Taking stock

Chicken stock

We've started making soup in the bakery for lunch and we sell out everyday. You would think that soup is quite a strange thing to eat in a hot climate, but it's actually very popular here and in the Caribbean in general. I'm not sure why it should be so much part of Island life, possibly because of an English heritage (our most popular soup is Pea & Ham) also maybe due to the simple one-pot type of cooking that prevails. Whatever the reason, we eat a lot of soup here.

As we make everything from scratch in the bakery, we roast several chickens everyday and I always have lovely bones for stock-making. It's only now that I make stocks everyday that I've had a little stock 'breakthrough' with consistently delicious results. Seemed like a good time to start sharing some recipes again on the blog and less time spent moaning about the children.

Family Chicken Stock

 

Half fill your saucepan with cold water

Two chicken carcasses

About 10 black peppercorns

Salt to taste

Small bunch parsley & stalks

Small bunch of thyme

3 celery stalks and leaves, chopped up

1 onion, skin off and roughly chopped up (skin makes the stock dark)

3 carrots, skin off & roughly chopped

 

1. The most important thing is to not let the stock boil (this makes it cloudy). Just bring it to a gentle ripple and leave it simmering away for about 1.5 hours.
2. Let the stock cool down on the stove and then using a colander, decant the broth into a Tupperware. We use the leftover sludge in Flora's (the dog) supper, which she loves but be careful of little bones
3. Leave the Tupperware overnight in the fridge and skim the oily surface in the morning 
4. Makes about 1 litre. Can be easily frozen. We pour it into large Ziploc bags (remember to name or risk a UFO - unidentified freezer object) which takes up less space in the freezer. 
5. Good for soups. Essential for risotto's. 

We've made some really great vegan and vegetarian soups as well, with vegetable stocks. I've started keeping all the stalks of broccoli and other vegetable trimmings that I'd normally chuck away to put in the veg stocks. Just follow the same procedure as above but obviously leaving out the chicken and bumping up the herbs.

My absolutely favourite food at the moment is roasted cauliflower. We made a lovely Roasted Cauliflower and Coriander soup last week. It was heaven in a bowl.

 

 

Fiddling around with cameras

Boy Photograghy

One of the reasons why I don't blog as much as I would like to is that not only can I never find the scissors or the sellotape, I can also never find my camera which these days I share with the children as only a Martyred Mother has to.

I also don't own an iPad or iPhone (hint hint) or even have a functioning camera on my dropped-once-too-often Blackberry. I am blog creating resources starved. I just have hundreds of ideas in my head. I never seem to lose that (well not that often) thank goodness.

If I do happen to find my camera and it is by sheer miracle charged up, I then cannot find the cable to download the pictures onto my PC. Most days I just give up in a fit of pique, muttering obscenities at the world and then depress myself by looking at other people's beautiful blogs  which all have stunning photos and everyone looks like they live perfect lives where they can find everything and it all WORKS. 

The InstaGram Life. So not my life. Mine's the HoursWastedLookingforThings  Life.

The children take hilarious pictures however - mainly of each other or the dog or the ceiling. Always at an angle, too. Often featuring apps I had no clue my camera had. They also seem to take a lot of photos of the computer and TV. I thought we may be in danger of depriving them of a Great Childhood until I read that this is a good thing as apparently children who take photos of their computer games will go on to found tech start-ups and be successful. I love reading Penelope Trunk, but she is amazingly strident, albeit very funny too. She seems to understand boys, however - which some days I don't. 

 I feel a bit better for knowing that my children all have futures in Paola Alto, but my camera is still buggered.

 

 

 

The Truck

There are two photos here. One of my new car - the bakery delivery van, and a photo of our house.

The first thing you will notice is that the 'delivery van' is in fact a truck. A four wheel drive one because we live on a volcanic island township. The second thing you will notice is that our house is up a very steep road.

My life can currently be likened to driving home in the 'van'.

Firstly we have an endless 30 minute drive home from 'town'. There are only 3 types of drivers here: 10 miles an hour, 20 miles an hour and "bat outta hell'. I invariably get stuck behind the first type, although we have quite a few of the latter type living on our hill. Every day I will myself to drink less, be nicer to the kids and go to the gym more. By the time we are half way home, I'm already worrying that there's only half a bottle of wine left in the fridge, which means we always have to stop off at "Big Ben's Superette' to stock up on supplies. You will soon see why.

Once we are at the bottom of our hill, I put the truck into four wheel drive. We also cross ourselves and double check the seat belts. "We are in for an interesting ride" you tell yourself "but it will be worth it, as we'll soon be home ".

We grind up in first gear. It's a tiny little driveway of a road mostly through a banana plantation. Half way up it gets rather bumpy and the truck sways from side to side and goes sort of a "whuuur uhuuurrr uhhurr" kind of noise and one powers on through it hanging on for dear life. It's a bit 'Wages of Fear'-ish.We then fervently start praying that we are not going to meet any of our "bat outta hell" neighbours who come swooping down the hill. It's only happened once so far and it's the most  'island' I've been to date: I just ignored the other car and refused to move. They then had to reverse up the hill. "Tough" (you think to yourself) "sooorrrrry for yoooou. My trucks bigger than yours and if you think I'm reversing down this hill in a truck, THINK AGAIN buddy".

The road then gets steeper and steeper and just when you think that the truck may actually flip over backwards, you have to really gird your loins and grip onto the steering wheel and swoop it around a hairpin bend with screeching wheels and a heart full of hope. The truck is kind of going "urraaannnhhhrr,urrraaangghhhr" by now and is swaying all over the place and one just has to keep pointing it up the hill to keep it on the road.

We then drive right past our house. Zoom. So near but so far.

Our driveway is too steep to turn into, so we actually have to drive even further up the hill in order to turn it around and come back down again.

We have two turning choices: Tiny concrete platform and sheer drop or 70 degree hairpin driveway but no imminent danger of driving off a cliff. Both are terrifying. I tend to favour the latter option (see why below) which then requires one to get 'the line' absolutely right in order to reverse up the hairpin to turn the truck facing north east again. If one is about 3 inches out either way, you're screwed and then have to do about a 90 point turn burning up the clutch and brakes (not to mention your nerves). The air is blue with my view on life. The kids think it's all huge fun.

The first time I had to turn the truck I got it a bit wrong and ended up about 6 inches from the the concrete platform precipice. I thought it best not to drive the truck over the edge on our first day of ownership and had to call Tyler.  He then had to drive back 30 minutes stuck behind someone going 20 miles an hour in order to reverse the truck off the precipice. His first words after I'd explained what the problem was "oh that's easy" which you can only imagine didn't go down too well.

By the time we actually arrive home I feel like we need a thanksgiving dinner, but opt instead for a straw and the back-up supplies.  Only then can I start thinking about tackling the washing up, cooking dinner and the rest of it. There are some days I've had to do this about 3 times. You may understand why I could become a nervous wreck (not to mention the truck).

And I bet you there were those of you out there who thought we tootled around in golf carts, eh?

Sadly, no golf cart like India Hicks

Our first Easter in the Bakery

Thanks to Jane for the pics

The Bakery has been really busy over the past few weeks but especially yesterday -we made over 150 dozen Hot Cross Buns and just baked and baked and baked. It is a very satisfying feeling knowing that we are becoming part of peoples lives here and part of their special celebrations. The Bakery is a happy place. Although it can get unbearably hot, it has heart and there is something about it that is almost 'nurturing'.

It really is what we had dreamed about.

Happy Easter everyone. We are at home catching up on doing nothing and avoiding the piles of washing and general mayham that is our home. I'm also catching up on writing and reading and now that we've dealt with all the serious issues like homeschooling and leaving corporate life, it's time to have more fun with this blog!

School

My Island Boys

We did not move more than half way around the world to a tiny island backwater to replicate our suburban life back in Johannesburg, although it does feel like it most days. We sit in traffic jams, moan about crappy supermarkets and trudge around endless 'after school activities'.  On weekends, we squeeze in the beach but we could be living in Wimbledon or Greenwich or [name any middle class suburb anywhere in the world] albeit with a great view.

Our main reason to move back to the islands was to give the boys the same carefree life that their father had experienced when he grew up here. Yesterday the boys went on their own to the beach for a few hours. They fish in our local village on their own, ride their bikes around here and have some wonderful adventures like island treasure hunts. They don't get to hang out in malls because we don't have any and they couldn't care less about brands they wear unless it's Gill.  That seems to matter for sailing. They know who Katy Perry is. They consider Waitrose Cod Fish Fingers a massive treat. They look everything up on YouTube.

The reason why Tylers' family left the island over thirty years ago was the lack of a high school. All kids from the age of 8 went back to England to boarding school. This started to change about 15 years ago when an international school was established on the island and it was one of the main reasons we could move back. The school offers the International Baccalaureate programme something we'd not heard of before, but which is well regarded. It has to be the very antitheses of the boy's old school which was a traditional preparatory school, but they have had some wonderful teachers and have made lots of good friends. The standard of education has generally been good and the classroom resources are in line with other private schools. There is, of course, a cost to this. In our case a brutal $4000 every month.

What we have never got used to however, is the wishy-washy politically-correct non-culture of the school, with its scant sense of community or context,  the reason given that the student body is supposedly transient and 'international'.  The kids don't, for example, sing the national anthem (or even know what it is) or celebrate any national holidays like Commonwealth Day.There are also no school sports just an afternoon 'Clubs Programme', which is priced to make a profit, despite the number of parent volunteers. We therefore pay to sing in the choir or be in the school soccer team. The school and its rather vacuous  'internationalism' feels like an island on an island with no real connection or accountability to anything, anyone or anywhere. It's not for us. School is the whole 'shabang'. The whole school ethos thing.  It's not only about smartboards or howmany doctorates the teachers have.

Plus we havn't had much fun since we've arrived here over 2 years ago since all we've done is work our *$$ off to pay for our neo-suburban lifestyle. On a beautiful tropical paradise of an island.

How ridiculous is that?

So we've decided we need to make the most of Here and Now. Focus on the kids. Have some fun. After much research we've decided to homeschool William (7) and Georgie (10) for a few years, whilst James stays on to finish Grade 7 (the margin for error with him is less!) after which they will all have to go off to boarding school off-island.  There is therefore a safety net - the children will not become uneducated island savages Lord-of-the-Flies-Style. 

We're going to combine the UK National Curriculum with Learner-Led education. We're investing in iPads and we're joining Surf School (mum too). We're going to learn to dance and we may take up another musical instrument such as steel pan or electric guitar. We're going to play tennis and go scuba diving. We are going to consult marine biologists and bug experts and learn how to cook West Indian food. We're going to attend concerts at the Miami Philharmonic (now that we can afford to do this) and travel to Cuba to learn about socialism. We will also learn how to spell properly.

It's as scary as hell, but no more so than our current lives of living on the financial edge or suffering the ghastly Kingstown Twang (the nasal 'transatlantic' accent the kids pick up at school which sounds like nails screeching on blackboards) both of which do my head in.

I was going to write a treatise on how mainstream and successful homeschooling has become, and I may still - but we're not trying to justify ourselves here. We just think it's a good idea for our family and if it doesn't work out, there are plenty of options out there.

If nothing else, it will make for interesting blogs.

The past week has been a good one: The bakery van finally arrived on Friday and it did our first wholesale delivery on Saturday. I started with a personal trainer on Friday and subsequently still can't walk and we've already baked about 100 dozen Hot Cross Buns.  The kids are now on EASTER holidays and we have a busy week ahead of us.

Requiem

Ernst & Young 2010

Since Easter is a good time for requiems, I have my own personal one tomorrow. After 25 years, I'm finally leaving corporate life. I'm scaling right down to 'part time consultant' which is about as out-the-door as one could get. My new day job will be Chief Biscuit Icer for the family business.

I do look like a complete prat in the pic above but I think this would be an honest reflection of how most people would remember me, as opposed to the glam London one I've desperately been trying to find. Pursed lips. Teensy bit fearsome and very driven (a euphemism really for 'not suffering fools' very easily). My re-occurring bi-annual performance review stressed that despite my unusual and desirable Meier's Briggs profile (I was one of those weird ENJK types. Big Thinker/Perfectionist for detail) I was not a poker player and on one occasion my reviewer said "Julia, you are just too much noise". `None of this ever stopped me, however.

After graduation from the University of Cape Town, my maiden job was in the Economic Development Unit of the Cape Town City Council. I got to use the first fax machine in Cape Town which sat outside the Mayors Office (a highly sought after task) and be part of the land parcel negotiations for the future Cape Town Waterfront. From early 1989 I worked in London. My first project was the result of a helicopter ride by the scrap metal merchants (Don and Frank) who had sold out their land on Canary Wharf for re-development as London Docklands. They, unsurprisingly, thought that property development was a good lark and optioned most of North Kent in order to speculate on the Channel Tunnel Rail Link. My job (along with half the City's legal profession) was to try and sort out the subsequent mess.

This project half-killed me and I took some time out afterwards to train as a landscape designer at the RB Kew to find some balance in life. "Finding Balance" has been a fairly consistent theme of mine for the past quarter century. I worked in some fascinating places like Longleat where the Marquis of Bath wanted to build a new Stonehenge and I even ran a little design company doing flowers and gardens. One garden I did was for Lord Kilmarnock who was in a ménage a trois with his wife and Kingsley Amis. Lady K used to greet me in the morning in her dressing gown, blurry mascara & ciggie and then offer me a sherry at about 9:30am to "warm me up". Martin Amis used to come round for tea and I would lurk behind the wisteria, perving.

After this, I tackled an economic & environmental strategy for Stratford. What we slaved over for years, was achieved by locating the Olympic Stadium and Village there last year, but it was a good excuse at the time to run around the East End and go to the dog races.  It also got me the Big Job running the "single largest urban regeneration project in Europe". Although the perks included hanging out with the DJ's from Kiss 100 FM, that job almost killed me.

As a result, I fled into corporate life and the City. I joined KPMG as a management consultant which was a sexy job in the Nineties but doesn't exist anymore, thanks to Enron. I shopped in Bond Street at Josephs (sob) worked like a dog and clubbed the night away. They were good years.  I travelled extensively and didn't really slow down even when the boys were born. 

My second big attempt at 'finding balance resulted in my leaving KPMG and joining Ernst & Young, so a failed one. My travelling increased to such an extent that the children when asked what their Mummy did, said "she goes in airplanes to meetings" which was pretty accurate, really.

I spent more time than anyone should in places like Lagos, swore by Vitamin B12 injections to keep me going and was distracted most of the time. I must have filled in a million timesheets, added grey hairs dealing with impossible clients and deadlines and survived an unhealthy amount of office politics.  I both loved it and hated it all at the same time. I could and should write a short treatise on the changing role of woman in the workplace, but I was working so damn hard, I never really noticed. I also have a 7 year old next to me at the moment  trying to put his Beaver costume together for his school assembly piece tomorrow morning, so my famous concentration is currently shot.

So on my third and final attempt at "Finding Balance" I've moved us to the Caribbean, set up a bakery and we're going to homeschool the kids. This will probably make the past quarter century look like a complete breeze, but it's good to be moving on. I suspect I'll never be balanced.

Clearly not enough poker.

Crafting with children

William dies some eggs. The bunny bag is destined for the bakery shop, with a boy version and a 'big girl' version too. It's hot cross bun time again.
The rabbit is from Pinterest, Mommy's favourite craft (no mess)

We've had another long weekend of blissful relaxation.  I suppose we should all be outdoors riding our bikes or something, but we're all too tired for anything that energetic so we 'craft' instead (when we're not doing the washing up or fixing things, that is).

I do find crafting with children quite traumatic, though. I've never felt guilty about working or anything like that, but I must admit to feeling vaguely rubbish about how impatient I get with them when we start making things. I always set out to be 'nice mummy' but am usually reduced to a frothing lunatic within minutes, hissing all kinds of dreadful things which I hope the children wont remember or understand.

Firstly we can never find anything: "Where are the scissors?" must be one of the more dreaded questions in the English language, followed closely by "where is the sellotape?" No matter how many times we sort everything out into boxes with large signs saying CRAFT on them. To make matters worse, my carefully tucked away back-ups have usually been plundered as well. No scissors. No UHU stic.  This drives me completely insane: "Make your own bloody Easter eggs" I throw over my shoulder as I stomp off to go back onto Facebook.

The children rally however and art supplies start emerging from the Lego Box and the sock drawer and I'm lured back by three sweetly smiling little boys, all eager to create. A mess. No sooner have we set everything up, they start knocking everything over, usually destroying the half-finished masterpieces, cue for much anguished wailing and frantic mopping. Even worse if one boy knocks over someone elses masterpiece, which is then cue for much squabbling and occasional violence. Which requires refereeing and mopping up and having to start all over again. I usually need a drink by then, regardless of the fact that it's still two o' clock in the afternoon.

They also never read the instructions ("oh look, we should have put the vinegar in before we added the oil, now it's probably not going to work") so we often end up bitterly disappointed that our stuff never looks like the pictures. There is nothing more depressing than bad craft and we seem to have a lot of it.

I've undoubtedly created a rod for my own back though.  Georgie immediately googles Martha Stewart if he needs to find something out and William drags the Readers Digest Jewellery Course into our bed in the morning, when we'd rather have Roald Dahl ("Mommy can we make the triple-spiral fancy earrings today please?" No). The children seem to get a manic gleam in their eyes the minute the word 'craft' is mentioned and I immediately regret that we didn't suggest that they played in their fort instead.

I wouldn't have it any other way of course, but it's not the most relaxing way to spend an afternoon. I'm sure it will all be replaced by surfing and video games soon, which means I will then probably feel guilty for not enjoying it more now. Whatever.

Until then we need to put more newspaper down. Oh yes, it's an island. We don't have newspapers. Argghhhh.