There is only one word that can fully impart the whatfreshhellisthis of my week-to-be

Chickenpox.

mtc
bec
with apologies for gross misuse of extended headlines to crank up the impact of our latest viral attack.

rubbernecking tourists

if our government – one that is so committed to the financial bottom line, irrespective of its impact on people, the ‘Australian’ way of life and a sense of community (over a sense of pure, utter, selfish greed) – spends one.red.cent. getting the IDIOT Australians who were anywhere in the vicinity of Hurricane Katrina out of the area, I will be even crankier than my standard 8/10 crankiness with the mere existence of Liberals-in-power.

Mourning appetite

There is nothing as discombobulating as losing either/or your interest (obsession) in food and alcohol.

I got quite depressed in my first trimester as nothing was palatable. Nothing. Not even a dry SAO. The thing that pushed me over the edge, was I lost my desire to drink as well. In a previous life, a bottle of sparkling shiraz would be lucky to get across the threshold unopened in this house, now, there are two bottles that have been sitting there for the better part of s.e.v.e.n. months.

Second trimester was marginally better, although the palate went a bit down-market in that nothing was really as delectable as a toasted cheese (plastic) and spaghetti (tinned) sandwich. There was also a love of pasta, but that is something pretty normal in my world.

Third trimester has expanded upon and relished the love of this pregnancy – spice. I’m talking hot curries, spicy Singapore noodles, chilli in anything. Oscar’s incubation was dairy focused, Felix was salt, this one is spice. Weird.

Anyway, it’s all gone south once more as I can’t eat anything without horrendous heartburn making me spew.

but, last week, on one of Jamie Oliver’s myriad programs, was a dish of marinated buffalo mozzarella – marinated in marscapone, with lemon rind, chilli and thyme. I begged Chef to go and buy the ingredients then and there, but to no avail. The next night I made it, and its been reproduced three times since. In one week. It goes a little bit like this:

Ciabatta bread – cut into slices, brushed with oil and toasted
One container bocconcini (or if you live in non-whitebread/skippy territory, then buffalo mozzarella)
one tub marscapone
a couple of lemons – juiced and zested
bunch of thyme
one long red chilli (not the birdseye ones and not the banana ones, the middle sized ones) de-seeded and finely chopped

Mix marscapone w/ lemon juice, salt and pepper, until it tastes really good and lemony – and is quite runny.
Tear the bocconcini into smaller pieces – smear over the marscapone
Top with chilli, lemon zest and thyme sprinkled over it
Lug over some extra virgin olive oil before serving, then put on the bruschetta-style toasted ciabatta and eat.


I should note here, that there is SO MUCH I could write on the rise of the conservative right religious movement in Australia, what the result of Hurricane Katrina says about the moral fibre (or lack thereof) of the US and its government’s contempt for the poor – and how telling it is that this city sits on the edge of America’s bible belt and yet, where is the Christian spirit now? and a whole lot more, but its so much nicer to write about food and the small things in life. Not brave I know, but my arms barely reach the keyboard now so really, anything is good.

something I wrote for here on Friday

It’s Friday afternoon. It’s 5.20pm and I’m still at work. yes, I have a ludicrous amount to get through but really, the reason I’m still here is because I’m just too tired to go anywhere else.

Because it involves the bus, and worse, the walking.to.the.bus.stop.palaver. and at this point, I just don’t have the energy.

I’m wondering if I could sleep here or at least hold out until AB feels sorry for me and comes and picks me up. This is not going to happen.

So I’m trying to psyche myself up to:
a) stand up,
b) leave the building,
c) walk the 10 minutes down the road,
d) stand in the bus queue and then
e) get on the bus and endure the trip home.

See, its exhausting just thinking about it.

About the only thing inspiring me is Bec’s phelgm induced epiphany to overhaul our routine to solely focus on food, sex, celebrities, the occassional parental info dump.

What a strange thing is appetite

This will come as no surprise to Incubator Kim, but appetite is a really weird thing, is it not?

I’ve been hit by a Flu Train this past week – more like 10 days now – and apart from the appalling weakness, narcolepsy, coughing and migraines, the very worst thing about it is the loss of appetite.

For 10 days now I’ve suffered from a lack of Me. Me = varied and spiced foods, liberal quaffing of wine, double shot lattes and daily menu planning and ingredient-foraging.

All gone; all, all gone.

I’ve tried to get Me back. I’ve watched as much Lifestyle Channel as migraines and an Iain Hewitson allergy will allow; I’ve picked up recipe books in my pale and trembling hands and put them straight back on the shelf; I’ve stared into the fridge for minutes on end, hoping that something, anything would make me want to eat again.

But no Me anywhere. Not yet, at least.

I felt a flicker of hope with today’s Australian Magazine devoted entirely to spring food and wine. Weirdly, though, I found myself reading it for the articles rather than the recipes, and then I fell asleep. Again.

When I woke up I tried again because the picnic recipes did look a bit attractive and I’d noticed the two tart recipes were shaped for my own favourite tart pans. But again, weirdly, no genuine Me interest emerged: I got obsessed with the very impractical outfits the female picnic models were wearing and could tell you more now about the ridiculously expensive Dinnigan top than the quiche ingredients.

And that’s not like Me at all.

If there is any justice out of losing Me for a week or two, it should manifest in at least a couple of kilos lost. I doubt it will be that much, however, as my lack of food intake is offset by my total lethargy. If there is any loss it won’t be enough to inspire a celebration but it might serve another, quasi-scientific purpose…

That is, I could – 21 Grams style – measure the loss of my appetite in the loss of weight from this dastardly disease. After all, it’s the closest I can come to losing my soul while I’m still breathing.

mtc
Bec

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