Domestic Goddesque » DH

Simple Chicken Chop Suey

Domestic Goddesque — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 22:39:58 +0000

DH tells the story of when he first went to university clutching a copy of Grub on a Grant, not knowing how to cook. University suited him well, as did the cooking: his divine peanut chicken thing won me over on our first Valentine’s together and I always get quite sentimental when he cooks it. But it is the chop suey recipe that he first mastered, primarily I presume because one of the ingredients is his condiment-of-choice: Tomato Ketchup.

It’s such a simple recipe, it sticks in the mind long after the book (and University Grants for that matter) has left the building. The key to the sauce is three things:

ketchup
honey
soy sauce

in equal measure. Got it? I’ll ask questions later.

And so, to make quick and easy chop suey, take a packet of instant noodles and cook according to the instructions (I used Supernoodles and left out the sauce.) Meanwhile, finely chop 1/2 red pepper, a handful of green beans and a small onion. Fry together in a pan for a few minutes then add a handful of frozen peas and a handful of cooked chicken, finely chopped.

Add 1 tbsp each of the three key ingredients and stir. Pour over the cooked drained noodles and mix well. Serve with a smile.

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Our Fairy Platinum Clean Your Own Experience

Domestic Goddesque — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 16:05:14 +0000

When an invitation to lunch at the restaurant where you first fell in love, you don’t read the small print. At least DH didn’t, so I may have waited until the Domestic Goddesque Travelling Circus had arrived at the OXO2 Michael Caines pop-up restaurant before I mentioned that there may be some work involved in return for our meal.

As Dimples was fast asleep in her pushchair, LBG and Daddy got straight to work in the children’s play area, making the most of the crafty bits that had been provided. I perused the menu and looked out on the truly mesmerising view afforded by the position of the OXO tower. I may even have wiped a tear away as I remembered the lovely evening I had there some nine years before. Then Dimples awoke.

I have to tell you that the food was exquisite. Even the children’s was beautifully presented. They thought that the teeny tiny vegetables had been put there just for them, and who was I to disabuse them? My risotto was creamy and delicate and intense and I could eat it all again right now. Truffles? Yes please! Naturally DH was delighted with his cheese-free herb-crusted lamb and shepherds’ pie with a hint of cinnamon (this pleased me immensely, since I am not a Michelin-starred chef but do the same thing.) It was delightful to enjoy such divine food, such a significant setting, such wonderful wine.

And then came the Challenge: how fast could you wash up your dishes? It turns out that I can wash them in 48 seconds. Which was a lot slower that my impressive husbands 23 seconds, neither of which were a patch on the eventual winner, Ms Sandy Calico who washed up (and I am not joking) in FOURTEEN SECONDS. I am certain that I’d have been faster were it not for the distracting heckling by the team, but I would never have been so blindingly fast. In fact the DH missed out on bronze medal in the dishwasher loading Challenge too: a mere 0.22seconds.

Consolation was found in an amazing Apple Crumble with apple mousse and ice-cream. And a utterly dreamy Sticky Toffee pudding. And a walk along the South Bank, arm in arm with the man I ate dinner with for the first time all those years ago.

disclosure: we received our extremely delicious lunch free of charge, but had to do the washing up. DH won three months’ supply of Fairy Products fair and square. And is still a little miffed that he missed out on two top-three-placings, so probably best that you don’t mention it.

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The Gallery: Faces

Domestic Goddesque — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 08:24:03 +0000

The Dimpled Assassin is absurdly tuneful for her young age. She sings all the time (when she’s not crying or eating, because that could be very messy). Her latest obsession is Baa Baa Black Sheep which DH made the mistake of showing her on youtube the other day. Now, whenever she spies his laptop, she screams Baa Baa Back Seep [sic] until one or other of us is foolish enough to put it on for her. DH now only has access to his emails when The Girls are asleep or out of the house. As with LBG, I can’t help thinking he may have brought this on himself: for the want of two minutes peace he may be subjected to a lifetime of Youtube. No wonder he’s considering getting them a laptop of their very own.

I have been sensible and not showed the children anything fun on my laptop, so they never pester me, for Youtube at any rate: they are award-winning pesterers when they want to be. As with our recent visit to Christmas Tree Farm, where they pestered and pestered to feed the amals [sic] and then ran screaming when the amals came towards them. Dimples found her courage, grabbed a handful of feed and got down to business. LBG watched from behind my (metaphorical) skirts. And I took photos. Just in case I need to occupy The Girls for a few minutes.

For other faces, please pop over to this week’s Gallery.

**EDIT: I only remembered after publishing that The Gallery is taking a week off. Never mind, enjoy the faces. I’ll link it up next Wednesday. Think I need alie-down. *sigh*

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Names have been changed to protect the guilty…

Domestic Goddesque — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 10:30:49 +0000

When I started blogging it was because I wanted a space of my own. I never gave much thought to anonymity, but then there was only DH and I to think of. I appreciated that DH had a working life that needed to be kept separate from the life about which I wrote, so gave him a nickname- the ‘oosband to start with- and from there it seemed a simple step to give the dog one too. I imagine if you look you will find references to their actual names since I was never particularly religious about it.

I didn’t really need to tell people my real name at that point because I only had about four followers and they were family. I didn’t see a problem with giving readers The Girls’ full names when they were born because people who read this blog had been through miscarriage and pregnancy with me. And I am ridiculously proud of their beautiful names. Yet, despite spending a long time choosing their names, they quickly developed nicknames which sort of spilled over into blogland. Thus Squeaky, PD’s first nickname. She became Widget at some point too. I came up with the Pocket Dictator whilst ranting about her pre-terrible-two behaviour on a Mumsnet thread, and that really stuck. Even when I thought she had outgrown PD and tried Threeva, it never stuck. I used PD in texts and on Facebook, Twitter and when talking over her head!

And yet in the last few weeks of the summer holiday I have come to the startling realisation that it is time for an upgrade. She is no longer pocket-sized, for starters. Yes, she’s still petite when compared with her peers, but she has shot up in the last week, necessitating an urgent trip to Clarks for larger school shoes, and an appointment at the School Shop for new uniform next week. She has started requesting plaits in her hair, or ponytails, or this clip, or that hairband, and no longer hates having her hair brushed. Yes, she still tries to exert her authority, but it’s in full sentences, rather that the short one-word orders that once spawned her nickname. And, as you would expect from the daughter of a lawyer, most of her orders come in the form of ‘deals’. I spend most of my day negotiating with her, answering her insatiable questions and trying to limit the number of outfit changes. She has become, in her words, a Big Girl. And yet she is still my Little Girl. My Little Big Girl.

Dimples on the other hand, has grown to assume the PD mantle in the past few weeks. She marches around like she owns the world, and is bloody good at winding up her sister. She also holds a grudge, biding her time until she is sure that Little Big Girl has forgotten she offended her small sister before exacting revenge in the most painful way possible. The bloodcurdling screams that LBG lets forth bring me running every time: I know that I will find Dimples holding a fistful of LBG’s hair, a look of triumph on her face, and no amount of time on the naughty step will take that look away. It takes a good few miutes to prise LBG’s white curls from her smaller sister’s fingers, such is her grip. It’s pretty much a metaphor for her life, if I’m honest. She’s a tenacious little bugger, with a thirst for danger and a cheeky look. The Dimples are pure deception, leading you to believe that she is cute and placid. But you’ll only be fooled until you hear her scream indignantly when she doesn’t get her way. That girl is in danger of breaking glass. To call her Dimples is to give you the wrong impression of the most feisty, character-ful, cheeky, intelligent and independent child I have ever come across. She is equal parts cute & cuddly and calculated stealth. Dimpled Assassin, maybe?

Either way, it’s all change in the DG household. LBG is back to Kindergarten next week, with only a year until Proper School. The DA is stepping up to two days at nursery, partly for my sanity (those screams cause viscious headaches) and partly because she needs more variety to keep her occupied. I started the summer with a Toddler and a Baby. I’m finishing it with a Big Girl and a Toddler.

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The object of my affection

Domestic Goddesque — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 22:14:54 +0000

I imagine most people remember the day they were proposed to very clearly. I know I do. We argued. I could barely speak I was so angry with him. I stormed ahead on our supposed romantic walk, not knowing that the bad mood that sat on his shoulders was pre-proposal nerves. So when we stopped and he asked and I said “Yes!”, buffeted by the winds on the February cliff-tops, I paid very little attention to the ring. My hands were bitterly cold without their gloves and I feared the ring would be blown from my finger into the angry swirling English Channel below and be lost forever.

Once safely ensconced in a seaside cafe with toasted teacakes and lemonade to celebrate, I had a chance to study it, cold and hard against my finger, which was unused to carrying such a token. It was beautiful, elegant and quite possibly the most exquisite ring I had ever seen, never mind own. A round diamond encircled by smaller wannabe round diamonds, and teeny tiny sparkles that stretched back onto the band itself. No description seemed to do it justice: I tried several times as I called family and friends to tell them of my affianced status.

The mood had evaporated by then, so on our return to the hotel so dear to our hearts, DH told that he had found the antique ring in a tiny jewellers across the road from The Office. He knew immediately that it was the one, and the news that it was a piece from the 1930′s sealed the deal, since he and I had a fondness for that period. But there was no story to go with the ring, which was a disappointment to us both. In fact I wanted there and then to start a campaign that all antiques should come with a full service history, like cars, so that you could know how they came to be. Which meant that I could make one up, full of romance and heartache and glamour (can you tell I’ve been watching Downton Abbey?)

I like to think of Charles and Betty, alone on a bench, staring out at the sea, young and excited about a future together, a future that holds World Wars and Cold Wars and a Space Race. They lived through boom and bust, cars and computers, advances in just about everything. They raised children and tickled grandchildren. And now they sit side by side, two weathered benches staring out at a view they both loved, watching as the future continues to take shape around them. I take strength from their love whenever I twiddle my ring, catch a glimpse it in the mirror, see the sunbeams bounce around the room, reflecting off the many facets. It symbolises the best thing in my life: the love I have for my husband, and the love that he has for me. I hope that one day we too will sit, side by side, growing older and more weathered and staring out across a view we love.

This post was written in response to a Writing Workshop prompt a while ago: it has sat half finished in my draft folder since then, but after writing about Charles and Betty last week, I was inspired to finish it!

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Who’s the Mamma?

Domestic Goddesque — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 17:55:43 +0000

Muddling Along Mummy wrote an interesting post recently about the assumption that everyone on the internet is just like you, in which she said:

But there are people I look at on the internet and I think ‘what?????’
Like the ladies on twitter who describe themselves purely as someone’s mother and someone’s wife – where are you? Where is your identity? Do you exist only as a reflection of someone else? And no I don’t tend to follow them.

I read that sentence twice, the one about people who describe themselves purely as someone’s mother and someone’s wife and called up my twitter profile with an impending sense of doom. Staring back at me from the sticky laptop screen was my description of myself:

Bedraggled thirty-something mother of the Pocket Dictator and her Dimpled Sidekick, wife of DH and slave to the Wonder Hound.

It appears I am one of those people.

The problem I have is that I am incapable of separating myself out from my dual roles as wife and mother: they form part of my identity. At the moment, since The Girls are 1 and 2 respectively, they form pretty much all of my identity. DH is lucky if he gets a kiss goodnight never mind anything else. My day is fully absorbed by looking after my children and the home we all live in. Even when I am not with them, I think about them, making mental notes about name-tapes for PD or innoculations for Dimples. At a very basic level, I assume that this is because they are part of me: for nine months I carried them around, growing them, feeding them and then giving birth to them. They have some of my DNA, so I am part of them too: we are connected by more than mere cohabitation.

The same could not be said of DH, since the thing that binds us, other than our deep devotion to each other *gets bucket to vomit into* is a piece of paper which sanctifies and makes legal our marriage. And though we are not bound directly by blood, we are indirectly through our Girls, and subsequently through our shared experiences of raising them and being exhausted by them. And it’s not just those experiences, but the ones that came before having children: buying our first home, learning to live with each other (which is far harder than one would think), trying to find a way through life side by side, determining who is best at dealing with finances (him) and laundry (me), choosing holiday destinations and the right pension. Planning our future together. He is the person I run almost everything past (excluding gifts for him naturally) and the first person I call when I am down or thrilled, or simply because hearing his voice makes me feel better. We overlap in so many ways, I’d be less whole without him. So he defines me too.

I didn’t go back to work, partly because I didn’t have a career to go back to. And partly because there always has to be one parent who can drop everything and pick up a sick child. DH’s schedule is unpredictable and oftentimes long, so that person had to be me. And I am more than happy to do it, particularly now that I have had 13 months to adjust and am beginning to find a little bit of time to be myself in: to paint something; read a few pages; blog. For me not to go back to work was a no-brainer rather than a decision-making necessity. And, when I am not grumpy, I am grateful that I can do it. It’s not because I want to be a sanctimonious “I sacrificed my professional life so I could raise my children, it’s the best thing for them” crap, since I don’t think that is necessarily what’s best for the child.

I recently wrote a Personal Bio for a position I’ve been offered as a writer. I must have started writing it dozens of times but found it hard to come by the words to describe myself without making reference to my family. So I gave up trying to sound like someone else, and wrote about myself:

Mamma to PD and Dimples;
Wife to DH;
Mistress to the Wonder Hound.

I am a person, at least I once was. These days I have small children, so Mamma seems to be the best way to describe myself. It’s what I do: I cook, clean, change nappies, teach right from wrong and, if I have time, iron my husband’s shirts.

Of course the bit of me that isn’t utterly absorbed by the mundane, potters around in the kitchen baking, spends her spare hours on art projects (or crafting as it’s called these days) and chunters on wistfully about the old days whilst sharing it all online.

It’s life as I know it: I just wish it had more chocolate.

Do I exist only as a reflection of someone else? On the basis of my Bio, yes. But without my husband and children I would be nothing; I would literally shrivel up and die because they are my reason for living. So it makes sense that they would define me.

If you are interested in writing for Brew Drinking Thinking, then please fill out an application form. You can also follow them on twitter, or subscribe via the website.

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Togetherness at The Gallery

Domestic Goddesque — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 20:29:58 +0000

Week nights at DG Manor are often tough, and by this hour I am usually counting the minutes until DH walks through the door by this point in the day. Being self-employed, he doesn’t have conventional 9-5 working hours (who does these days?) so there is no guarantee that he will see The Girls before they go to bed. Sometimes, despite his best efforts, a few minutes of delay for South Eastern rail is the difference between being able to read bedtime stories and having to kiss sleeping babies.

He has made an extraordinary effort since we started our family to be home and help with bath time, particularly when I was heavily pregnant and afflicted with SPD, then trying to juggle a newborn and a two-year-old. But as his business gets busier and our babies get bigger, togetherness at bedtime is not a definite anymore.

Ladies who lunch

Which is why weekends are so special. We spend a lot of them on the Kent Coast, separated from The Great Commute by physical and mental distance, and able to really focus on our children, our love, our relationship. We each get a lie-in, we have all our meals together, we share the nappies and the tantrums. And we give our attention to Threeva and Dimples. It’s not big showy stuff, but walks on the beach, or making cakes, or dancing in the sitting room. We relish our chance to eat out as a family which continues, despite our recent experience, and were proud as anything when a diner went out of their way to tell us how wonderfully behaved The Girls were this weekend. Because they are: Threeva chats with us about all sorts of things and Dimples smiles and babbles, happily joining in. We Girls regularly fall asleep together on the sofa whilst watching Hairy Cats (Aristocats) after a long walk. Then, once they are bathed and in bed, there is a chance for DH and I to have supper together and watch a movie, or read books silently, side by side on the same sofa.

What I especially love at the moment is the journey home: listening, at Threeva’s request, to audio books in the car. Our current favourite is My Naughty Little Sister, which has lessons which carry over into our life quite well. But when she’s had enough, and is getting tetchy, on come the songs, and a voice orders from the cheap seats: “Join in Dad!”. I’ve no idea what others would think, looking into the car at us all singing madly to Old MacDonald, but it never fails to make us smile. So the weekends really are a special time for us all to enjoy being together, a time which I often have to hold onto throughout the Witching Hours during the week.

Now go over to The Gallery and see what others have posted for this weeks’s theme of Togetherness.

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Wagg the dog: delicious treats for the hound in your life.

Domestic Goddesque — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 13:15:58 +0000

I always wanted a dog with the sort of name that makes you look a bit bonkers. OK, so I looked a bit bonkers long before we got the dog, but it always amused me, in a puerile sort of way, to think of someone striding across a park shouting “Doughnut” or “Slapper”. You would think they were bonkers until you realised that they had a lead in their hand and were chasing after the gorgeous silky-coated Labrador you’d just been admiring at a distance.

It won’t surprise you to learn that there was a list of names in our kitchen in the months before we found our Wonder Hound which looked a lot like a shopping list: Custard, Cookie, Latte, Hovis, that kind of thing. I’m sure if she knew that, she’d be grateful to be called Nugget but the little cretin has just trodden mud all through the hall from the garden and is sealed in the kitchen in anything but a happy mood.

The thing about Madame le Nougat, to give her full title, apart from the obvious bonker-ed-ness which I thought was just a show for us, but which seems to be a trait in most Jack Russells, is that she is very lively. She loves nothing more that chasing the suggestion of a bird in the sky two counties away, or the hint of a possibility of a cat that seems to have crossed the garden three years ago. And once she is on the scent, there is very little you can do to gain her attention. She is, in short, a Toddler. That said, I think that we have spent enough time together over the years to know that, whilst DH is a soft touch, I have no compunction in leaving her locked in the kitchen if she so much as thinks about messing with me. Thus we have a simple relationship: I am boss, and she knows it. I can stand at the back door and say “Get out!” in my best nanny/mummy voice and she will race from whichever corner of the shrubbery she is investigating to do as she is bidden. DH has to put on garden shoes and manhandle her back inside in the cold and rain. He hasn’t perfected the voice. Or she knows he’s a pushover.

I think therefore, he was quite relieved to discover a treat that may save him from a lifetime of dark night treks to the bottom of the garden. Jon at Wagg Foods very kindly sent Nugget a sample of their oven baked dog treats to try, and I know she was impressed by the way she sniffed the package out even before I had picked up the mail from the hall floor. I was impressed with the healthy way the treats are cooked. Threeva liked the little hole in the middle that she could poke her finger in. DH was impressed with the way Nugget sat down in anticipation. More exciting than that though, for the first time ever Nugget came when shown the treat, saving DH a schlepp in the darkness to wrangle the hound. I can only assume that’s because she enjoys them: she has been known to turn down all sorts of treats before now for reasons we cannot fathom.

Obviously Nugget can’t type, or indeed dictate, otherwise she’d have written this review. I imagine that’s a particular difficulty when promoting products such as these. But I was genuinely impressed with the reaction the treats got from Nugget. I certainly entered the competition on their website to win a year’s supply of dog food or treats.

Disclosure: I received bags of treats from Wagg Foods to review, in return for this blog post. For further information about Wagg and their products, please visit their website www.waggfoods.co.uk

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The Gallery: Mother Nature

Domestic Goddesque — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 09:34:00 +0000

The Threeva has been learning about growing plants. She enjoys being outside and looking at the leaves on the trees and digging in the garden. She and her Daddy will go out in all weathers to potter and play. Last year they grew strawberries and if she went missing, I often found her at the bottom of the garden snaffling a few ripe berries. Given that I struggle to keep houseplants alive, my green-fingered mother took her in hand and, before Christmas, gave her a hydrangea bulb and a glass bulb holder. We followed her instructions, and kept it in a dark place for a very long time. We checked it every few days and charted the growth of the roots down into the water, then the first green shoots appearing from the top.

When we returned from an extended break over Christmas to find that, in addition to the green shoots, there were the beginnings of flower buds, so brought the bulb out of the darkness to sit on the windowsill where it will get light. It seems to change every day and the Threeva is utterly fascinated by the miracle of new life. As I am, every time I look at her.

This week’s prompt for The Gallery is Mother Nature. Take a look at some of the other fabulous entries at Sticky Fingers, or have a go yourself.

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Toddlerisms

Domestic Goddesque — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 07:47:00 +0000

Chatting with Tweeva whilst they played the ELC Pop It In The Post Game…..

DH: Darling, what do you call the man who delivers the post?

Tweeva: Post Man.

DH: And what do you call the man who delivers the milk?

Tweeva: It’s the Milk Man.

DH: And what do you call the man who takes the rubbish?

Tweeve: Daddy!

Children: aren’t they brilliant?

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