'my real earrings'

So, yes....my 'baby girl' now sports a pair of earrings.

She's been asking for her earrings since she had the vocabulary to- which was, from memory, just before she turned two. {And pink hair, since before she turned three. And yes, I am terrified of her teenage years}.

I have said to her many a time that when she was big enough to a) understand that there was a needle involved and it did hurt for a few seconds and b) help to take care of them by letting Mummy clean them and not play with them, she could have earrings.

That time came last weekend.

She asked, yet again.

I sat her down and we watched some carefully selected videos where girls had their ears pierced {top hint: search 'ear piercing no tears'}. We talked about the needle, and how it hurt like a needle at the doctors. We talked about the aftercare involved. We talked about how they did one at a time, and it was important to get the second one done too, or people may mistake you for a pirate.

And she still wanted them, so off we went.

I thought she might change her mind when they had no pink earrings to pierce with {and truth be told, she did consider it}. I thought she might change her mind after they drew on the dots.

But she sat still, and smiling. {Later, that night, as we were curled up on her bed reaind a book, she whispered "I nearly cried", and I whispered back "I know."}

She is so, so pleased with herself. And just proud as punch.

And we'll be shopping for pink earrings for her birthday.

do it yourself.

Being out of action has made me realise a few things.

Crutches are a pain. Figuratively and literally. I think they're purposely designed to take the focus off the pain elsewhere by giving you excruciating pain in your underarms.

I must spend far more time than I realise wiping counters, putting agway toys, and vacuuming, because the house has descended into a sticky, crumby mess.

On Friday, I had a moment. I was exhausted. I was sore. And my small ones were being naughty in the way small children sometimes do when they know that Queen Mummy Fun Police is out of sorts and it's the end of the week and they're bored. The mutiny had me so frustrated that when it came to lunchtime I placed bread, butter, cheese, knives and plates on the table and told them to make their own sandwiches.

They couldn't do it. Not wouldn't- they actually thought it was fantastic- no, they couldn't grasp how to spread the butter on without tearing holes in the bread, how to cut their sandwiches without their plate sliding all over the table.

And I realised that I need to stop doing things for them that they can do themselves. Levi-pie loves cooking- they all do, but him particularly- and he's perfectly capable of making himself a cheese omelette with only a little stove-side assistance from me. He adores doing it, and wants to at least once a week. There's no reason he can't make a sandwich. Or make his bed. Or pick his jarmies up from the floor. Or feed his dog.

The same, of course, applies in differing amounts for the girls.

Operation: Basic Life Skills begins as soon as my knee has healed up.

the bright side

So, the inevitable happened. I'm on crutches, and a bucketload of painkillers, having done more damage to my knee than I initially thought. The coordination is strong in this one.

The bright side is this: the abundance of support that's come my way. Being a mother of small children, and being on crutches is Just. Not. Fun. And when my patience fails, my compassion fails, or physically I fail to deliver what my children need, other people in my village have stepped in.

My mother has done a crazy amount of babysitting for me, sleepovers included. It's her I message when I need help. She's had the girls for sleepovers. Had Scarley more than I have this week {getting up and down off the floor, say, to change a nappy, makes me bite my lip and sometimes cry- literally}. Called me just to ask how I am. Driven me to the chemist and the supermarket. I'd honestly just not have managed without her.

Shan has made school lunches {no puzzle sandwiches though}, entertained the small ones while I stay in my blanket fort with icepacks, and is currently out gathering lunch.

My sister-in-law, who's taken Levi to kindergym, and then out to the park and for icecream and to watch the airplanes. Levi himself has been so wonderfully kind and helpful that I've repeatedly told him how proud I am of him, and have given him a $10 note. {My Bee girl, unfortunately, not so much. And by not so much, I mean not at all. It's really shaken her to realise that it is possible for Mummy to be hurt, to be out of action, to not be able to captain my ship as per usual and organise everything and provide lunchboxes packed with puzzle shaped sandwiches and carrots cut into snowflake shapes and do the thousand things I do day in, day out. The result is some pretty intolerable behaviour on her part}.

The kindy staff, who insist on helping, who ignore my 'no, I'm fine' and thrust pillows under my knee during parent meetings. People in the supermarket carrying things. Friends giving medical advice. My little kitten, who curls up on my chest and purrs.

I've also been consciously giving myself a break. Microwaveable steamed rice and steam fresh vegetables have made an appearance like never before. Crumby floors are being ignored {with the exception of Friday, when I smashed a glass on said floor}. Lots of resting, and a lot of letting go- as long as teeth are cleaned, meals are reasonably nutritions {beans on wholemeal toast and a glass of milk absolutely fall into that category}, and intolerable behaviour is dealt with, the rest can slide for a while.

how to: make flour tortillas

This recipe, like most food for me, comes with a story.

Before I went vegetarian, and then vegan, fourteen years ago, Peking Duck was one of my absolute favourite foods. Fourteen years later, I've learnt to make flour tortillas- you'll see in the recipe below that depending on the oil you use, these are perfect soft, warm tortillas for Mexican...or beautiful, fresh, Chinese pancakes just begging to be used in Peking Tofu. I've been making a batch a week, on average- and once I even made two batches in the same day, to gift a batch to my sister-in-law. I use the recipe from this chef, from her Chloe's Kitchen cookbook.

You'll need-
*2 cups plain flour, plus extra for dusting
*A pinch of salt
*1 cup boiling water
*Olive or sesame oil, for brushing

In a large bowl, stir together all of the ingredients except the oil, and as soon as it's cool enough to touch, use your hands to knead into a smooth, cohesive dough. Cover with cling film and leave for twenty minutes.

When the twenty minutes has passed, cut the dough into two equal pieces, and roll each piece into a log shape- cut each of these into eight pieces- so you'll have sixteen total.

On a lightly floured surface- little tip: use a large cutting board, it's far easier to wash at clean-up time than an entire kitchen bench- press each piece of dough with your palm to flatten, and then roll into a thin circle {or something resembling a circle, if you're anything like me}- add more flour to your surface and rolling pin as necessary. Set aside {I use a long strip of baking paper for this purpose} while you finish rolling out your tortilla rounds.

Turn a non-stick frypan onto a medium high heat. If it's plain flour tortillas you're after, brush the surface of each dough round with olive oil- if you're making Chinese pancakes, use sesame oil. Cook in batches until all done, brushing the uncooked side with oil and then flipping over when they bubble up.

To keep your tortillas/Chinese pancakes warm, fill a saucepan with a few inches of water, turn on to a simmer, and place a plate on top. Stack the cooked tortillas/pancakes on the plate, covering with a large metal bowl while you cook the rest.

Makes 16.

asking for help

 

I'm currently in a little nest on the lounge with the remote, codeine, and an ice pack.
An old ballet injury decided to come out to play. This is what comes from exercise, people. At this point, crutches are still a possibility- the last time I ignored the injury and pushed through, I ended up on crutches for six weeks- though I'm yet to work out how I could manage crutches and three children without someone being run over.

So I've had to do something radical.

I've had to ask for help.

I sat on the lounge with an ice pack while Shan made school lunches, after informing the small ones he didn't 'do' puzzle-shaped sandwiches {I think they're still in shock}. I begged my mother to watch Scarley while the big two were at kindy today and spent most of the day in bed. Shan is folding as we speak. He even endured a packet of frozen, microwave-'steamed' vegetables tonight with politeness.

And I think this time, I've finally learnt the lesson the universe has been trying to teach me: people really are {generally} happy to help, if only you ask.

{Did you hear that, universe? I've learnt it. So if my knee could magically fix itself overnight, that would be grand}.

blink and you'll miss it

Not so long ago {about two weeks, if my memory serves me correctly}, I was filling out the enrolment forms for my Levi-pie for prep. Prep.

About two pages into the form, I got to the questions such as: 'can your child speak in descriptive sentences using joining words' {does he ever stop talking?}, 'can s/he follow directions witih more than one instruction?' {only if the directions don't include picking up any of his toys}, etc.

These were quickly followed by the questions about my child's attributes, what we hope he will acheive at the school, and it's always here that I start to stumble. Three little lines on a very official-looking form to describe my little guy.

We've just taken the training wheels off his bike, and he is so proud. He can cook toast and eggs "all by himself" {we stand together at the stove, Levi-pie atop a chair}. Should I write how wonderfully kind he is? How he has his Daddy's love of sport and his Mummy's love of books? That he adores being read The Twits, that he knows more about cars at four years of age than I do? He is mud, and sand, and handprints on the walls and stones in his pockets. He's train rides and pancakes and a fierce desire to enjoy every second of every day. So much adventure and desire to explore in his body- and yet still, that need to reach for my hand as he discovers his world.

He doesn't like the combination of dark + loud. He's fiercely protective of his little sisters- sometimes, to a fault. He will no longer eat garlic bread as it contains "green stuff". He never has any idea where his shoes are. Ever. He generally forgets to write the 'e' in his name whenever he writes it.

When he was a wee newborn, well-meaning oldies used to approach me in the supermarket. They'd eye off my disheveled hair, the black-under-eyes that could never quite be concealed, and the newborn getting more and more hysterical-with-reflux in the sling. "These are the best days of your life," they'd say. "You'll forget the sleep deprivation all too soon. You'll see- you'll blink, and he'll be at school."

Just for the record: walking around a supermarket with a hysterical newborn while smelling of vomit were not the best days of my life {dear god, I hope not}. He would always cry in the car on the way home as if I was taking to him with an axe. Then I'd cry, too.

I have absolutely, emphatically, not forgotten the sleep deprivation. Nothing shocked me quite so much about motherhood as just how bad sleep deprivation could actually be. He wouldn't sleep without being rocked, or being on my chest. Or being rocked on my chest. Eventually, he wouldn't sleep without holding my hand. {And now, despite the proclamations from the GP that he'd be in my bed until he was eighteen...mmmhmmm, I know so many teenagers still in their parent's beds...he goes to bed at 7 and sleeps the whole night through, has done for years}.

And the past nearly-five years of his life have felt like....well, five years. And yet- I'll blink, and he'll be slinging an oversized backpack on his back, and we'll walk into his classroom.

feeding the fusspots.

It's that time of the week. Again. Meal planning time. Sigh.

A few disclaimers, first- I love food. I love cooking. I think nothing of whipping up Chinese pancakes from scratch for Peking Tofu {yes, just like Peking Duck}. The cupcakes pictured above are one of my current Favourite Foodstuffs. And I have to meal plan otherwise I end up spending a fortune on groceries, dragging the small ones to the supermarket more than necessary, and with a whole lot of 'stuff' left languishing in the fridge because I couldn't work out what to make with it.

Meal planning. The lesser of the evils.

With five people to feed, seven nights a week {Shan and I will occasionally get takeaway Thai once the small ones are to bed on a Friday night but I still cook for them}...look, at this point I think I'd pay someone to meal plan for me.

Consider the following.

Me: A vegan. I try to be fairly open with most other food, but I genuinely dislike pumpkin and eggplant. And since the hyperemesis, I can't stomach bread- the occasional piece of very fresh white bread or a grainy roll are the rare exceptions.

Shan: My "pretend coeliac"- that is, he avoids gluten whenever he decides he might like to avoid it- sometimes, right at the moment he's sitting down to eat. Suffice to say, not a lot of pasta is cooked- and yes, I know that gluten-free pasta exists. Due to a childhood filled with meals made from The Red Stew Pot, anything that even remotely resembles a stew is out. He is a meat-and-stir-fried-leafy-greens man.

The small ones: The eldest two don't like potato. Two don't like red meat. One won't eat egg. One doesn't like most legumes. They all unanimously dislike curries or spicy anything, leafy green vegetables- most green vegetables, actually- though broccoli and frozen peas are okay-, mushrooms, tomatoes and tomato based sauces, and any "green things". Even garlic bread is met with a mutinous glare as it has "green stuff" on it. {They also refuse to eat hot dogs and chicken nuggets, an aversion which I suppose I should be grateful for. It did lead to an interesting discussion while I was booking a birthday party at a playcentre and had to beg for the children to get sandwiches instead}.

So there we have it. I am not one of those people who can cook the same thing every week, without fail. The closest I've ever come to that was a delightful phase of Cupcake Fridays, follwed by making bagels every Sunday morning. I need variety. And we're trying to keep our grocery budget down, while still having nutritionally balanced meals with loads of fresh veg, that everyone in the family likes to eat.

Meal planning. Sigh.

absolutely not excited

Murphey's Law and I have a problem.

Last night, I hurried the small ones off to bed- I had a bottle of champagne chilled in the fridge, a ridiculously expensive punnet of strawberries, and even my favourite, fanciest glasses in the freezer to get super-cold. Shan and I got our various night-time-jobs done, and then went to open the bubbles. My hand was in the fridge when Bee, who'd been fussing about going to sleep and who I'd already been in to see about five times by now, cried out again. I sighed. Mumbled. Closed the fridge and went to investigate. She'd vomited everywhere.

So instead of drinking the champagne I was really looking forward to, I cleaned up vomit. And then spent a large part of the night on the bathroom floor/cleaning vomit/getting up and down eleventy billion times. Yayness.

Last month, Shan and I went away for the night for my birthday- we're lucky to have two nights a year child free, and we were staying in a fancy hotel with a marble spa bath, romantic turn down, the works. The plan was to go out beforehand for cocktails and tapas, which just happen to be two of my favourite things. Three days before we were due to go away, Mum got sick. She was well *just* in time to babysit as planned, but I played a few frantic mindgames of what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do.

We dropped the small ones off, and stopped for lunch on the way. And I got food poisoning. So instead of wandering around the little French patisserie, the wine cellars....I curled up on the bed in a ball and watched a show on hoarders. {Thankfully, it was mild food poisoning}.

It just so happens that next weekend, Shan and I have lucked out with another child-free night- I bought tickets to a show nearly six months ago, and the time has come. A bit of quick Googling, and we've found a dumpling bar nearby for dinner beforehand.

So in case the universe is listening..... I am Absolutely Not In The Slightest Bit Excited About Next Weekend.

{We're attempting a re-do of the champagne tonight. And as luck would have it, I'm too tired to get excited about that.}

shadow puppets

It is 8:26pm.

My children are currently playing shadow puppets with their nightlights in their room. I'm pretending I can't hear them, just like I pretend not to see the secret-biscuit-stealing from the pantry that they indulge in from time to time.

Yesterday, Levi told me he wanted me to go and be a teacher again. Just like that. Mummy, I want you to go and be a teacher again so I can go to kindy every day. It's not fun with you. Did I take it personally? You bet. A few days prior when I informed him that we were having stuffed arancini for dinner he rang his Nanny and asked to go and live there, with a stop for a McDonald's cheeseburger along the way.

Did I mention they call me Queen Mummy Fun Police?

There are times I am certain that goat herding would be a more fulfilling profession.

I've been doing this SAHM-ing gig for nearly five years now. At times it's really not unlike being pecked to death by a chicken.

But then there are the other times. The times where you almost expect some slow, sweeping music from a movie soundtrack to start playing as you have that blissful moment with your child. While I don't quite believe the little old ladies in the supermarket who always pick the most inopportune moment to tell me that 'these are the best days of your life', I can understand a sweet nostalgia creeping in as my small ones grow.

Levi crept into the bed at four am this morning, and snuggled in next to Shan. I, the resident insomniac, lay awake and watched the light creep into the room, before turning my eyes to my boys, curled up exactly as they used to even when Levi's foot was no longer than my thumb. Scarley is ever-so-quickly losing her baby-ness, determined to keep up with the big two, to not miss out on anything. We talk phonics in the car now, at their request, and I seem to be producing endless amounts of sandwiches and pasta, eternal 'kid food'. I've read Where Is The Green Sheep so many times that during one bedtime story reading after a particularly long day, I realised I was reciting the words exactly as they go in the book, while Scarley held it upside down and flipped randomly.

They scream in the car. They pinch each other in the car. They fight over Scout. They are of the run-of-the-mill-finicky-eater-variety {garlic bread, even, is out, as it has Green Things}. Bee sleeps with approxmiately seventeen stuffed animals and wakes screaming if one dares to fall out.

They are good kids. I teach them about their world, and in turn, they teach me how to be their mama. They hold a mirror up to me and teach me things about myself I never knew. 

They are good kids.

They're still making shadow puppets.

rocking the suburbs

My day in a nutshell:

Levi and Bee up at 5. Woke the rest of us with their arguing. Scarley meltdown. Floors mopped. Bathroom cleaned. Scarley scaled, and fell off kitchen bench. Left for park. Park playdate. Left for supermarket so I could buy tofu for highly-coveted peking tofu dinner. Big two fought. Scarley meltdown. Little old lady informed me these were the best days of my life. Video store. Levi and Bee select a DVD each. Scarley meltdown. I give up on selecting my own. Return home. Discover I left the gate open and the dog has gone missing. Neighbour returns dog. Discover sunglasses are missing. Search for sunglasses. Look in car and discover tofu has fallen out of the shopping bag and is now inedible. Consider crying. Abandon crying as now cat has escaped. Retrieve cat. Call mother. Lecture children on why conducting shadow puppet theatre at 9pm is unacceptable. Start to mow. Girls lose the plot. Give up and listen to music on headphones while children watch playschool. Start to cook dinner. Scarley meltdown. End up sitting on kitchen floor crying surrounded by bay leaves with hysterical Scarley on lap. Make dinner. Mow. Shower. Read Green Eggs and Ham multiple times. Vodka. Send husband out for takeaway.

In case you missed it, in September last year, we bought a house. Our first house. And we've slowly been turning it into our home. Somewhere that is not only our refuge and place of calm, but somewhere that we feel proud to call our own.

So last week I mowed the lawn. Up until now it's been Shan's job- but as he's been busy, and we're eliminating one gender stereotype at a time, I did it. The same thing happened this week- he's been getting home really late, and it needed doing. So I attempted to do it.

But couldn't find my sunglasses, and due to paranoia about being blinded by a flying pebble, I waited until Shan was home. By this point I had a badly mascara-tracked face. I was wearing my maternity pants and my 'only kale can save us now' tank. I'd borrowed Shan's sunglasses- they're currently broken, and one of the bits-that-go-over-your-ears has snapped off. In desperation to get the fecking job done already, I borrowed Bee's  Snow White headband to hold them in place.

The neighbours think I'm mad.

But the lawn looks great.

ballerina girl

Bee's just started ballet lessons.

{To be honest, I'm not sure if she likes ballet, or dressing up in pink and having me to herself for two hours every Saturday morning}.

She's mastering the art of demi-plies and pointing her toes. I'm mastering the art of crawling around on the bedroom floor muttering "where are the fecking bobby pins" every Saturday morning with five minutes to spare before we need to leave. {Guess what I forgot to buy while grocery shopping. Again.}

She's in love with the full-length mirrors, and the pale pink chiffon, the ribbons for her hair. The music, and the twirling...they seem to spend a large amount of time being princesses. Or butterflies. Or fairies. She's determined to arabesque, and pirouette....one day.

{She's also in love with her tap shoes. They keep getting "accidentally" left in the car so she can't tap all day, every day, throughout the house. Shame.}

the 'gold class at home' menu

Most Friday nights, Shan and I try to have some sort of 'date night'. Sometimes, he goes to the gym. Sometimes, I go out with friends. And sometimes, we're just too tired to organise anything. Very nearly all of the time, our date nights are at-home.

Tonight, it centered around watching a DVD on the lounge. Until I posed the question of dinner. And Shan replied, "how about we have the kind of food you would get in Gold Class?"
Give me a reason to create a menu, and I'm all over it. Especially when it doesn't have to cater to the tastebuds of people under five years of age.

So, for our Gold-Class-At-Home-Experience, I prepared...

*Ranch flavoured popcorn {easier than it sounds, just a combination of salt, pepper, dried onion, garlic, and dill}

*Shoestring fries with ketchup

*Marinated chicken wings

*Garlicky white bean dip with tortilla chips, snow peas, and carrots to dip

*Chocolate dipped strawberries {dipped in dark chocolate, with white choclate flicked over the top to make them look a little bit fancier}

*And of course, good sparkling wine.

super bug

If you recall, my last post ended with me covered in projectile vomit.

Sadly, it was only the start of things to come.

We all got sick.
For some reason, the one who was hit the hardest wasn't any of the small ones, or even Shan with the man-variation of it. It was me. I was so ill all I could do was lie in a Blanket Fort Of Misery in a haze of  Zofran and Hydralyte, mumbling things at the daytime cooking shows before collapsing back into bed.

Shan, who has never taken time off work due to me being sick, ever- including when I had hyperemesis, took the day off. I was so ill.

Several {thousand} loads of laundry later, frantic scrubbing of bathroom floors over and over again, and the unanimous agreement that I will never again cook the soup we were eating hours before it hit, I think it's safe to say we're over it. I hope so.

sensible grownup things

At the moment I seem to be on this perpetual quest for Things To Do And Enjoy That Aren't At The Whim Of My Small Children. Sensible {not always} Grownup Things.

Plans are being made for a night away for my birthday, a girl's night mid-year to go to a cabaret show, I'm about to embark on a master's degree, and am going along to a parenting program the kindy is running...okay, let's be honest: I'm happy when I can go to the supermarket alone. The option to buy toilet paper on my own? Hooray for me!

To kick-start the whole shebang I arranged dinner with a girlfriend, at a nice little restaurant just over half an hour away. With a booking time of 7pm. Due to the fact that every Saturday I'm now in the car at 8am to deliver a small girl to ballet lessons, and that Shan was headed off on a boy's weekend the following day, it wasn't to be a late night- moreso a little escape for a few hours.

So, dinner was cooked and placed on the table, before I showered, dressed, and did hair and makeup in record time. And off I went.

While a girlfriend and I were waiting {and waiting.....and waiting....} for our mains, I received a phone call. From Shan. That Scarley was vomiting. We eventually were served our mains {an hour and fifteen minutes later}, and lingered for a little while before coming home. Back to reality. Wearing the ridiculously expensive dress I'd bought for an interview, and the ridiculously expensive eyeliner that is still quite possibly fused to my eyelids....I proceeded to do what is perhaps the Most Sensible Grownup Thing Of All.

Calmly, and soothingly strip sheets, start the washing machine, and give an upset child a lovely warm bath....all while covered in their projectile vomit.

Nothing says motherhood quite like that, does it now?

how to: make cheesymite scrolls

I make these at least one a week, firmly convinced that it is far easier to put together a very simple dough mix and produce some scrolls with about ten minutes effort on my part than it is to drag three children around a supermarket. And once you've eaten them warm from the oven, it's difficult not to become an instant convert.

This dough is the dough I use for most of my baking- cheesymite scrolls, cheese and bacon scrolls {I'll tell you how to do that, too}, pizza and calzone dough....there's nothing to stop you, I suppose, from using it to make bread if you felt like it.

To make the dough, you'll need:

1 x 7g sachet yeast
1tsp sugar
1 cup tepid water
3 cups flour {white, wholemeal, or a combination of the two}.
2 tbs vegetable oil + an extra spoonful to coat the bowl
1 tbs salt

Optional: a tablespoonful or two of sesame/poppy/chia seeds.

Combine the yeast, sugar, and water in a small bowl and leave for five minutes or until foamy.

In a large bowl {or the mixing bowl of your stand mixer if you also happen to have a dough hook}, combine the other ingredients. If you want the scrolls to stay fresh for the next day- we never seem to have that strange thing called 'leftover scrolls', add in a tablespoonful of instant mash. It sounds vile, I know, and it has to be the rare exception to my rule of no instant anything, but it works.

Once your yeast mixture is foamy, add that in to the flour mix, and knead with your hands or with a dough hook until smooth and elastic. Depending on the weather and the sort of flour you use you may need a little extra water or flour- add it in a tablespoonful at a time. If you're being virtuous and using exclusively wholemeal flour, you will almost certainly need more water. 

When the dough is ready, leave it in a clean, oiled bowl {I use the mixmaster bowl with a spoonful of oil poured in}, tossing once to coat in the oil. Cover with cling-film or a clean tea-towel and leave for an hour until doubled in size.

To turn the dough into cheesymites you'll need:

1/2-3/4 cup vegemite
2-3 cups grated cheese

When the dough has doubled in size, punch it down, and tear it into two pieces. It's easier to roll, and creates smaller, kid-sized scrolls. {Also, if you want to do half cheesymites and half cheese and bacon, for example, this is the way to go}. Roll out each piece on a lightly floured surface- or a piece of baking paper, until it's quite thin- say, 1cm thick or less.

Spread on the vegemite and sprinkle over the cheese, then roll up tightly. Slice the rolled up dough into rounds 2-3cm thick, place flat-side-down on a baking tray lined with baking paper, and cover with a clean-tea towel again for another 20 minutes. {If you're really desperate for time you can skip this, but they're better if you don't}. While they have their second prove, switch the oven on to 180.

When your oven is pre-heated and that twenty minutes is up, slide them into the oven and cook for about 20 minutes or until golden.

Variations:

Cheese and bacon scrolls: use the same dough as above, substituting the vegemite for diced bacon

Cheesymite pullaparts: place the {uncooked} scrolls into a loaf tin (or a 20cm square tin} lined with baking paper, pressing them together to fit. Bake for 25-35 minutes {depending on how squashed-together they are}.

Sweet scrolls: reduce the amount of salt in the dough to 1tsp, and add an extra 2tsp of sugar to the flour mixture. Ideas for sweet scrolls- Nutella and crushed hazlenuts, jam, tinned caramel..... endless, really.

And so on.

Don't forget- this is a marvellous pizza dough, and one that can be used to make-your-own pizza pockets or calzones, depending on the maturity of who you're feeding.

prepare to battle.

Current rainy days excepted, this summer has been long and hot.

We've done so many trips to the beach that there is a permanent layer of sand covering the floor of the car {by the way, talcum powder is an excellent, instant remover of sand from small children's limbs}.

There have been iceblocks. Lemonade. Afternoons in air-conditioning watching singing puppets until I can no longer stand it.

And then we battle.

Over three hundred water balloons were filled and, save a few, were put into plastic tubs to be placed strategically around our backyard. A few were saved, to fill the box you see above- and left at our front gate for Shan when he arrived home from work.

And then it was time to play.

so, we adopted a kitten

 

Scarley and I went for a little drive earlier this week, and bought this little guy home with us.

The people at the pound had called him Buster, but he was promptly re-named Scout. He also answers to 'it's-my-turn-with-the-kitten-let-me-have-a-turn'.

He's purring away on me as I type {and just FYI, kittens are just as bad as small children when it comes to upending liquids onto computers. It's a wonder my laptop is still functional at all}.

May a long and happy life await you, Scout.

And may the small children start going to sleep at bedtime as they should, rather than 'whispering' {I use the term very, very loosely}, "Scout, come and sleep on my bed..." for several hours.