Isolated Ideals

We have taken the ferry to „the mainland“ once again. Leaving Dover is always exciting, since the spectacle of receding white cliffs above blue waters evokes passages from writers and poets as well as seafaring scoundrels and heroes alike. It was a blistery morning and the large vessel was struggling through the whitecaps of the Channel. In the end, the captain decided to take the shortest route across and continue along the coast of Normandy into the port of Calais. Again, we saw white cliffs, this time those on the coast of Northern France, which albeit somewhat less spectacular nevertheless are a powerful reminder that the principle of “splendid isolation” is indeed a British fabrication - after all, it all began as one continent. However, it is a fine concept that may be worth upholding.

Like a Bee

Jules and his little friend, Ella, came up with a plan the other day:
Julian: Are you still going to marry me, Ella?
Ella: I have to marry many, many times. Sometimes it is like that.
Julian has nothing to offer in return. He seems mildly puzzled, as
Ella carries on:
Ella: Well, you see, I don’t want to be rude to any of my friends.
So, I will have to marry one after the other.
Julian:Me too?
Ella: It’s like that: You go hop over to one, and then fly away, hop on to the
next and then fly away again, and so on and so on.
As Julian continues to be baffled by all this, Ella concludes:
Ella: Just make sure, Julian, that you are the last one I get to.

Tough Job

Although I usually maintain that doing what you love is the best guarantee that you are doing a great job, I think that there are simply some things, that are just outrageously hard - like being a parent.

At Least

I am a big believer in turning things around, problem-solving, starting over, seeing the bright side, making the best of it, moving on. But there are days, everyone has them, when it seems impossible to throw that steering wheel around and turn things away from impending pandemonium.

While on a lovely outing with some friends, I was informed that Lea’s friend might have head lice, and that she may have infected us when she stayed at our house earlier in the week.

Everyone who knows me, also knows that I never shed that lice-paranoia after the fall of 2007 when all the kids and I had them. It was hell, because I was by myself with the kids for five weeks, we had just moved from Costa Rica and I was dead-tired. Also, I had pneumonia.

To get rid of them took a lot of time and energy that I didn’t really have to spare. Subsequently, that event has turned me, and by extension the children, into full fledged nit freaks.

We never share hats, scarfs, hair brushes, towels, elastics and the like with anybody, and when we go to the movies, we wear elaborate hairdos and scarfs that cover our heads.

Yet, when my friend informed me last night, I didn’t break down in tears nor histrionic fits of alternating fury and despair. I simply informed her what to do about it. Then, I had cake.

Back home, I got my nit-kit out and went to bed, for Saturday was just around the corner and...as you may know, with me Saturdays are sacrosanct.

But, as it turns out, today was not a good day. Although we managed a surprisingly serene and light-hearted brunch with chocolate croissants, the impending razzia was upon us.

After a routine sweep-up of all the croissants morsels that didn’t make it into our digestive tracks, I got down to the real issue at hand. I stripped beds, bagged toys, vacuumed carpets, washed towels, shampooed kids, bought five nit combs and got to work.

Luckily, it was raining all day. Six hours later, and the tumble-drier still running at high-temperature, our dear neighbor dropped by to inform me, that our car window was down and that with all the rain, that may not be so good. And I thought, I was at least a little lucky with all that rain that day. Stupid me. As I returned to the kitchen a few minutes ago, all the crumbs were back including some yoghurt footprints, and the kids were hungry.

Well, at least, nobody is throwing up yet...

Ten Minutes My Ass

I never bake cookies. Except for that one mad afternoon every 6th December, when hell brakes loose and everyone runs. Christmas does that to me and usually the results are regrettable. Not because I am terrible at mixing copious amounts of butter and sugar and throwing them onto a metal sheet, but because I tend to eat the outcome. The guilt, the moans, and the raised eyebrows at my reflection in our brutal bathroom mirror are enough to keep me from any further follies during the rest of the year.

And then there is something else to consider: time. Apart from being a fat feast, baking causes unspeakable damage to one’s valuable life time. We tend to forget, because after all the recipes only call for 10 minutes for preparation and another 10 minutes for baking.
What is generously omitted is that it’s ten minutes PER tray - and unless you have a mega convection oven, that means that you will be trapped in a furnace-like room for at least four times that amount. And more if you had the insane intuition of doubling the recipe.

Then, of course, there is clean-up. Butter and sugar are notorious badies. It takes time to scrape, burrow, and wipe the nasty remnants of that kind of culinary adventure off the various surfaces. Triple that amount for every child you were crazy enough to invite to the
event.

Now you can guess, what I did today. Somebody shoot me!