Barefoot In The Kitchen

Here’s this week’s entry for The Gallery at Sticky Fingers.  I can’t promise it’s any good, because, well, I’ve been working with clients this week who only like Tahoma, there is NO OTHER FONT IN THE WORLD THAT WILL DO, NOT EVEN FOR FANCY TEXT, and banging one’s head against a brick wall isn’t really conducive to good writing.  Anyway, head over there and have a look around, it’s well worth it.

I don’t drink any more.

It’s not out of any sense of moral superiority or strongly-held personal belief.  It’s not really because drink contains so many empty calories.  It’s not because I’m still breastfeeding- a drink after David goes to bed isn’t going to affect his pre-nap feed the next morning.  It’s simply that I don’t enjoy it any more.

My line between sobriety, fuzziness, and complete all-out drunkenness is a very thin one.  So thin, in fact, that after a glass of wine I’ll be unable to think coherently.  I’ve always been like this- I spent my teenage years in a drunken (and otherwise) fuzz, because drinking equalled being drunk, and not necessarily because I was drinking too much.  (Incidentally, I was.  Far too much, and far too often.  The innocence of youth…)

I am a control freak.  I hate knowing I’m about to lose control, I have to be either completely in control or too drunk to care either way.  Two years of total pregnancy-and-breastfeeding-related sobriety have ensured that the point where I stop enjoying a glass of wine and start to feel a loss of control is approximately two sips in, and honestly?  I don’t see the point in drinking if I’m not going to enjoy it.

I went through a stage of just not drinking and having pregnancy and breastfeeding as an excuse.  Now that’s almost passed (and trust me, I’m not mentioning extended breastfeeding in my local!) I’ve realised I’ve no desire to ever drink again, other than the odd taste of Joe’s ale.  So, I’ve made the decision to “not drink” as a matter of course.  It’s incredibly liberating.  The pressure to just “have a sip or two”, or “have a shot of vodka in that Diet Coke” (thanks, Brian!) has gone, because I can just say that I’m sorry, I don’t drink any more, and that’s that.  People can think I’m weird all they want, I don’t care- I feel like a weight has been lifted.

…and Joe, of course, has the benefit of a designated driver when he and his friend Ed get through most of these in a weekend.

Bottles are one of my favourite subjects, the way their curves and lines capture and reflect the light.  So everyday, and yet so beautiful… does this count as a still life?

Calling all parents, yes, you there, hi.

Do *you* have too many Easter eggs?

Worried about how you might get through them all without putting on all the weight you lost over Lent?

Don’t want your children running around on a sugar high?

Let David help.

Eggs will be disposed of in a completely natural, environmentally-friendly fashion.

WARNING: This method is most definitely not Grandma-approved, and it’s not exactly clean and tidy, either.

But it’s worth it to feed this poor, starving child the chocolate his evil mother doesn’t usually let him have.

Thanks.

This recipe is based on a recipe from Maggy Woodley at Red Ted Art.  It’s really, really easy, really quick, and relatively mess-free: you’ll only need a bowl, a wooden spoon, a teaspoon, a cup, and some muffin tins.  The original recipe calls for a pot, which I’ve taken to mean a traditional Aussie/US cup: 8floz.  You can use any pot, though: even a mug will do.

You’ll need:

• 1 pot sugar
• 3 pots self-raising flour
• 1 pot yoghurt (I use goats’ yoghurt)
• 3/4 pot oil
• 1 egg
• 1 pot blueberries
• 1 teaspoon vanilla essence

How To:

Preheat the oven to 180C / 350F / Gas Mark 4

Put all the ingredients apart from the blueberries into a bowl.  Mix them together thoroughly, then fold in the blueberries.

Spoon into muffin tins.  Bake in the oven until golden: about fifteen minutes.

Leave to cool in the tins for about fifteen minutes, and then cool on a wire rack.

Enjoy.  Keep in a locked tin if necessary.