A tale of baking and the cookie thief

We've been hoeing in to our culinary work ... 'cause these babies are best when eaten straight from the oven ...whilst the other babies kip on the kitchen table. The biccies that don't get mowed down by us in the next couple of hours will make up part of a birthday pressie ... and the remainder will be left out for the babysitter.Yep ... babysitter AKA Loz ... we are going OUT... sans les enfants...with adults...no smalls...avec adult conversation and mascara and stuff. I even bought some new stockings to complete the couture...I know... HOT. Best get going and practice my whitty repartee in front of the mirror and remind myself to double check I'm leaving without leaking breast patches and spew down my dress...

Happy bloody Birthday

No two days are the same and my man will never again be 36. Yesterday was his birthday ... and the day itself, from the outset, was a complete and utter muppet show. AFter restless baby sleepless night official birthday kick-off came at 6.45am at the arrival of the girl and given my last effort at meaty breakfast, I instead opted for the no fail sourdough toast with cold proscuitto for the birthday boy. I also delivered him coffee in bed - to a man that really looked like he should just be damned with the swallowing, and mainline it instead... Draped in babies, I propped him up on some pillows as the uber excited, jumping out-of-her-skin wee girl repeatedly sang 'happy birthday' in his ear (complete with hip hip hurrays) and asked him if he too would get a pink horsey cake and a pinata. Then came the presents. The above artwork by the wee girl entitled 'butterfly'.

...and I made this cover for a sketch book for the Architecture student!... just so he can rack up further street cred at having handmade pressies AND being a mature-aged student. The rest of the day is a blur - but let's just say the plates dropped, with babies that did not stop crying amidst cake baking and dinner cooking and pre-kinder afternoon and wee girl wrangling (when she decided the fuses her Dad took out of the car would look perfect as a decorating feature on the cake)... and the word frazzled didn't just refer to my hair that I don't believe I brushed that day - but I can't be sure ... nor can I be sure of any conversations I may or may not had during the day ... if I called you Shirley when your name is clearly Laverne ... I am truly sorry ...but a birthday is a birthday and must be celebrated ... even against all odds.
...but today ... today is but another day ... where babies apparently only wake briefly to feed and then return to slumber on my kitchen table (in their car capsules not on dinner plates or anything like that ... I wasn't THAT frazzled).

PS Happy Birthday lovely man xxx

Flashback Friday

The Hyatt, Perth, School Ball, circa 1989. Identities are not disclosed in accordance with the Official Secrets Act, 1969, to protect the guilty. I stand accused of reckless use of watermark taffeta in the first degree; convicted of grievous bodily harm with overuse of hairspray and curlers; charged with fraternising with fellow wearers of ruched garments and striking cheesy poses learnt in grooming and deportment classes. Yep. That be moi. Guilty as charged. On location in a time where hotels thought it was still the height of classy to run with the pink and grey decorating colour scheme.

I'm playing along with Curly Pops ... we are clearly of the same vintage. Head over. Sign up. Post it. Get it out in the open. Embrace it. It's OK...we were young.

ps. I've embraced it so much I'm using it as inspiration!

Juggling Plates and Babies in lycra

If I were to describe the sensation of caring for newborns twins I would liken it to that old circus favourite of juggling plates. I got the giggles the other night as I cooked dinner, ran to settle Arlo, settled Arlo, went back to dinner, went to settle Tavish, settled Tavish, went back to dinner, back to Arlo, rock Tavish, put puzzle piece in for Edie, settle Arlo, stir dinner, jiggle Arlo and Tavish etc... I got a fleeting vision of myself in natty lycra circus ensemble running down a row of spinning plates ... just making it spin again before it fell of it's rod - as the crowd oohs and aahs marvelling at my great skill and prowess in lycra (and immense bravery, given post-birth saggy bits revealed by aforementioned lycra). I'm still finding it humorous... will let you know when all plates fall at same time and I rip the arse out of my lycra suit ... figuratively speaking...

NB.. all plates are proof of the obsessive fetish I have for vintage crockery sourced from markets, op shops, relatives, gifts and wierd ass garage sales where they won't cough up ...

Leaving your (water)mark

Here's a peek at the prototype for new designs (and big plans to get back to markets) - the idea was finally hatched in time for a weekend of parties. Apparently it had to be pink ... who is this child I have spawned? Why is she turning her back on a world of colour? Luckily I had this taffeta in my stash. 'Cause us children of the 80s just have that sort of stuff kicking around, no? Don't try and tell me you didn't embrace a bit of watermark taffeta action. It used to roll so easily of your tongue, along with hairspray, teasing, patent leather court shoe and elastic belt... and you have the ball/deb/formal photos to prove it (and not a tongue in cheek or nod to retro in sight). That was until you tried to hide the evidence at the back of the wardrobe in favour of grunge... and twirling doesn't work so well in flannelette shirt ... so taffeta it is. Keepin' it real ... keepin' it BIG...

Tall

Long afternoon shadows on our walk home from town. Cries of "Look Mama, I'm tall!" as we played with the shapes cast by the sun. The air filled with winter chill, but warmed by the gorgeous sun - out in full force today. I love winters here. I love being out walking again. The boys sleep peacefully in the pram and the girl and I get to play ... except when I have to coax her home. This was the end to a wonderful day.... a wonderful day, well, because I got coifed.

With the regrowth of a forest, post bushfire and more roots than a panda - I decided that newborns or no newborns - it was time to get me to a hairdresser. After 8 months - there ceases to be a way in which to part your hair, or put it up that hides either white hair or regrowth. I am notoriously bad at putting my hair down the list of important things to attend to ... but when your own reflection is scaring you ... hmm...

So now I am sporting a do that enables me to 'flick, flick, whatever' if, perchance, the moment called for it.

Oh and as a curious aside ... My hairdresser was a former member of the band 'Kids in the Kitchen'. And for a girl of my vintage ... that counts as a rockstar moment - take 'em when you can.

Flannelette Beauty and the Sleepover

Not too many words tonight. Just a snap shot of a gift for each of the wee lads of two most beautiful flannelette quilts made by this wonderful friend. Overwhelmingly gorgeous. Thank you Suse xxx.

and ... Dunc and I are at a loose end tonight with no bedtime routine to carry out for this small - she is off on her first ever sleepover ... at Grandma Loz's ... unplanned - they just decided on a whim when they were out for the day together - who am I to stand in the way of a delicious pyjama fuelled adventure? PJs and Dinny rabbit packed. You never know - we might get withdrawals and find ourselves taking turns to read each other books and tuck each other in after singing a tune or two.

Big Enough

Just now it sunk in. As I watched my wee girl strain on her tippy toes and artfully open the pantry door ... it occurred to me ... she can reach. I am sure it is not a today thing. I am sure she's done it before. But today was the first time I really acknowledged it; let it ooze into the gaps of a foggy mind...she is big enough to reach. So amidst waves of nostalgia for the little (and clearly shorter) baby she was, I retrieved the requested 'corn biccies' and watched her dance of into our front room. Her achievements are beginning to become the milestones by which I mark time and marvel at how fast it seems to pass.

Now for a little rearranging - because explaining why munching out on raw potatoes* is not really a goer is clearly going to lose its shine... as will be the conversation that the hundreds and thousands in Mum's cooking container are not for inhaling...

*Mental note ... must remember to feed small!

Score

It's been a while since I hit the op shops 'round these parts. But with 3 x smalls loaded in the pram and a sunny day to roll through I popped my head into a couple of the locals. I was not in the mood for rummaging so when this fabric appeared on the top of a pile - I knew it was meant to be ... I have big plans for this nylonesque beauty ... oh yes - it does indeed have a touch of the 'post lawn bowls carnival do' special yet psychodelic frock about it ... but I have a vision that goes beyond the matching blue rinse...

On an equally sunny day last week we loaded up Harriet the HD with our precious cargo and took a drive south to Cambell Town - for no other reason than to check out the new-ish Redbridge Cafe and Providore in the gorgeous once antique store - now food packed extravaganza complete with open fire by which to eat your goodies. We picked up some of these fine looking quinces (un-furry...intriguing) which have now been made into one huge slab of quince paste that should see us out the year until next season ... I'd like to claim the applause for it - but it's Dunc's domain...

Back on the Crafty Wagon

I haven't touched my sewing machine for months. Maybe even since before Christmas. No urge. But since Arlo and Tavish burst onto our family scene there have been strange rumblings from deep within ... small whispers in a dusty part of the brain where one stores one's ideas ... and despite limited sojourns into REM sleep patterns ... it seems these whispers have become shouts. So when we got a ticket to the hottest par-tay in town ... it was time to make some room on the kitchen table and start cutting. I was even able to focus through 'chinese water torture-like' questioning of the small 'what are you doing?' 'why?' 'what colour do you like?' 'why?' 'what are you doing?' 'why?'(repeat x infintiy and beyond...you get the picture).

Inspiration started at the vintage fabric detail of the man in the basket ... I thought my minarets where very middle eastern in appearance - but the architecture student said they may lean more toward the iron curtain. Doesn't he know ric rac is so persian?? I mean what else did the Murghal empire edge their carpets with? Now to giveth the gift and eat cake for lunch ... I love a first birthday.

Heirloom

When Loz found out I was pregnant with Edie, a craft beast awoke within... the new babe would need her very own crocheted blanket. But she came to the sudden realisation that the keeper of the dark Nanna art of crocheting was her Aunty Daph - the elder sister of my Nan, Dinny. She had long since passed away and left her legacy of loved brightly coloured blankets which covered our laps throughout my childhood. A gap had appeared; a glaring hole; a dropped stitch in the chain. These modest heirlooms so associated with one woman that noone had thought that there would come a time where someone else would have to pick up the mantle. So Grandma Loz did. She ran with it. She called on the help of crocheting friends. She channelled the granny within and granny squared it up. She selected colours and got her hook moving. Edie now has her own bassinet and cot blanket - her own heirlooms - most treasured gifts. ... and this week Arlo and Tavish were each presented with their own ... names embroidered to boot... that will one day shift from cot to lap when they are cosying up on the couch. Thanks Loz xxx