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.