return to the 57th rousing rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star that is currently taking place on the front step, I found that the children had made my bed with their own duvets. And it was the best thing that’s ever happened.

Life is made up of moments like this, too.

An Apple a Day.

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Alice: ‘Stop! I see you, Theodore. Put that apple back!’

Theo: ‘But I want it!’

Alice: ‘I think you want it with your eyes, Bubba. But you don’t like the taste of them, remember?’

Theo: ‘I do like them! I want to eat it!’

Alice: ‘I know it’s beautiful, darling. But you are going to take one bite out of that thing and then tell me it’s yucky.’

Theo: ‘I’M NOT!’

This goes on for some time. I have already given Partially-Eaten-Apple Shortcakes to all and sundry. Maybe I’ll stew this lot?

Mabel: ‘Stop it you guys! Look! I’m jumping on my bum!’

Ever the peacemaker, however unorthodox.

Theo turns to me.

Theo: ‘…I don’t like it…’

Apple…pies?

Day-Before-Payday Baking: Partially-Eaten-Apple Shortcake.

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Find, in every room of your house, a partially eaten Granny Smith apple. This is your reality now. Don’t fight it.

In a large bowl sift 2 cups of self-raising flour, 1 cup of brown sugar and a pinch of cinnamon. Add to the dry ingredients 1 tablespoon of vinegar (I use Apple Cider), 6 tablespoons of olive oil and 1 cup of luke-warm water. Mix until combined. Pour half of the mixture into a cake pan that you have either greased or lined or is made of silicone because you are terribly modern. Do this all very quickly, as to not attract the attention of the children. If they do wander into the kitchen, looking for something to eat or ruin, simply hold aloft one of the partially eaten Granny Smith apples and make leading and severe eye contact.

Thinly slice 2 partially eaten Granny Smith apples. Layer these on top of the mixture and sprinkle with brown sugar. Pour the last half of the mixture over top and smooth over with the back of a spoon until it is completely covering the partially eaten Granny Smith apples.

Bake at 175 degrees for 30 minutes, or until a knife comes out clean.

Cool on a wire rack, dust with icing sugar and serve.

Pro-tip: The children will still not eat the apples. But Partially Eaten Partially-Eaten-Apple Shortcake is so meta it’s best not to think about it.

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.’