Yesterday afternoon, I was roasting at the citadel in Namur. Late last night I checked into my hotel in a very damp and cool foreign location. Air travel is extraordinary. I had a good dose of working mother’s guilt as the boys waved good bye to me on Sunday evening and the Princess sobbed “why do you have to go away so often?” For the first time, Mr. Waffle was also away so we had to deploy our babysitting team to look after the children and get them to bed this evening. It seems to have gone fine but it is odd to think that our little family was in three different countries today.
Party tragedy
The Princess was supposed to have her birthday party today but her errant mother sent out the invitations very late and nobody except her two brothers could come. Excuses included the following:
Most heartfelt: Oh no, we’ve been invited to another party and no, that isn’t nice, because it’s Italian which means that the only child bit is the birthday cake and E will spend her time saying “why are there no party bags and games?” and running away from Nonna who is a bit feeble minded and only speaks Italian.
Most feeble: Well, I have a friend coming and I will be out with her and my husband doesn’t like going out with both children (aged 3 and 6) on his own; he finds it a bit overwhelming.
Most irritating: We would love to come but we will all be in Monte Carlo at the tennis.
Poor Princess, the celebration has been delayed to April 29 when everyone has promised faithfully to come.
Grandma Lucille’s Monster Cookies or maybe closer to Berlin than Boston, after all
Beth published this recipe a while ago and since then I have printed it down and thought about it a surprising amount. The name seemed so authentic and the recipe seemed so American, I felt that they must be the original cookies that Americans dream of, that they were, if you will the “cookies d’antan” (free pretention available here) and I wanted them. The biscuit aisle in the supermarket held no allure for me, I wanted Grandma Lucille’s monster cookies.
I emailed Beth. What is Karo? Corn syrup came the speedy reply. I was no wiser. What is corn syrup? Amazingly, Mr. Waffle found a bottle of Karo in the weird foreign products aisle of the supermarket nestling between cans of Spanish squid and British marmite. Incidentally, the recipe calls for a teaspoonful, so if anyone has suggestions of what to do with a pint of Karo, less a teaspoon, I would be grateful.
Most of the remaining measurements were in cups. I don’t know how much a cup is. I have generally used English recipe books before and, aside from Nigella Lawson, the quantities are always tiny. Nigel Slater is the kind of cook who would confidently suggest that a baked potato topped with cheese would make a nourishing meal for a starving family of four. I say this, so that you can understand where I am coming from.
So I got together my ingredients. A cup is 250 mls, it transpires. Dear God, that is a lot. There was more peanut butter in this recipe than was in the jar we bought in the supermarket. As I started measuring out my quick cooking oatmeal (4 and a half cups and, my sister told me that I had to use regular porridge and ready brek would not do) I realised that, if I continued at this rate our entire stock of porridge would be used up and our children would have to go hungry for the week. So I settled at three cups. A stick of margarine. How much is a bloody stick? Further call to sister in Chicago. 110 grams, in case you ever need to know.
My feeble European mixer (free with supermarket points) whined alarmingly as I tried to beat my thick paste thoroughly. As it began to squeal in pain, I decided enough was enough. I looked at my baking tray and I looked at the enormous mass of cookie dough. I put some out on the tray. I got another tray and another. I filled my whole oven with cookies. 15 minutes later I had 3 large cookie cakes; they spread and two tablespoons of baking powder is a lot. I wish my sister had told me before I started that the standard batch in American cookies is 4 dozen. 48 cookies, people. However, I confirm that despite a lack of peanut butter, mixing and porridge they are indeed the ‘cookies d’antan’. Should you wish to create your own cookies, may I direct you here.
Standards!
We never take the Princess to McDonald’s because that’s the kind of cruel, heartless parents we are. This time last year, she went for a birthday party but I don’t think it ever occurred to her that it might be available for other occasions. Anyhow, our childminder took her and her brothers there for lunch last week along with her own two children. Joy was unconfined.
Me: Do you like McDonald’s better than the “tea for two”?
Her: Oh yes, Mama.
Me: Do you like McDonald’s better than the “Atelier”?
Her: Yes Mama.
Me: Do you like it better than the pain quotidien?
Her: Yes Mama.
Me: Is it your favourite restaurant in the whole world?
Her: Is McDonald’s a restaurant Mama?
Religion
Her: So when you die, you can’t move your arms any more?
Me: No.
Her: Or open your eyes?
Me: Nope.
Her: Or move at all?
Me: No, not at all.
Her: So, when you go to heaven, Jesus has to do everything for you.
“Yorkshire Pudding – Food of the gods”
This is what the Princess says when we have Yorkshire pudding for dinner. It is her favourite food, ranking ahead, even, of smarties. This is necessary background for what follows.
Little American girl in cafe: I’m 5 and I’m from Tennessee.
Princess: I’m 4 and I’m from Brussels.
Little American girl: I’m going to live in Brussels.
Princess: But I’m really Irish.
Little American girl (slightly baffled but riposting gamely): I was born in New York.
Princess (delightedly): Where Yorkshire pudding is from!