A Blue Christmas

Anyone reading last year's posts from around this time would know I'm a Christmas-a-holic (yes, it's a word!). I love all of it, and now that we have our own little growing family, it's become all the more special. My husband was a bit of a Scrooge when we met, never really keen to make a fuss, but it didn't take long for me to wear him down infect him with the Christmas spirit. I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to the rituals of the season - pudding Sunday a month before, a fresh tree going up no earlier than the 1st of December, nothing but Christmas carols in the week leading to the day etc, etc. I've adapted a few old traditions and adopted a few new ones since I left home, but the one thing I found really hard to embrace was Christmas in Hong Kong.

Our first year here, we hadn't been here that long when Christmas came around, so spending it here made sense. We had good friends staying with us, and copious quantities of alcohol, but it just wasn't the same. We headed back home in 2008 for an Aussie Christmas, but in 2009 we had a 3 week old baby and another HK festive season was our only option. Last year we spent most of December in Australia but with D having to work Boxing Day we decided to fly back to Hong Kong on the 22nd for Christmas here once again. With an Aussie Christmas so tantalisingly close last year, it was very hard to get on that plane, but being in our own home just the 3 of us, around the tree, doing our own thing, it strangely felt right. In previous years I complained about being "stuck" in Hong Kong, and tried to make the best of what I felt was a bad situation by celebrating the fact that it was cold, baking every hot Christmas treat I could find a recipe for. The mulled wine and mince pies worked their magic and this year, now that I have my Aussie Christmas locked in (at the beach! With my family!) I've realised what I'm going to miss.

Every year that we've had Christmas in Hong Kong we've ordered a tree from our local supermarket. The year J was born it arrived the last weekend in November so it was half dead by the time Christmas arrived, but that has now become a treasured part of our family Christmas - guessing how early the tree will arrive and taking bets on whether or not it will go the distance! I mentioned to D last week that I saw the order forms for the tree when I was shopping, and he said "we'll have to get one." I was shocked but proud that my once anti-Christmas man of the house had made such a drastic turnaround that he was willing, insisting, that we have a tree, all dolled up, despite the fact that no one will be here in December but our helper and the dog.

The reason for his need for a tree, and for my melancholy, is that we're not entirely sure the house will be empty at Christmas... D and I, in our 8 years together, have never spent a Christmas apart. There have been years when he's worked Christmas Eve or Boxing Day, but never Christmas Day. This year he's been told he has 0% chance of getting the day off, but we find out for sure tomorrow night when the December roster comes out. Knowing that we'd likely be apart, I made plans this year, booking a holiday house on the south coast of NSW so that, if D should end up somewhere other than home, J and I would at least be able to celebrate with family, in a place that makes me very happy. We're crossing our fingers and toes that D will be able to join us, but it's highly unlikely, and the thought of a Christmas without him makes me very sad. Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that we will be spending Christmas in Australia, and I can't wait for J to spend that time with "Nan and Pop", who he just adores, but something will be missing. Wandering around the shops yesterday looking at all the decorations that are out already, I was almost in tears as I imagined my husband sitting up at home by himself in front of the tree, eating cereal for Christmas lunch before heading off to Taipei or Colombo or somewhere else that isn't very Christmassy at all.

It could be worse, I know. There are families who are separated for long periods, and for more serious reasons. Dads miss birthdays and holidays all over the world, all the time. Given the nature of his job we're really lucky that D hasn't missed more, but this is the first time my little boy's dad will miss Christmas with his family, and that's breaking my heart. It took me a long time living in Hong Kong and fighting it to realise the true meaning of "home is where the heart is." I think this year I've learned that the spirit of Christmas lives there too...

Crime and Punishment

Lately we've started thinking about discipline. J is testing the boundaries more and more each day, and saying "no" very seriously and emphatically just sends him into fits of giggles - not an effective way of getting the message across, clearly. Lots of friends use the time out/naughty corner technique and it seems very effective but J is still too young for that to have any impact yet. We do however, feel like we need to set the stage now and pre-empt any bad behaviour by making it clear what is and isn't acceptable early on (let's face it, we're in for a challenging time; he takes after both his parents, and we were both very naughty toddlers...).

We are not fans of smacking/spanking and don't want to go down that route. This isn't intended to be a rant arguing against the psychological effects of hitting your children, but I do know a little bit about Behavioural Psychology from my teaching days. Studies do show that physical punishment just doesn't work, for a lot of reasons. When I was at school corporal punishment, like the cane, was still an acceptable method of disciplining children. The nuns were the most likely to use it and seemed to take particular pleasure in inflicting pain on my unruly classmates, and this was when I was in primary school! My parents would threaten us with the wooden spoon sometimes and my Nanna kept a leather strap in the kitchen cupboard. Neither of these objects were ever used on us, it was utterly terrifying just thinking about it, and that was enough to keep us in line. Back in those days it was more common and certainly more acceptable to smack your children. These days I think child protective services would be knocking on your door if they heard you had threatened to hit your child with a spoon, whether you actually intended to or not. Times have changed and I think there are many very good reasons why.

Personally, I hate the thought of smacking a child; I can't even discipline the dog! I remember being smacked as a child, not often, but occasionally. The threat of it was always there and that was enough for me. My brother tended to push the boundaries more often and wore a red bum fairly frequently. I very clearly remember my mum slapping me on the leg once for shouting at my brother. It didn't hurt much but I'll never forget how it made me feel. I strongly believed that, on that occasion, the punishment did not fit the crime, and the emotional scar was much deeper than the physical one. I don't ever want my children to feel that way, no matter how naughty they may be. I can't say I won't ever smack them, but right now I'd like to think that I won't. I just have to look at my son's cherubic little face and I can't imagine ever laying a hand on him. At the same time I can't imagine him ever being naughty enough to make me that cross, but we've still got a long way to go, and I'm not that naive.

Before you stop reading because I'm starting to sound holier than thou, I have to tell you a story. Several months ago I smacked my nine-year-old nephew, B. He has had a less than ideal upbringing and has a lot of issues. He can be a very sweet boy a lot of the time but he can also push the best of us to our limits. We had all gone to the local sweet shop one morning, where he was given all sorts of treats without showing any gratitude. I let this go because I'm not his mother. He complained a lot about other things he wanted and things he wanted to do. I let this go too. Then when we were getting in the car my mum, B's grandmother, asked him to do something for her and he replied with something along the lines of "do it yourself...". Without thinking about it I slapped him across the arm (much like I would do if my husband said something inappropriate or offensive) and said "don't you dare speak to your Nanna that way!" He instantly burst into tears and said "don't you hit me that way!" I felt absolutely awful. Partly because of his reaction but also because I did it without thinking, it was just an instinct. Some of you out there will say it was warranted, others who know the child in question might say it was a long time coming, but in my heart I knew it was wrong. I took him aside when we got home and apologised. I explained that what I did was wrong, but that he was also at fault. I think the apology negated any impact the punishment may have had but even then, it took me a long time to regain B's trust.

I've seen parents smack children, both in their own homes and in public, and I always sympathise with the child. I don't believe humiliating them in front of others is ever a good way to teach them right from wrong. I also feel that smacking a child, especially when their crime is a violent one, is outright hypocrisy. I find it hard to understand why parents would knowingly send their children the message that it's ok to hit someone smaller than you if you believe they've done the wrong thing. I'm aware that I'm at risk of offending a few people with this particular diatribe, so let me just say that I believe every parent has the right to discipline their children the way they see fit. It is a very personal decision, albeit a potentially controversial one. As I said, I'm not perfect; I'm only human, and we're all liable to outbursts every now and then. Sometimes instinct leads the way over reason and we lose our tempers and smack our kids. This isn't by any means justification for corporal punishment; regardless of instinct, we should all be held responsible for our actions if we're to have any hope of our children taking responsibility for theirs. I think the best way to teach them self-control, respect for others, and non-violent conflict resolution is to lead by example.

After all that I think it's clear what we're NOT going to do when J starts acting up. We still have to solve the dilemma of what we will do. Stay tuned.

Candy Canes, Silver Bells and Other Hazards

Firstly, I have to refer to my last post The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Our missing bag was found, left behind by baggage handlers in Sydney for reasons unknown. I was so relieved to have it all back that I didn't ask questions. I felt guilty for assuming the worst but my husband assures me that bags do get stolen all the time, especially at this time of year, especially in Sydney. And I also have to apologise to those of you who may have noticed that I haven't been posting very regularly lately, despite having the best of intentions. We arrived home late last Wednesday night and only had one day at home with my husband before he left for New York. Our helper is on holidays so it has just been J and I once again and my "spare" time is filled with laundry, dishwashing, bed making and cooking. I have been lucky enough to have a bit of help with dog walking etc, but otherwise I have been flat out. It's actually been really good for me and I have hardly noticed the crushing homesickness that enveloped me as I left Sydney. I also have a new appreciation for mums and dads who do this all the time. 

I started this particular post a while ago and thought that, since it will only be relevant for a few more days, I'd better get it out there...

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I love Christmas, or at least the build-up to it. Christmas Day itself is always a bit of an anticlimax but the shopping, decorating, carols and cooking always put me in a good mood. To me Christmas is all about family, and in the absence of family, it revolves around food. Pudding Sunday, the last Sunday in November, (aka Stir-Up Sunday in some homes) is right up there on my list of favourite days of the year, and it marks the start of the festive season for me.

My grandmother used to make a proper Christmas pudding every year, even though very few of us actually ate it, but when she gave up making them I decided to take over the reins. That was about 6 years ago and I've done it every year since. The pudding has to be made at least a month before Christmas to give it time to age and soak up all the lovely alcohol you "feed" it over the month. My pudding is an adaptation of a Nigella Lawson recipe, and it's without a doubt the most perfect pudding you can imagine, if I do say so myself (I'm worried I'd be in breach of copyright if I posted the recipe and I'm afraid I can't find a link on the web, so it will have to remain my secret recipe!). Looking at the recipe it seems quite complicated and you would imagine that something that requires storage and "feeding" for a month, followed by 6 hours of steaming, would be quite delicate and sensitive to temperature and humidity and that sort of thing. But they're really very robust. One year I made one here in Hong Kong and took it all the way back to Australia. It spent 10 hours in a suitcase on a plane to Melbourne where we stayed in three different places. Then we took it to my parent's house, a 2 hour flight and an hour's drive away. I was worried it wouldn't be any good, but it was just as tasty and Christmassy as it always is.

This year I decided to make two, and may have finally found the one thing that the recipe can't handle. The first one was far too wet, even after 5 hours of steaming. I added more flour to the mix and the second one was better, so it was the one I took home for my in-laws. I felt bad that once again we wouldn't be spending Christmas with them, and they were really pleased to have a little reminder of us, to share on the day. The pudding I kept for us is sitting on my kitchen bench, a gooey, rummy mess, but it's too late to make another one. On Christmas Day I'll just have to cover it with cream and custard and hope for the best. Other seasonal treats I've taken to making since we moved to HK are mince pies, gingerbread biscuits and mulled wine. As much as I love a hot Aussie Christmas, I have been absolutely thrilled to be able to partake in some of the northern hemisphere's traditional cold-weather foods. We will have to forego the turkey this year as our oven isn't big enough but I will be baking a chicken, with stuffing and gravy, and loads of roast vegies. The forecast for Christmas Day is cooler temperatures so I'm very excited and plan to eat all day!

J is far too young to understand what all the fuss is about but he is very curious about all the presents and the decorations on the tree. My parents loaded us up with so many presents I had to borrow an extra bag to bring them all home. Despite the effort involved they do look lovely under the tree and we will have lots of fun opening them, even if J just wants to play with the wrapping paper! Having a real tree is another of our traditions and it goes a long way back for me. When I was little we always had a real tree and it was generally cut down by Dad, just on dusk, a few days before Christmas. When I left home he tried to leave the tree cutting for when I got back and it became a bit of a ritual every year, just the two of us. One year, when D and I were staying in Sydney for Christmas, Dad went out and found a small but perfectly formed tree and wrapped it up, took it to the airport, and sent it up to us on the Sydney flight. It was magical, and was the best present I've ever received. Going down to Wellcome (the local supermarket) and buying a tree isn't quite the same. But they're real, and they look beautiful. I can't imagine having a plastic tree, it just wouldn't be Christmas. Unfortunately Wellcome receive their trees in late November, so for the last two years our trees have been practically dead by Christmas Day. As I write this, our tree is a very definite shade of brown, and I went out today and bought more decorations to try and hide the fact that the poor thing is well past its prime.

It has been a constant battle this week to keep J away from the tree and stop him from pulling the baubles off and sticking them in his mouth. Despite my vigilance I found him chewing on a candy cane today, with half the plastic wrapping stuck to his tongue. Earlier in the week he pulled off some tinsel and wrapped it around his neck! I never knew a Christmas tree could be such a deathtrap! Even though it's a joy to see his little face when we turn on the lights on the tree, I'll be relieved when we can pack it all away. I'm hoping next year he'll be old enough to understand that he can look but not touch...

I do also want to write about presents and what I learned about travelling with a toddler but that will have to wait: it's 4pm and I still have no idea what we're having for dinner. I wonder if J likes panettone...?

The Tyranny of Distance

I love Christmas. Mostly the few weeks leading up to it, the day itself is always an anti-climax, but everything else, the carols, the shopping, the food, is the highlight of my year. I've decked the blog in honour of the season and I'll be dedicating a few posts to the good, the bad and the ugly of Christmas this month, but today I want to write about travelling, something many of us do at this time of year.

We're leaving tonight for Sydney and we'll be away for two weeks. I'm stressed and anxious about the flight, I'm not organised enough, and as much as I'm looking forward to the time away (especially given the horrendous state of HK's air this week!) I'd rather just stay where I am. I always go through this trauma for a few days before going to Australia; the thought of repatriating just for a short time always brings up mixed emotions for me and there are times when I think it would be easier just to stay in Hong Kong. They say that home is where the heart is, and I definitely feel like I would be at home anywhere as long as D and J were with me. But there is a part of me that will always belong in Sydney. As much as I love going back to visit I know it can never be the same as it was when we lived there. People have changed, we have changed, and life has gone on without us, but at the same time everything is so familiar and the same. It's strange going back and having to stay in hotels and hire cars, it makes me feel homeless. At the same time I feel comfortable because I know my way around, but I feel like I don't belong. It unsettles me and I feel like I'm being pulled in two directions. I want to stay and pick up where I left off, I want my son to grow up on the street we used to live on and I want our friends to get to know him. For a long time I refused to acknowledge on the Australian immigration departure card that I was merely a "visitor," I always ticked the box next to "resident departing temporarily." I held onto the hope that I would return sooner rather than later, and was in complete denial about the fact that I was no longer a resident in my own country.

I go through this angst every time I go back. I torture myself by window shopping at real estate agencies, and spending quality time in all my favourite spots. Then the reality sinks in and I realise that when we visit Sydney we see her at her best. Our friends all make time to see us, we've saved up so we have more cash than we would if we were paying rent, we don't have to battle traffic or work in dead-end jobs every day. We don't get involved in the politics of the place or rely on the local infrastructure in any way, it's all good when you're just a "visitor." I also struggle at the other end of a trip, when I have to come back to HK, and my husband has to drag me kicking and screaming onto the plane (quite embarrassing sometimes...). On returning to Hong Kong I slip into this depressed fog for a few days; I don't unpack, I mope about the house complaining, "it's not like this in Sydney," and "when I was in Sydney I could buy this/do that/go there/be happy..." (yes, I'm a delight to live with). Viewing a place through holiday eyes is very much the same as wearing rose coloured glasses, and I have to constantly remind myself that if we did stay in Australia life would be much much harder. Not to mention all that we'd be leaving behind.

The fact that our families are there is the main reason we go back as often as we do, but it adds to the emotional wrench I feel at both ends of a trip. It's lovely that people care and that they want to spend time with us. I would complain a lot more if we went back and no one made a fuss. My father-in-law will be meeting us at the airport on Thursday and I'm absolutely delighted that someone will be at the gate to greet us for the first time since we moved here 3 years ago. Of course we want to see as many people as we can but we've learned from experience that it can be absolutely exhausting trying to please everyone. Despite the fact that that's simply impossible to achieve, we do still tie ourselves in knots trying, but we always end up disappointing someone. No matter how much running around we do, we can never see all of our friends and all of our families, and we're often forced to make a choice between the people we want to see and the people we have to see. I always leave feeling as if I could've spent an extra month there and still missed people. Being there reminds me of all the people we're missing while we're away, the babies we don't get to watch grow up, the family members who grow older every day, and whose time is limited. I'm so happy to see everyone but so sad at the same time. Noticing that my father's hair is greyer and my mother is thinner every time we see them, that I've been away long enough to notice these changes, breaks my heart. It sounds completely selfish but one year I'd really like to go back and not see anyone, to avoid the heartache. I'd love to take my boys to a small beachside town and have a proper Australian holiday, just the three of us, another impossible dream.

It's not just the emotional aspect of the journey that takes a toll. It's a real physical and logistical nightmare sometimes. Our first trip back to Australia with J was a marathon effort. We flew from Hong Kong to Sydney, then Brisbane, then Canberra and back to Brisbane again. J racked up more air miles in that month than most people do in a year. We also spent several hours driving to places outside of the capital cities. The poor little guy was so overwhelmed and exhausted by it all that it took weeks for him to adjust when we came home. When we went to Melbourne in June we decided that we'd stay in one place and ask people to come to us. It went well (still completely disruptive for J's routine, just less exhausting) but there were a few family members who couldn't come and see us, and that has complicated things even more for this next trip. If we tried to fit everyone in we'd literally spend most of our time in the country on planes or in cars travelling to and fro, all for a brief visit, where we'd probably be greeted with a comment like "what a pity you can't stay longer."

Unless you've lived overseas and had to return home with a small child in tow, it's hard to comprehend exactly what's involved. Some family members have never travelled and they seem to think it's much simpler than it actually is. "Just jump on a plane," they say. We've had a few visitors come through Hong Kong since we've been living here, and while we wouldn't want everyone rocking up on our doorstep, it would be much easier if more of our family came to us. I don't think you can fully appreciate how difficult it can be to travel overseas (packing, check-in, immigration, 9 hour economy class flight etc) with a baby until you've done it for yourself. It's an exercise on the scale of a small military operation. I'd like to think that there would be fewer demands placed on our time if more people understood how little of it we have and how complicated it can be. Maybe that's just wishful thinking, or maybe that's a selfish way of looking at it, either way a little time spent in our shoes would benefit a few people.

Now that I've done nothing but complain I do have to say that I can't wait to get back to the city I love so very much. I'm going to take my son to Bronte Beach, walk along Sydney Harbour every morning with a coffee and my beautiful boy, I'll shop until I drop in the malls that have everything I've not been able to buy in Hong Kong, I'll eat in my favourite cafes and laugh till I cry with friends I haven't seen all year. Then we'll go and see my parents and the town I grew up in. We'll look out over the vast open plains and breath deep lungfuls of fresh country air, we might even convince Pop to take us out to get a Christmas tree. We'll sit with my Nanna and she'll tell me stories of when her babies where J's age and I'll probably cry when I say goodbye, because she hasn't been well this year and she and I were cut from the same cloth. And my husband won't have to drag me kicking and screaming onto the plane because we don't live there anymore. Hong Kong, for better or worse, is home.

Birthday Parties and other Frivolities

A warning for those who are pressed for time: This is going to be one of those posts that isn't about much at all and ends with me waxing lyrical about how gorgeous my son is.

Tomorrow we're hosting a pre-birthday birthday party for J. We'll be in Sydney for his actual birthday and we wanted to celebrate with our friends here in some way. I read somewhere, in a party planning guide, that you should invite one guest for every year of the child's age. Well, one person just didn't seem like a proper party, and my son's best friends are triplets so that piece of advice was promptly ignored. I did however, want to keep things fairly quiet and low key so I only invited a handful of our closest friends and neighbours. My husband was disappointed by my list and went on to invite just about everyone we've ever met in Hong Kong. This lead to a fairly significant argument over invitation etiquette; my husband being of the belief that it's best to invite everyone to avoid offending someone. He was sure many of our single friends would have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon than come to a kids birthday party, and would politely decline. I'm not a fan of the token invite, preferring not to take that chance and risk ending up with 40 people at my son's first birthday, but the invites had already been sent. So we didn't get off to a great start but in the end we are expecting about 20 people, parents and kids, which I think is perfect.

I worked for a few days this week and my husband and I were both struck down (at different times) by a nasty stomach bug so the week was a little stressful. It was also the week the December roster came out so we were busy dealing with several sets of parents and trying to coordinate our upcoming trip to Sydney. As it turned out we simply ended up disappointing everyone (a separate blog post on this topic is coming), so the week was unpleasant as well as stressful. In amongst all that I did do a lot of planning for my boy's big day but very little preparation. I spent today running around buying groceries and trying to find party supplies (impossible on Lantau and in Elements), the whole time worrying that J was going to be tired and cranky and that the whole thing had gotten to be too big a deal. I pressed on and finally tracked down balloons and party bags at the toy shop in Mui Wo (thanks Bizzie Lizzie). Despite being ever so helpful, the lady that runs the shop mentioned prizes for games and I smacked my head in disbelief: yet another thing to worry about that I hadn't even thought of! I wanted to write tonight about the unnecessary pressure I've put on myself this week to be supermum and to put on a great party for my little one. I remembered all the parties I've been to and the little things that other parents have done to make them special; I wanted my party to be in that same league somehow. I spent the drive home worrying about pass-the-parcel and age-appropriate music and walked in the door swearing that J's first birthday party would be the last.

Then I started thinking about why it is we were so keen to celebrate this milestone. It's because it's his first birthday, his first ever. My little boy was born (almost) a year ago and he's a fantastic human being who deserves to be celebrated, whether he knows it or not. When I was getting J ready for bed tonight he started playing with the ipod that we keep in his room for his sleepytime music, and despite the fact that there wasn't anything coming out of it he started bouncing up and down, his idea of dancing. I turned it on and his little face lit up and he did his best Stevie Wonder impersonation, swaying from side to side. At that moment he was so cute and sweet that I thought my heart would burst! This whole week he's kept me smiling, no matter how stressful things have been. And that's why I'm throwing him a party tomorrow.

While I'm at it, I think we deserve to celebrate for ourselves too. We survived a year of colic, reflux, sleep deprivation, baby flu (worse than man flu), pureed vegies on the carpet, porridge in our hair, and everyone who is biologically related to us feeling as though they have a right to be a part of our son's life (when it's actually more like a privilege that has to be earned).  The best part is that we survived all that and we couldn't be happier.

I realised that my son is too young to remember that he even had a first birthday. And I also realised that all of the children coming tomorrow are under the age of three and most of them will just be happy to be outside playing with their friends. So, there'll be cake but it'll come out of a packet. There'll be food, but it'll be healthy, tasty stuff for the grown-ups. There won't be games, but we've hired an expensive beach-side patch of grass for the kids to play on. There will be party bags, but there isn't much in them. And if my son is tired and cranky we'll bring him home and put him to bed, and years from now we'll tell him that his first birthday was awesome. I'm already planning next year's...

Love and Lasagna

In my family growing up we were never big on saying I love you. It wasn’t until I left home and my parents feared I may never come back that they started saying it more often. Even today sometimes my dad still throws it in very quickly between other pieces of conversation; “ok, talk to you next weekend, love you (cough), bye.” We were more of an “actions speak louder than words” family and a lot of the time we said, “I care” with food. One of the greatest lessons my mum taught me was a love and respect for good food. We never had chocolate, chips or lollies in the house and if we did it was a rare treat. I think the worst we got fed in our house was white bread as my father flatly refused to eat “bird seed.” As a kid I thought Mum was pretty mean but she set me up for a lifetime of healthy eating, and I have tried to do the same with my son (so far!).

Even when times were tough we always had 3 decent meals a day and still today there are foods I associate with certain times and celebrations. Carrot juice, always vile and swallowed in one gulp while pinching your nose, was to prevent a cold. When that didn’t work we were fed chicken and corn soup and a disgusting garlic, honey and lemon drink. I sometimes pretended I wasn’t sick to avoid the medicinal flavours of that particular concoction, but the thing was; it actually worked! The soup was also great for broken hearts and exam stress. There was minestrone on cold winter days, veal schnitzel and chips in front of the TV, and nothing says, “I missed you, welcome home” like a roast lamb with all the trimmings when I came home from uni on weekends. Sausages with tomato and onion gravy, mashed potato and peas is a dish of mum’s I still crave from time to time, it reminds me so much of home. When I was in high-school Mum worked in the evenings for a few years and Dad would do his best to feed us a home-cooked meal on those nights. Chops and vegies were pretty standard and for some reason the smell of a pot that’s boiled dry reminds me of those days. I think Dad was pretty pleased, as were we, when KFC opened up down the road!

The one dish that united us all, that everyone requested when the family got together was Mum’s lasagna. You could count on it being exactly the same every time and there was always enough to feed a dozen people, with leftovers. Mum would make a big batch of it and freeze it for me to take back to uni with me. I lived on it for weeks at a time. Whenever there was a new baby or someone was in hospital a lasagna would be delivered so they wouldn’t have to worry about dinner. My mum also taught me to cook, for which I will be forever grateful, and I have carried on the tradition of saying “I love you” with food. I think it’s the reason why I’m so obsessed with cooking for J. I don’t care if he throws his mushy peas and parsnip at me, or if I end up feeding him porridge for dinner, at the end of the day I prepared and pureed his meal with love, and it’s that principle that counts. My recipes might be a little different to Mum’s but the sentiment is the same.