The eighties mum

Paleo, green-eating parents look away! I just made jelly crystal bikkies.

And they are so fucking tasty, I've already eaten four.

So what! My kid cleans his teeth (sometimes I have to pin him down or bribe him with an episode of Rabbids) and has been on his bike for the past two hours smashing leaps off jumps and scraping his knees through classic burnouts. 

I sometimes wonder if my own  mum, in her drop waisted summer frock, ever felt slightly guilty or required any justification for when she made us these as kids in the eighties? 

We were skinny little runts of kids running around the paddocks, told to stay outside until we were hungry. It was awesome. We were too busy to be hungry. But when we were, we would kick our gumboots off at the back door, run inside and smash one, two, three rock cakes in a row. If mum had made her cinnamon scrolls, hell we'd be floating our way back to the house from the fort Pepe-le-Peu style.

So I'm sure it's all in good measurement and of course, all in good taste. Whatever it is, these bikkies aint gonna last.

Super easy to make, thanks to  CWA. Have a go, maybe mix some colours together and then you will be a bloody legend at the park.

JELLY CRYSTAL BIKKIES

Courtesy Berris (of course) Sharman, TAS CWA branch

225g softened butter

1 x packet of jelly crystals (I used red)

2 eggs beaten

3 cups of SR Flour

1 tablespoon corn flour (don't ask me why)

Cream the butter with the jelly crystals, beat in the eggs, add the flours. Roll into little balls then press the top of them with the back of your fork. Pop in a pre-heated 180 degree oven for around 15 or til golden-brown.

Be an adult. Wait five minutes for the bikkies to cool. Breath. Then chew.

Bam! Jelly Crystal Bikkies

Simple times, simple crimes

After returning from the Caravan of Courage family tour, I was in desperate need of some meat-free sweet+tea cooking. So I pulled the trusty CWA Biscuits and Slices cookbook off the shelf and made these delicious bikkies.

They are so easy, require minimal thinking and ingredients and they taste so sensational you will sweat sweet swear words under your breath.

I used my step-mother-in-law's wonderful and ultimately delicious apricot jam.

I made so many that my work colleagues will be spoilt tomorrow.

APRICOT BISCUITS by Mary Hanslow of CWA Orielton Branch, TAS.

85g softened butter
85g sugar
1 tablespoon of apricot jam
140g self-raising flour

Preheat oven to 175 degrees.
Cream butter and sugar, beat in jam then add the flour. Beat it.
Roll into small Jack Russell sized balls and press lightly with a fork to make you look like you're a supermum.
Bake for 10-15 minutes or until golden brown.

Makes around 20ish bikkies.

Sometimes it's the simple things that make you smile and feel like you're at home.

Socks + sandals

Heather Dell High

When I was ridiculously pregnant and enormous, I had daily cravings for Neenish Tarts. The pink and brown pattern would wake me in the middle of the night and I would stare at the ceiling, counting the hours until Heather Dell Cakes opened.

There’s something so charming about Heather Dell. It represents your nanna, through its sweet smell, its window display, its tin canisters on the shelves, the curried egg sandwiches, the biscuits and treats, the photos on the fridge, right down to the local fruit and veg supplier calendar with its perforated months highlighting birthdays, anniversaries and special events.

Knocked down, not up

I recently wrote an article encouraging people to find their inner Chicken Crimpy.  The piece was about taking a chill pill and stop over-commiting myself to a million things at once. So I did. For six days. Then we started our renovations.

When we were heavily pregnant we lived in renovation land. Our house had been gutted, meaning there were no walls at the back of the house. No bathroom, just a portaloo and portashower in the front yard. Our kitchen was a camping stove and a BBQ for three months and we drank water from the front garden tap. Our neighbours all knew that I peed at 4am every morning because they would see our front light go on as I tip toed to our portaloo where I would try to wee in a plastic bowl as quietly as possible in the dead of the night. I couldn’t even shut the portaloo door because my stomach was so achingly big.

Our builders during this time were so patient, especially when I started mat leave and was hanging around the house growing bigger by the minute. We formed a special bond. One that saw the builders put spare towels in the back of their utes, ‘just in case of an emergency trip to the hospital’.

This bond also meant that our three or so builders, who were strangers to us before our renovations began, got to know us so very quickly as they lived through our pregnancy. I can’t even tell you how many times our main builder would walk past our bedroom and see me lying on my side in undies and a tank snoozing with my mouth open, dribble pouring into the top end of my pregnancy pillow while the rest of the long sack was wedged between my legs.

I didn’t care after a few weeks. It was hot. 40 degrees hot and I was so hungry and pregnant. I would eye off their eskies, excited for smoko just to see what treats they had brought in. Once they saw me eat a WHOLE watermelon in one sitting with a soup spoon.

So here we are again. In renovation land. Finishing the last bits of our whole house renovation. Finally. Almost 20 months after our builder received a call from my husband asking if they could quickly put the toilet in as we had just had Alfie.

Here we are, living in renovation land, camping in the rear of our house like a Little House on the Prairie, except this time instead of being severely knocked up we have a toddler running around knocking everything over.

What’s harder? Renovating while pregnant or renovating with a toddler?

My husband and I are no less feral. Instead of passing out at 11am in my undies drooling on my side, I’m running around like a headless chook in the morning wearing just a bra and dacks trying to sort out lunches, breakfast, attempting not to fist fight my husband and always looking for a goddamn shoe. Trying to squeeze a shower in and attempt to be a loving, happy family before our builder arrives is a joke. We just let him see how real it is. He’s newly married, perhaps the Webb family visual is a perfect form of contraception for him.

Today is Friday and it is my ‘day off’ from work. Normally when my kid is snoozing, I take my pants off and have a nap on the couch.

I’m wondering if this is pushing the boundary a bit too far. I mean, what’s my excuse? I have plenty.  But instead I might smash a box of Chicken Crimpy’s. At this moment, it’s the best way to find one within.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.

Chicken Crimpy

Our car is such a tip. Which is strange, as my house is somewhat clean because I keep it that way. I wash a gazillion loads of clothes every week, I wash the floors all the time, I wipe down surfaces, I even polish my stainless steel appliances.

So why is it that my car smells like banana, even though I can’t for the life of me find one in there? That the floor of our car is covered in millions of sultanas which could easily be taken for an invasion? There are wrappers, tissues, sticks, rocks, dinosaurs, mandarins and other fruit-like matter, old balloons, balls, an umbrella stroller, a plastic motorbike, other peoples picnic rugs, an esky I’m too scared to open, a random backpack, crumbs, coffee cups and for the love of God, a goddamn Chicken Crimpy biscuit sitting on the dashboard. I hate that biscuit. We don’t even eat Chicken Crimpy’s in our family.

I see the Chicken Crimpy every morning as I drive my kid to daycare. It annoys me but I don’t do a thing about it. I promise myself that I will, the next time I leave my car with nothing to carry. Ha!

The Chicken Crimpy has been on the dash now for weeks, maybe months. Last week it brought me to tears.

Someone had parked outside of my house meaning I had to park 50 metres down the street. Now I know 50 metres isn’t much of a walk, I’m sure my son being the size of a teenager could probably jump it in three go’s, but walking from the car to my house in work clothes and heels with a busy toddler, two bags of dairy groceries, my laptop, my backpack, my son’s backpack, Blah Blah, and a Big M was no easy feat. It was hard. I struggled. I held the tears back for that whole 50 metres. It took me 10 minutes to walk that small distance with the plastic bag bursting along the way, 2 litres of milk pouring into the gutter. Milk that I needed for my son. I got to my house, dropped off everything then walked the 50 metres back to my car, put Alfie back in his seat as he struggled and fought, and drove back to the supermarket to get more milk.

The Chicken Crimpy stared at me in the car.

This wasn’t the time to remove it. I arrived back home, this time having to park further down the street than before. My hands were full with Alfie and milk, so I couldn’t remove the Chicken Crimpy. I swear it stuck its little crimpy bit up at me.

My husband walked in from work just after Alfie had gone to bed. I’d been fighting off tears the whole time, through Alfie’s tea, his bath, his story. As soon as I saw my husband I sat on the ground, still in my work clothes and cried.

He asked me: “what’s wrong?”

I cried: “It’s that f#$king Chicken Crimpy. It’s ruining me.”

My husband looked confused. “Why are you crying about a biscuit? Do you need me to get you a biscuit? Is that what’s wrong? Is it Tim Tam time?”

No. I didn’t have my period. No. I didn’t want a Tim Tam. No. The Chicken Crimpy represented so much more. The Chicken Crimpy represented time and how hard it sometimes is to do everything and be everything. Why do I always have to carry ALL the groceries from the car to the house? Why don’t I do this in a couple of trips? Why do I always say yes to everything and find myself over committed that I have no time to sit and fart and cut my toenails and look at YouTube? Why am I always carrying so many items that are awkward and misshapen?

So after my Chicken Crimpy meltdown, I tuned out of social media, turned off electronic devices, said yes to only two social outings for the week, caught up with my girlfriends, cut my toenails, read a book, hung out with my family without a phone stuck to my face, patted my dog, tended to my roses and cooked. It was heaven. It lasted a week.

Alfie and I were heading to Williamstown in the car. On our way to the beach to watch the boats, I stared at the Chicken Crimpy while waiting at a traffic light. I turned off at the car wash before reaching the sea and Alfie and I washed the car together. It was the best, we both got satched from the hoses. We laughed at the vacuum sucking up the sultanas, and when we found the banana, I giggled remembering the time I handed it to Alfie mid-car tantrum on a trip to the country.

We finished the epic car clean and continued to the beach. When we were back on the road I smiled at the clean car, sparkling and smelling like faded banana. I parked out the front of MY HOUSE and sat in the clean car for just a few minutes. The Chicken Crimpy remained on the clean dashboard. I kept it there to remind me that every now and then, I need to stop and smell the banana.

Mums and dads: Don’t forget to every now and then, Stop. Collaborate. And Listen. Find your inner Chicken Crimpy.

This post first appeared on Bubba West.