Shaken and Stirred

What’s the most elaborate, complicated meal you’ve ever cooked? Was it a triumph for the ages, or a colossal fiasco? Give us the behind-the-scenes story (pictures are welcome, of course).

It became known as Disaster Day.

We were camping on a quiet camp site on the Isle of Wight. We weren’t a small party – there were four adults and eight children in two large multi-bedroom frame tents. And it rained. And it rained. And it rained some more.

Thankfully, it stopped before morning.

But when JJ got up and opened her suitcase, Oh shit, it’s full of water and very wet clothes.

List of things to do now:
Find Leaky spot. Ah, it’s the entire roof.
Drop frame down so the tall man could paint the roof.
Get canvas sealant to coat the roof.
Hop in car, drive to Newport, which is the main town on the island, slap bang in the middle.
Find camping shop (this was way, way before Google – Youngest was two. Maybe three. He’s twenty-three now) and buy sealant.
Think, well, we may as well buy lunch. Burgers, Sausages, Baked Beans, Bread – that should do for a camping lunch.

And that was MY complicated meal. It sounds simple, really. But there were eight children to be watched. So that took Karen. There was a tent to be dealt with. So that took Husband and JJ. That left me to cook. Burger, sausage, toast, baked beans and a fried egg each. For eight hungry children. On a calor gas stove with two burners and one grill.

I honestly cannot remember how I did it, but I got eight children’s meals out pretty much together, and then four adult meals after that. Then I sat down for a cup of tea, Karen washed up, children were playing happily and…

Youngest jumped off something into something, and fell badly, putting his front teeth through his cheek.

Back to Newport, where we had fortunately seen the hospital on the earlier trip. Triaged and home in an hour, which was pretty fantastic. Poor lad. Next day he looked like he’d had a stroke; the whole side of his face drooped, and strangers were looking at him askance. He made a full recovery and was back to his normal self by the time we went home.

[https://bookmole1.wordpress.com/2014/11/27/shaken-and-stirred/]

Oh the poetry!

Just you can grasp just the quality of the stuff I type, I offer up this classic sentence beginning:

Well I would assume, not making assumptions, you shouldn’t make assumptions, but I would assume…

Sheer poetry.

Some thought thingies

This is superb. A cover with heart and soul. It just leaves me with questions.

Like, why don’t I hear protest songs like this any more?
Just answered that with Pink. She has turned out at least two thoughtful, protesting songs that I can think of, off the top of my head.

Whoa! Maybe I should be listening to more Pearl Jam. That guy has pipes. Surely he cannot sing pap?

What is the guy in the suit playing? It’s not a banjo, it’s a mini guitar. Is that a thing?

Whoa. 1992. Maybe that’s why he’s wearing a v-neck sweater thing over a tee, with really bad pants.

1992? That was Dylan’s 30th Anniversary tribute concert. Shit. That means Dylan’s been around for 52 years. I feel bloody OLD now.

QotD: Your Answers, Please…

I’m a transcriptionist. I sit at home, headphones on, listening to and inputting the spoken word. It can be boring – once I transcribed a whole talk about Food Quality Plastics – but generally it’s intriguing.

Just what do you think I was working on, when I transcribed the following:

And I’ll have to have her, whether she is friendly or hostile or whatever. I don’t know

Just doing a read through, and came across this little gem:

I’m just hitting on them as I see them.

 

We’re Moving!

Not quite sure when, yet. But the house is on the market, and the Open Day is on Saturday. That’s also our 28th Wedding Anniversary, and Husband is away diving.

Here’s the details:

http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-47925458.html

If it doesn’t work, and you are interested in seeing where I live, and what we are happily leaving behind, go to Rightmove.co.uk, and put in the postcode HA2 9DS. There’s only us…

We took out the chimney breasts, arranged for the study and downstairs cloakroom to be added, and added the loft master bedroom with en suite, upgraded the central heating, paid for the dropped kerb and drive, and fitted the brand new (2010, anyway) kitchen.

In some respects I will miss it. In most others, I won’t.

Looking forward to Christmas in Dorset…

 

 

Goodbye bow tie, hello mud pit: a seismic shift in nursery care

bookmole:

Two very differing ways of running a nursery.

Originally posted on Expat Lingo:

In Hong Kong, this is how my son dressed to attend nursery:

Bow tie nursery _ expatlingo.com On chilly days, Mr. Big Shot layered a on a lemon yellow sweater vest.

This was his mandatory uniform for non-gym days. On gym days he wore shorts that reached his arm pits, paired with a white polo shirt and white sports shoes. Yes, he was part of a tiny army of three-year-old Hongkongers dressed as retired Floridians.

The school, in ultra-dense Hong Kong, didn’t have a scrap of outdoor space, so the children did coordinated exercises beneath artificial trees and air-con vents.

Other than serving cake for snack every other day, the school was strict about health. Each morning I was required to take my son’s temperature and note it in a log book. Because of the ongoing fear of SARS-like contagious diseases, as an additional precaution, a staff member also took his temperature at the school door…

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