Milk & Manolos

The Munchkin has a true fairy Godfather. This is the guy who upon hearing that she was hosting her very own disco party for a dozen over excited and additive fuelled two year olds, set about biking over a set of disco lights and a revolving mirror ball to ensure she did it in style. I love my friend dearly and catching the look on her face, as the house was transformed into something I can only describe as Studio 54 for small people, I knew she did too.

Buying a Christening present isn’t always an easy thing. Sometimes inspiration flows and you find that perfect little something, other times you can search and search with nothing to show for your hard shopping graft but sore feet and a stress headache.

The Fairy Godfather of course came up with a genius idea and one that I’m desperate to steal, should anyone else be foolish enough to consider me Godmother material.

Presented in an understated envelope the Munchkin received a letter informing her of a case of wine carefully laid on her behalf at Berry Bros & Rudd Ltd. There it will stay until we’re advised that it’s ready for her consumption, in around 16 years or so.

I, of course, have every intention of switching a bottle for something more appropriate for an eighteen year olds palate. Finding a quiet corner I shall sit, glass in hand, with Fairy Godfather reminiscing over the last 18 years and throwing the odd bottle of Two Dogs 20/20 to the to the teens in the other room.

I feel like a recluse … it’s been an age since I’ve hit the West End after dark. This girl is ready to drink some sparkles and dust off the sequins.

There’s nothing like a delicious feast at an intimate restaurant. My ideal way to spend an evening, in fact. But sometimes you just want to cut loose and have some fun. For a night on the town, 1950’s style, the place to hit is Bloomsbury Bowling.

Kicking off my Choos and sliding my size 6s into those world famous bowling shoes, I was ready to make a strike or two. Unsurprisingly, my actual bowling prowess wasn’t in the least bit similar to that in my head. Nonetheless, I hit a skittle or two, and provided great entertainment not just for my party but the whole place it seemed.

Enjoying a feast of true American fare, and a touch of Karaoke (my famous rendition of Fame made another outing - at which point I really thought I WAS going to live for ever. A Margarita too many perhaps) evenings don’t get much more fun than this.

I fully admit that I’m not one for umbrellas. I can see the appeal, big time, however I’ve spent my life reaching for a brolly the minute the sky opens to find it missing. I of course blame the Husband, who was last see heading East, his being covered by a leopard print monstrosity (not mine I hasten to add. But if it’s not mine, who the hell’s is it ?). Yet again, no brolly for me and my make-up.

The times I HAVE managed to lay my hands on one of the blighters, I prompty forget about the extra accessory out with me for the day, leaving it alone and desolate and waiting patently for a new owner.

I made peace with my umbrella problem years ago, deciding to take the kamikaze attitude to rain fall. That’s it Ladies, I went commando. Not in the strictest sense I hasten to add. All was fine until this Summer when, not only was the rainfall at record levels, I also had the Munchkin to contend with.

Following on from a disastrous trip out this week where she refused, on pain of tantrum, to neither travel in her buggy nor use her umbrella, I had to contend with the scathing looks of Mothers who had their Children fully under control. How could I expect her to use an umbrella when I was so bravely getting wet, and sporting make-up that would make Alice Cooper proud ?

Having done a little surfing I’ve unearth a genius invention. An umbrella that I finally can’t loose, Buggy Brolly does exactly what it says on the tin. Of course it doesn’t take care of the Munchkin free moments, but quite frankly the fact that they’re Munchkin free ensure swift power-walking through the downfall, and a minute or two to reapply a bit of slap on arrival.

Back in the early eighties Saturday nights were punctuated by my Mother’s famous Spag Bol. That and Juliet Bravo. A combination that today I am still unable to forget.

I was never able to master the art of a good Italian ragu, the way Mama cooked it, despite being shown quite frequently under duress and normally in a sticky Home Economics’ classroom in deepest darkest South London.

That was until the Summer of 1996 when one of my best friends invited me to spend a couple of weeks with her Italian Father and Aunt and in a quintessential Italian village. There, with my pidgin Italian, I learnt the essence of cooking and a true Italian Bolognese.

Bolognese Sauce

1 Onion
2 Cloves of Garlic
400g Mince Meat
900g Passata
190g Sun-dried Tomato Paste
1/3 Bottle of Red Wine
1/2 Tablespoon of Oregano (dried)
Half a dozen fresh Basil leaves, torn into small pieces
1 Beef Oxo Cube
1 Star Anaise
Salt and Pepper to taste

Dice your onion and sweat it off in a tablespoon of olive oil. Once soft add your crushed garlic and cook just long enough for it to amalgamate. Add your mince and stock cube and cook on a medium heat until the meat colours and separates. You’re now ready to add your passata, sundried tomato paste, red wine, oregano, basil and star anaise. Don’t feel anxious that at this point it’s quite watery. The key to this sauce is it’s reduction.

Turn your heat down low, and leave uncovered, checking every quarter of an hour or so and giving a it a good stir. The longer you can leave it to reduce, the better the result, I leave mine simmering for a good hour and a half. Keep a close eye on the consistency, adding more liquid, either water or wine (I favour the latter), until you have a consistency you like.

Unsurprisingly, I serve mine with spaghetti, freezing Munchkin size portions for the winter ahead. It’s also great in an a lasagne and can be easily adapted for a killer chilli con carne (loose the basil and star anaise and add kidney beans, Worcester Sauce and chilli to taste).

There’s something about a sweater dress which is thoroughly appealing. Particularly so because there’s no waistband to help my muffin top rise, and because it’s a throw on, dress up or down item which makes life that little bit easier. They’re the chicken soup of clothing and praise the lord they’re back in vogue.

For pure luxury Juicy Couture have a classic sweater dress in black cashmere, perfect for the social chameleon in you. It of course took all my might to steer clear of the tracksuits, now horribly out of fashion (but still the comfiest thing since my 1988 Naff Naff all in one) but I’ve cut and pasted the link and sent it straight to Santa, like the good girl I am.

A tip for other Juicy fans, check out the American sites, where items are sold at a slither of their UK counterparts.

I’m all for a bit of self-improvement. While there is quite a bit to improve, I’m currently concentrating on what was formally know as my brain. I’d now describe it as some thing akin to mush. It certainly functions - I can do all the important things, just (thank you Dr. Kawashima), but I still reach the top of the stairs wondering what started me on my climb, and more than frequently struggle to remember a word.

This is where the fabulous Anu Garg and his website, Wordsmith, come in.

Every morning I’m greeted by my word du jour sitting expectantly in my inbox. Based on a weekly theme, there begins the education of this soft celled Mother. My own challenge is then to set about using said word, or phrase, in conversation. Not so easy with “lex talionis“, particularly when the main body of your discourse for the day is with a 2 year old. However mission successfully completed. Just don’t ask me how - suffice to say I was taking the moral high ground.

Today I’ve got to squeeze ‘Darby and Joan‘ into a conversation. Thank the Lord, I’m having lunch with my parents.

The Husband is obsessed with taking photographs. While there are definite bonuses to having your very own paparazzi there is always the question as to what to do with the hundreds of images lovingly uploaded onto MY computer.

My beef with digital cameras has always been the lack of a physical photograph. Back in the day, my early twenties were documented by a series of disposable cameras of which every photograph, good or bad, was printed. With technology brings photo approval, which I’m a great fan of. No longer does there need to be proof that we don’t always look quite as fetching as we’d hoped. At a click of a button they’re gone.

The problem is the annoying complexity of having photos printed now. It’s not difficult but such a faff, and I really resent paying those shop prices only to be pointed in the direction of what is simple a fancy home photo printer.

My life however has changed since being recommended to Photobox. Here I can organise development at the click of my mouse - all without speaking to anyone or moving from my desk. Cheap and very definitely cheerful photo box is undoubtedly the answer to my photo developing needs. Not only can you print photos of any size or colour way, you can create albums, books, mouse mats and mugs, all for far cheaper than the high street.

My mission today is to demand the Munchkin stay still for all of 30 seconds, wrap her in fairy light, have her don a halo and shove the rather cheap plastic harp I recently bought into her squidgy hands and set about shooting the family Christmas card. Thanks to Photobox that’ll be our Christmas cards sorted …

This year we shall be attempting the mandatory childhood photograph. Said child upon the knee of Father Christmas. As all mothers I’m hopeful that the Munchkin will enjoy her brush with the most famous man in the world, however I must prepare myself for it to go horribly wrong.

Last year, a little premature on our part admirably, we took the Munchkin to meet Santa at Kew. Following a queue of about 20 minutes she decided she’d had enough. Still wobbly on her chubby little feet, like a fowl taking it’s first steps, she went darting off , pulling back the curtain to interrupt his current audience. Standing there swaying she shouted what I can only describe as profanities. Thank God, she was only 13 months old and at the time yet to master the art of the English Language. It was like a drunk busting into a church on Christmas Eve I tell you.

I have high hopes this Christmas. So high in fact what we’re going to see the king of all Santas - this year we’re heading to Harrods.

The tales of weary parents queuing for hour upon hour for a quick meeting with his Highness have previously terrified me. There is only so much queuing you can do with a two year old. Fortunately Harrods seem to have taken this on board and via their website are now offering the chance to book a powwow with the man himself.

With our tickets arriving last week and Grandma’s train booked in anticipation, we’re pretty much ready. All that’s left to do is build the excitement and pack some tissues.

A washing machine packed with twenties. The Munchkin has obviously hit the delinquent stage of her development. Fortuitously, it is only her Early Learning Centre washing machine and the twenty pound notes stuffed inside that of the Early Learning State Bank. Does this signify my child’s predilection for a life of crime, or just an innocent 2 year old giving her money a boil wash ? She does have a habit of looking a little shifty on occassion …

Early Learning Centre have been the suppiler of many of the Munchkin’s favourite toys, and for which I gratefully thank them. Particularly whoever came up with the Big Birthday Club which gives you 20% of all birthday related purchases. I should mention at this juncture that not only did I purchase for Madam’s birthday, but also Christmas and a few events in between.

One of these said purchases has been their Sizzlin’ Kitchen. So Sizzlin’ in fact that within 3 minutes of use we decided to remove the battery from said sizzle plate to retain our sanity. Apart from that slightly annoying extra this kitchen has bought us hours and hours of fun, not to mention a minute or two to get on with something not Munchkin related. In fact the Munchkin is fact flambe-ing some peas and icecream as I type.

For Munchkin sized versions of our favourite white goods this is the place to come. Since indulging the Munchkin’s dometisticity (against my better judgement I hasten to add - sadly the work bench didn’t appeal) she has become provided tea and biscuits to a rather shocked Sky + Engineer, offered the Sainsbury’s delivery man a rather scary looking plastic Spag Bol and given Nigella a run for her money in the express stakes.

I’m planning on keep my feet nutritionally on the ground this festive season, having recently discovered the delights on Wheatgrass on a recent trip to Borough Market.

I fully admit that I can be a culinary slut. Despite knowing it’s so wrong, my head is easily turned by a juicy looking burger (rare please) and all manner of breaded delights. At the opposite end of the scale I’m a killer soup maker, and can take or leave chocolate, so I’m hoping that things even out in the dietary karma stakes.

My latest weapon in the effort to keep my slutty ways is a tiny shot of pea green liquid, peppery in taste and full of goodness. I am quite possibly late at coming to the Wheatgrass table, but now that I’m here I ain’t going anywhere.

The virtues of our green friend are endless. My favourite stat is that 30 mls of wheatgrass juice is the equivalent of 1 kg of leafy green vegetables. Secondly it has more vitamin C, kilo for kilo, than oranges and more vitamin A than carrots.

Helping to stimulate your body’s production of red blood cells, it can also help with normalise blood pressure and increase the amount of oxygen in the blood, making it a natural antioxidant.

Fabulously there are also claims that it also holds anti-ageing properties and can help make hair not only but thicker but shinier too.

Taken in either sachet form, or freshly juiced, for those not lucky enough to have a store specialising in juicing close at hand I’ve found Juiceland to be wonderful supplier.

At this rate, with luck on my side and a good north wind blowing, I might just survive this years festivities. Go on then, I’ll have another glass …