What housewifery means to me

I turned 35 on Sunday. I'm not sure I'm taking stock, or whatever one does as one year becomes another, but it has prompted a little evaluation of the way things are, particularly in the context of my housewifery and my blog.

In the course of explaining in my college class yesterday how a recent written assessment was enjoyable for me, in response to a colleague's assertion that assessments aren't fun,* I happened to mention that I blog. In the break, someone beside me, who I am rather drawn to, and who has shared the odd moan with me in the nicely conspiratorial way in which friendly alliances can be built, asked me what I blog about. I began: 'Oh, I started it while I was on maternity leave; it's about my life as a housewife.' This pricked up the ears of the two in front, and then another in front of them, and we had a little chat, in which I felt I wasn't properly representing myself. I mean, I was a housewife, I still do all the domestic work (or at least am responsible for it, delegating some bits). But even I don't really recognise that conceptualisation of myself.

On the way home, I met an old neighbour; in the course of our chat, I mentioned that I'm back at work and quite happy about it, and he said 'yes, gets you some of your identity back'. That's the econd time someone (another man in late 30s/early 40s, from London) has said that to me. This is what I struggle to explain: I don't feel I've lost any of my identity, or that my identity has changed. I am still the same. My priorities may have changed - I'm no longer out on the p*** every night, and nor do I want to be - but that part of me is not disappeared, or muted in me. Perhaps to the outside world - to people who don't know me.... So my external face might be different; new people I meet have different expectations or assumptions of me when I say I have a baby, or I'm on maternity leave. But what I don't say is 'I'm a mother'. That is still not how I conceive of myself; that's not how I identify myself. I'm Peggy. I'm a 17 year old in a 35 year old body. I'm a generation x-er, a slacker into music, I'm a drinker, a bad dancer, a smoker who hasn't had a cigarette for a long, long time. I like cooking, I like baking, I like personal finance and domestic efficiency. But the two lists aren't mutually exclusive.

So I looked last night at other people's blogs about housewifery, to see if I identify with those. Lots of American 'stay at home moms' (or SAHMs) seem to have God. And lots of these (possibly all) are rather sanctimonious about their vocation, and earnest about the blessedness of their lives. Several are retro, their authors into vintage, playing with a historical concept, role-playing, almost. Some posts, like 'School of Housewifery', are about being rubbish at keeping house. It's ok to be rubbish in the home as it is to be rubbish at maths; your skills lie elsewhere, somewhere better - the workplace, the arts. These posts are meant to be funny, full of pratfalls about juggling a hundred things. But I find them slightly undermining, somehow, of the value of domesticity (we don't need to be successful professionally, socially and domestically because domestically isn't important) in the same way I find the former overly earnest about the importance of their job. There's something interesing here, politically, that I'll try and retrun to another time.

But for now, Peggy at 35 received:

GoodFood 101 Cakes and Bakes
2 Cath Kidston (vintage domestic prints) tea towels and a carrier bag holder
Sunflower seeds ('For you and Babs to plant together!')
Some peacock orchid bulbs
Kimya Dawson's Alphabutt (album of children's songs)
An Alessi lily bird soy sauce bottle

I think this means my friends think I'm a housewife. And I'm pleased about that, because they recognise that that's partly about being brilliant and well-rounded, and it's partly a bit tongue in cheek. Because I'm a hundred other things as well.


* I think it's interesting that I found the assignment enjoyable because I was, for once, allowed to be a novice; my day job requires me to write as an expert. For this other woman, students she sees see writing as a chore, and essay writing a means to an end (passing the course), rather than an end in itself (consolidating and extending understanding/learning). She totally missed the point of the session - about using writing for active learning - about thinking differently about how and why we get our students to write, and using writing tasks differently, to inspire interest, motivate students and help them to learn. Not just as a hoop to jump through before you can progress.

Baby catering

When we didn't know what to do with a squash a couple of months back, Terry consulted his oracle, the River Cafe cookbook green. He made the pumpkin and cinnamon risotto (risotto alla zucca e cannella), which was delish for us and Babs, and particularly good for getting some weight on the baby, because we could slather on the olive oil and parmesan at the end. It's been a complete failsafe for Babs, whose interest in individual foodstuffs is difficult to sustain.

Anyway, last week's grocery order included an organic butternut squash, which I made into squash and cinnamon risotto yesterday. We were missing oregano, but it doesn't seem to have harmed it much. And instead of chicken stock, our pescetarian and salt-fearing family demands Marigold vegan salt-free vegetable stock. Which again, doesn't seem to have harmed it any. My mum was visiting, and she really enjoyed it; Babs liked it, and scoffed everything on her plate; and Terry was very complimentary when he came home. Two adult portions and a tiddly baby size down, there was enough left for 4 ice cube trays and a two-person portion for the freezer. And it's vegan. If you don't serve with cheese.

So, by way of recommendation (modified a little bit for convenience/vegetarianism/babyfeeding):

Risotto alla zucca e cannella ('serves 6')

1kg butternut squash, pumpkin or onion squash
1 cinnamon stick, about 5cm (book says crushed, but I left it whole so I could fish it out)
1l stock
1 tbsp dried oregano (though it really was fine without)
4 sticks of celery, finely chopped
2 small onions, finely chopped
2 cloves of garlic
pinch of dried, crushed chilli
400g arborio rice (they say carnaroli, but the only organic risotto rice I could get was arborio. And truthfully, I don't know the difference.)
400g tin chopped tomatoes

extra virgin olive oil and parmesan (they say pecorino) to serve.

Pre-heat the oven to 220C/425F/gas 7, and heat stock.
Cut the squash in half lengthwise and widthwise, remove the seeds, and cut into wedges. Season with salt, pepper & half the oregano (or none of them - that was fine), place them on an oiled baking tray and cook for 30-40 minutes (until browned and cooked).

While the squash is roasting, heat a good glug of olive oil in a large, deep, heavy-based pan, and cook the onion and celery for 5-10 minutes, until softened. Add the chilli, remaining oregano and cinnamon. Fry these together briefly, and add the rice. Stir to coat each grain with oil, and cook til opaque - 2-3 minutes. Add the tomatoes and allow this to reduce - a couple more minutes, stirring. Then add the stock, a ladleful at a time - allowing all the stock to be absorbed before adding the next ladleful, stirring all the time. It really will catch if you don't keep stirring, risotto novices! Continue until the rice is al dente - about 15 minutes - then add the squash.

I add the squash peeled, in small-ish cubes; the book says to pass it, skin and all, through a mouli first (we just don't have one). Test for seasoning (add salt v cautiously if this is for a tiddler, and not at all for under-ones) & serve drizzled with extra virgin olive oil and freshly grated parmesan/pecorino.

Modified by me, but probably copyright Rose Gray & Ruth Rogers (2000) River Cafe Cook Book Green. London: Random House.

Really, really yummy. And half of it made 48 cubes, which at 6 per meal will do Babs about 8 meals.

Chocolate Krackolates

What a name! That's the 60s for you. They're just cornflake cakes. By popular demand, from the Woman's Own Cookery Book, 1968: makes 12 small (kiddie size) or 6 adult size. (I tend to double the quantities).

7 tablespoons corn flakes (that's 34g if you have electronic scales)
1 tablespoon icing sugar or caster sugar
1oz vegetable fat or shortening (I use Pure or Sainsbury's 'Free From' marge to keep them vegan)
1 level tablespoon cocoa powder
1 tablespoon golden syrup (heat the spoon to keep it from sticking)
2 tablespoons dessicated coconut or 1 tablespoon grated orange peel

Melt the fat and syrup slowly in a saucepan; do not boil.
Add the cocoa, remove from heat and stir in the sugar.
With a metal spoon, quickly fold in the cornflakes and coconut/orange peel until well-coated.
Spoon onto a greased baking sheet (I use paper cake - not muffin - cases) and cool.

I seem to remember them coming out of the fridge hard, but recently they've been quite squidgey still. Possibly this is because I'm slap-happy with the syrup - they have been tooth-achingly sweet. To counter the sweetness, though, I'm tempted to halve the sugar; I think they need the stickiness of the syrup to bond.

Yummy.

January drinkies - roll call

Waitrose Food Illustrated lied. I may have to take it up with the editor. January 09's Lancashire Cheese Straws were alleged to take 10 minutes' preparation and 10 minutes' cooking. Lie. A single egg yolk was deemed sufficient to bind 200g flour, 100g butter and 100g cheese. Another lie. With the rolling and breaking and moistening and re-rolling, 17 cheese straws somehow took 40 minutes to prepare and almost 15 minutes to cook. I was planning to make a second batch, but I abandoned that idea as the dough crumbled for a second time and all my edges feathered. Still, they looked ok, they tasted reasonable (a bit dry; short, maybe. I don't really know what that means), and they all got eaten. Along with:

Feta filo parcels. Fresh filo better than frozen - frozen a little floury. Easy to make but a bit on the dull side. Currently seeking new filling ideas. Comments, please.

Spanish tortilla. Served in cubes, which surprised the half-Span guest. Thanks, Rebato's. Nod to Marina for the prep tips. (Marina's (Spanish) way? Nothing like the Good Housekeeping way. No turmeric, for starters. Yes, she was as confused by that as I was.).

My staple salsa. Too chunky for crisps; best eaten with a spoon.

My staple guacamole. So long since I catered, I almost forgot how to make it. Fortunately had bought lemons... I belatedly remembered the lime. Not sure I actually tasted the guac. Boo.

Tyrell's ready salted hand-cooked crisps. Never tasted.

Sainsbury's 'mozzarella cheese straws' - mozzarella in their 'Signature' (TM) crumb. Awful. Oozed on heating, tasteless and rubbery mozz.

Sainsbury's 'garlic and cheese bites. Still in the freezer.

Crostini with pesto and roasted tomatoes. Yummy, easy, but the ciabatta not toasted enough.

Chocolate sandwich cake, with raspberry jam. I'm so over the jam filling. Back to buttercream for me.

Chocolate cornflake cakes. From the Woman's Own Cookery Book, 1968. Quadrupled the quantity; made 24 bigguns. Delish. Steve asked how old I am, 12? Killjoy. (He's from Manchester. Says it all.)

Dates stuffed with marzipan (resembling hot dogs) like my mum used to. They look so anachronistic, I was quite embarrassed. But people liked them, clearly didn't remember them from the 70s and it meant Flesh had a little more to eat than the plain ciabatta that was otherwise the only thing I had bothered to concoct for a vegan.

Not a bad spread, I think, but the table was in the corner, and people sat rather than milled, so it was hard to nibble without someone constantly offering plates around. Always happy to fulfil a stereotype, our American friend, S, ignored everyone else's reserve and the lack of plates and napkins and asked for a napkin so she could carry more back to her place on the sofa.

I stupidly didn't buy any soft drinks, but had invited a clutch of drivers and a room full of parents of under-ones, so I forced booze onto most of them, or they made do with water.

Next time, I will ditch the ready mades, find more stuff I can make the day before (5 hours in the morning was not long enough), remembere the soft drinks and I might try these cheese straws instead.

How green am I?

OK, another post inspired by Fleshisgrass. This time more triumphant than last, I hope. Though almost definitely much more smug. But with a dash of embarrassment, and humility; we have a baby, for goodness sake; we ain't that green.

We do, however:

Compost municipally, therefore composting much more than we could domestically. I really don't throw any organic matter - save for baby excretions and chalk and woodpulp nappies - in the bin. They'll take everything but animal bones, and we don't have those in the house.

Use washable nappies. And second-hand ones, at that. (OK, not all of them were second hand, but give a girl a break).

Flush all our baby's excrement down the loo. People don't know it's illegal to put poops in landfill. That's not why I don't. But we plop the poop from the disposables we use at night time as well as the washables we use all day down the loo. It's bad enough we're chucking a 'biodegradable' nappy a day into a place it can't degrade, without sticking the effluent in there too.

Buy ecover laundry liquid and washing up liquid in bulk, and re-fill. It's more expensive (yup), but I'm just that bloody selfless. We have tried the cheaper of the reuseable washing balls on the market, but they may have given me a minor skin irritation. To my shame, I have bought soap nuts, but for that reason, I'm a bit scared to use them.

Re-use bags, like, all the time. I have one of Flesh's unbeloved 'fey' onyabags, a parachute nylon shopper that folds up tiny and clips onto your bag-bag, and we routinely use the bags for life for our big shops and any placky bags we come across as bin bags.

Turn our noses right up at nappy sacks. Heavens above. Is there nothing we stupid breeders won't buy as baby necessities? Well, (shock!) chez nous, we don't wrap our nappies! Unless we need a change when we're out, when mummy always has a stash of bread bags or supermarket veg bags or newspaper supplement bags. Or just puts the dirty nappy (shock!) unwrapped in the bottom of the buggy. Heaven forfend.

Use a Sigg bottle; like Flesh, because it won't photodegrade and saves the money, plastic, energy and pollution associated with the bottled water I would otherwise consume by the gallon, out and about.

Re-use and recycle aluminium foil. Obsessively.

Wash and re-use plastic freezer bags. Obsessively.

Make the baby's food in bulk and freeze in portions.

Strive to throw as little food away as possible.

Buy as few new clothes as I can bear. In 2008 I think I bought: one pair of maternity trousers (taking the total to two), 3 nursing bras (different sizes, as my boobs scaled down), two summer cardigans, two pairs of jeans, one summer top, a winter jumper and 2 winter cardigans, one work shirt. On top of that I bought a pair of canvas shoes, Terry bought me some winter boots, and Babs bought me some replacement slippers (she was sick on mine and I went without for 6 months) for Christmas. This is a short list compared to some, yet it does make me feel guilty.

Dress the baby almost exclusively in hand-me-downs and second-hand clothes; buy organic cotton when I do buy brand new.

OK, pillory me. I could try harder. Nothing on here is particularly ground-breaking, or inconvenient. Furthermore, I have neglected to mention the bad things I do, like occasionally driving to the supermarket, and heating all the rooms in the house most times the heating comes on. I could override Terry and get curtains for the two rooms without, and keep more heat in that way. I could remember to always turn off the laptop at the wall (d'oh).

I'm going to think of the things I could do better, and try and do them better. I need to curb my shopping habit and my generally acquisitive nature. I will get back to you.

Wow, where did January go?

Blimey, this month just disappeared in a daze.

Recently, I hypothesised to myself that parous women have memory problems (there's a link goes here to an observer news item) for a while post-natally not because we're wired to remember nothing but our babies, or because we go wibbly-brained in the puerperium, or because we're chronically sleep-deprived*, or any other scandalously patronising reason, but because in the absence of work, or school, or other regular activities involving temporal patterns and temporal conventions, and travel, and down-time, and head-space (the vital processing / consolidating type), it's very hard to get events and memories into any sensible order. My head is, post-partum, just in a bit of a jumble, all the time. There's nothing to add order or delineation to my memories. I remember conversations (well, snippets), but can't place when. I don't link things that happened in a day with things that happened the same evening. Weeks are a bit of a blur, and I can't remember what days things happened on, or what I was doing last Friday, say. To me, this is all about temporal signposting. The days have lost their particular meanings - Mondays and Fridays can be interchangeable now; though I have the 'no Terry for 5 days' and 'Whoo hoo, Terry for 2 days' thoughts/feelings - but that's not the same as the Sunday evening terrors and Monday misery and Friday pub elation that were with me week in, week out, for, ooh, 20 years. Not since Babs and I had very regular daily activities when she was 4-16 weeks old, and I knew what day it was by what we were doing, have I really felt part of the world. When my dad died, our weeks changed. I'm not sure how much the two things are related; I just know that after the few weeks of back and forth to mum's I felt wrong, and I worked out that it was that I had no pattern namore.

Anyway, it's now the end of January, and I remember thinking back in September about going back to work on Jan 13th and how close it felt, and yet now Christmas feels like miles away and January has been a blur despite the temporal signposting of work (part-time maybe doesn't make the difference). I don't know, but possibly because, with all the other things going on -

writing the thank you letters
getting cards out (almost) on time to my 8 friends with January birthdays
dispatching ex-tenant
dealing with remaining tenants' anxieties
fixing up flat
angsting about (not) finding new tenant
sorting out house rental
finding new childcare at very short notice
negotiating the childcare contract
writing a coursework assignment
going on more course dates
re-acquainting myself with the MOSES project
likewise the Safety Culture project
sorting out dad's tax return
catering and hosting a little party
oh, and keeping the household going with shopping and cooking (nod to T for some good cookin' for a whole week of early hometimes) and laundry and the occasional bit of cleaning

- I haven't really had the head-space to process, let alone consolidate things.

Anyway, suffice to say, it ain't because I've had a bloody baby.


* Babies do sleep, y'all; and you know what? You can train them: to sleep at sensible times and to stay in bed (going back to sleep) for decent durations.

It's hard to make coffee sponge cake with espresso

Really, I'm going to have to invest in some instant coffee. Instant!

On Wednesday, I went the wrong way (thanks, TomTom) to see F and 9-week cutie, with a bunch of spare baby clothes (thanks, in.spite) and a flat sponge. I partially failed in my mission, which was to take some of the clothes Babs has grown out of and her two/too small sleeping bags, though I made up for it with some extras that she didn't want and some that she did, and we pledged as I left to add to the glamour in our lives by going together to Brent Cross some time soon.

As previously documented ("I don't really like chocolate"), F lives in a house is under renovation, with only a semi-functioning kitchen. Since she also has a tiny baby, and I'd invited myself over for mid-afternoon, I thought I'd better take a cake. And of course I like baking, and it makes me feel a little bit heroic that I can fit it in - though really that's more due to Babs being a good baby than to me being a good housewife/mother.

My mum's rule of thumb for sponge cakes scales up from 4oz of everything and 2 eggs, and because we were short on eggs I went for that size, even though the Good Housekeeping Cookery Book ('The cook's classic companion') showed a victoria sponge at 6oz, and I didn't bother to measure the cake tins. The cakes were consequently a little on the thin side, and no amount of raspberry jam and dredged icing sugar could disguise it*. The cake was pretty yummy, and our oven gives good top-crunch (for a day), but it tasted kind of dense, and straight-talking F didn't feel the need to refute it when I apologetically said so.

Terry was all, 'Oh! Cake?' when he found out it wasn't for keeping, so I promised to make him a chocolate cake the following night. He negotiated hard, and his coffee cake has duly made today, Saturday - 'When there's time to eat it.'Unfortunately on Saturday there is less time to make it, even with two pairs of hands. On Thursday evening I could have whipped one up while supper was cooking, today it went in the oven at 2pm, when I dashed up for a shower, having: put away the washing up, breastfed the baby, put away yesterday's washing, made breakfast for T and me, done two further loads of washing up, ditto two of laundry, watched Saturday Kitchen in bed with T while Babs slept for 60 minutes, poached fish for the baby's lunch, defrosted carrot for the baby's lunch, breastfed the baby following her 3 teaspoons of lunch, made tea for T, made lunch for T and me, made espresso for the cake and spilt nascent cake mixture on the floor while rescuing espresso from hob.

To be fair, Terry helped with the espresso, but even though we put even less water than he first put, it still wasn't strong enough. Sure, it was strong enough to be absolutely foul when I tasted it, but the baked cake has just a whiff of coffee to it, and the frosting - rendered so loose as to dribble down the sides of the cake** - likewise. So I ripped off a tip from my mum, from the coffee drizzle cake she made back in the days when I was too young to have a palate that could take coffee, and drizzled the remaining few tablespoons of coffee over the lower cake, into its open, porous bottom (now top). Then on with the frosting, and on with the top. I refrained from dredging icing sugar on the basis that the damn frosting (yup, Betty Crocker) was sweet enough, so it's not as pretty as it could be.


Fortunately, once I was done with flavouring and drizzling and frosting, it was time for afternoon tea. T's comment? 'All this needs is some icing sugar on top...'.

In my mind? If he'd only followed through with his promise - central to his negotiations - that he'd bring me a handful of instant coffee portions from the cutting room, left over from the shoot....


*Dammit. Not the professional outcome to whichI aspire.
** Ditto! Dammit!