Adapted recipe - Australian Eclair Cake

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm going to start blogging the recipes I adapt. The first featured recipe first appeared at Chef in Training and immediately took my fancy. This is Eclair Cake and I have to admit that it was, for me, love at first sight. However, like any great love, there's always room for improvement and as it's from the US, we here in Australia don't have two of the ingredients - Cool Whip and Graham Crackers. However, I am a smart and versatile little cookie (or biscuit as we say here in Oz) so I thought over my options and decided to adapt the recipe using Vanilla Fruche and Savoiardi Sponge Fingers. The reason these ingredients came to mind is because I make an amazing trifle using both these ingredients and even my trifle-ambivalent husband wolfs it down when I make it. So, a few weeks ago I made the adaptation and sure enough, it was a huge success.

Today the kids and I made it for tomorrow night's dinner (yes, it is one of those recipes that does well with a good rest) so I thought I'd post the recipe and a few pictures. Now, be warned, I'm not posting here with a view to food-porn, I'm posting recipes made in my own kitchen and photographed with my Samsung Galaxy 3 camera. They're not high-gloss or high-tech. They're more like a story your mama would tell you, wholesome, true and unfiltered.

So, here it is, my Australian Eclair Cake.

12 Savoiardi Sponge Fingers cut in half along the join (I use the really big ones)

1 packet vanilla instant pudding
500 ml skim milk
2 tubs vanilla Fruche

Frosting:
3 Tbs Meadow Lea Light Spread
3 Tbs cocoa
3 Tbs skim milk
1 cup icing sugar

1 cup white choc melts
1 cup milk choc melts

Method

1. Sprinkle pudding mix over milk and beat for 1 minute. Transfer to fridge and allow to cool for 14 minutes.
2. Meanwhile, layer a square casserole dish or cake tin with one third of the sponge fingers.

We're having my sons over for dinner tomorrow night, so I've doubled the recipe. They'll thank me later.

Second layer of biscuits on top of pudding layer

Depth shot. I think I might need a deeper dish in future.

3. Once the pudding has set, remove from fridge and mix in both packets of Fruche.
4. Spread half the pudding and Fruche mix over the sponge fingers.
5. Add another layer of sponge fingers (should be another third)

Frosting layer. The frosting is somewhat runny, but this is a good thing as it soaks into the various components of the cake.

 6. Add rest of pudding and Fruche mix and smooth over.
7. Add rest of sponge fingers.

8. In a separate bowl, slightly warm the margarine into the milk until it is just soft but not melted. Add cocoa and icing sugar and beat with an electric mixer until well combined and free of icing lumps.
9. Spread over savoiardi layer.

I'm not hugely fussy on making it look elegant. I want people to know I made this.

Erin stirs the chocolate melts

Connor turns Pollock with the white chocolate layer.

Apparently there's a smiley face in there. Apparently.

Erin also tries to be all Pollock about it, but turns more towards Pro Hart.

10. Heat both lots of choc melts but do not combine.
11. Once thoroughly melted, drizzle white chocolate over frosting layer.
12. Finally, drizzle milk chocolate over white and place in fridge for at least 6 hours or overnight.

Layering. It's not just for the 90s fashionista.

The savoiardi biscuits soften under the layers giving this its cakey-consistency.

So there you have it. Real food, real photography, real adaptation in the wild. I so can't wait for tomorrow night.

And now for something a bit different

Today I discovered a major flaw in my decision to delete my Facebook account. It all comes down to recipes or, rather, the lack thereof. Particularly my own. A couple of weeks ago I found this recipe on Facebook and really wanted to give it a go. The problem was, it's written in Americanese using USian products. However, I am a good cook (or so I believe) but better than that, I'm an excellent adaptive cook. I can take almost any recipe and make it low-fat or kid-friendly or Australian. And that's just what I did. I took the Eclair Cake (linked above) and turned it into Australian Eclair Cake. 

I cannot begin to describe just what a massive hit this was in our house. People not only begged for seconds, the bowls and spoons and serving utensils were licked so clean it was almost impossible to tell whether they'd already been through the dishwasher or not.

Tomorrow night I have my adult sons coming for dinner, so I've decided to make Australian Eclair Cake for dessert. The only problem is, I'm no longer on Facebook. Okay, in this case I don't really need the recipe (it wasn't that hard to adapt), but just thinking about the process I went through made me realise just how much I rely on FB as a storage system. 

I really, really do not want to go back on Facebook, so I've decided to blog my Evolved and Adapted recipes instead. I was all for starting a new blog, but Lee convinced me to use Battblush instead and use labels to make searching for recipes easier. I'll be using the labels adapted recipes and/or evolved recipes according to whether I've taken the recipe from a different site and used it as a base (adapted) or whether it's an old recipe I've learnt in the past and made my own (evolved). Where possible I shall endeavour to always either link to the adapted recipe or reference the evolved recipe. 

A general disclaimer: Recipes are one of those handwavery things that tend to suffer from a mishmash of copyright information and misinformation, so if you think I've stolen your recipe then please contact me so we can discuss it. As far as I can tell from my research, it's almost impossible to copyright a recipe as lists of ingredients and the method of putting them together cannot be 'owned'. What can be owned is the literary way in which those two 'ideas' come together. So, if your ingredients say "1 cup SR flour, sifted", that cannot be copyrighted. However, if you say "1 cup of SR flour, sifted beneath the golden rays of God's sun as the cock crows" then yes, you own copyright on that. I have as much right to say "place in fridge for 8 hours" as you have, but I cannot repeat your instructions to "Place in Aunty Mary's favourite red pot, the one Uncle Ralph gave her as an anniversary present and cook on middle shelf for 8 hours." I can say "Place in 9 inch square dish and cook on middle shelf for 8 hours."

I think. If you disagree, feel free to discuss.

Binding Books

Yes, two blog posts within one hour. After the last post I feel the need to talk about something a little more thoughtful. So, here I am talking about my relationship with books.

I was always a precocious reader. The earliest book I remember reading out loud was Dick and Dora at the beginning of Grade One, just to prove I could. My teacher (Miss Gaunt) then went into a Grade Two class and borrowed books for me to read. The first novel I remember reading and immediately re-reading was The Chrysalids. My Grade Three teacher (Miss Barradene) read us the first chapter on a Friday but I couldn't wait through the weekend to find out what happened next, so I asked to borrow it. Happily for me, she said yes. I returned it Monday, complete and then had the joy of listening to it being read a chapter a day until the rest of the class caught up.  The first novel I read in a day was Five Go To Smuggler's Top when I was in Grade Four and after that I was disappointed if every book wasn't read in a day.

Then came Grade Five and my childhood ended.

I discovered adult novels and possibly at just the right time. My mum left when I was nine. The repercussions of this have been discussed at length but one of them includes my access to reading matter. When Mum left she really didn't have time to pack much more than a bag and my ABBA cassettes (true story). In her wake she left most of her clothes, her sewing machine, a half finished knitted jumper and two book cases filled to the brim with books.

Oh, and my brother and me. But that's not the point of the story.

The point is: Books! Lots and lots of books. And not one of them was forbidden to me. The first adult book I read was Gone with the Wind. I was 10 years old and had no understanding of the American Civil War, or slavery or white trash, but I did have a thorough and abiding appreciation for the importance of a pretty dress and so I was hooked. It took me slightly longer than a day to read (in fact, from memory I think it took me about two months because I still had to read children's books, too) but it was well worth the read. I came away from Gone with the Wind with the knowledge that the man you love is not necessarily going to be the man of your dreams.

The next book to be plucked from the shelf was Audrey Rose. All my life I had believed in God, but my God was a Catholic God and I was not aware that there were other forms of spirituality or looking at the process of death. Audrey Rose introduced me to the idea of reincarnation and for many years I became an absolute believer in the notion. Now I see reincarnation as being unfair - what's the point of living multiple lives if you have no memory of the life that's been, but for a while there I tried to imagine what my next life would be like and believe it or not I found a lot of comfort in that.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I found myself at the end of the year reading The Thorn Birds. Actually, I didn't read it all the way through the first time and all because of the adult language. I was the child of a truck-driver who had a truck-driver's vocabulary and yet I had a bit of the prude about me, even then. I hated bad language, so when the f-word popped up in The Thorn Birds I put it aside and went onto something else. A few months later I girded my loins, picked it up again and devoured it. Very quickly it became one of my most re-read books of all times. In fact, I think I may only have read The Time Traveller's Wife and Clan of the Cave Bear more regularly than The Thorn Birds. This was the first novel I ever read that featured Australia as the setting and I was amazed to discover that my country could be written about in such a way. In time I came to read Picnic at Hanging Rock, The Sun on the Stubble, They're a Weird Mob, and many more classic Australian novels, but it was The Thorn Birds that made me feel my Australianness.

Recently I've had occasion to buy and re-read all these (adult) novels and to my surprise (and pleasure) it's The Thorn Birds that stands up to my childhood memory of it. The characters and setting feel both fresh and familiar to me as I anticipate every moment just before it happens, but I'm experiencing them as if its all new and unknown. I feel a bond with this book, a tie that comes not just from being an Australian reader but also an Australian writer. There's a loneliness at the heart of the book that I hook into, a loneliness of self and spirit that I 'get'. I have read a lot of Colleen McCullough's books in my life, and I love them all, but this is the 'special one' the one that made me think like a young adult rather than a child.

Maybe that's why I'm feeling a bond to these books at the moment. I've spent a lot of time thinking about my childhood lately, not just about the bad times, but also about the good. Mum's death at the end of 2012 has me thinking on what was and what brought me to this point. I love books and when I look back, most of my 'good' memories can be tied to a book. My mum and I had some pretty awful moments in our life, but one aspect of our combined time together on this planet was our joint love of Clan of the Cave Bear. No matter how mad we were at other (and I was always mad at her) we could sit down together over a glass of wine and discuss our love of the Auel series.

It might also explain my great love of wine.

Counting chickens

Last Friday Lee and I had a conversation that basically went:

Lyn: Connor's been at school full-time for two weeks now. I'm writing heaps and the house is clean and I'm feeling at a bit of a loose end. I wish I had decided to judge the Aurealis Awards this year because I'm feeling that I need something else in my life.

Lee: Well, surely there's something new you could do or try.

Lyn: I have been thinking about going back to uni full-time as an internal student.

Lee: There you go. Do that.

Fate: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!


Connor came home from school, walked through the door and started vomiting. That was Friday afternoon. It's now Wednesday afternoon. His Rumination Syndrome has, overnight, regressed to being as bad as it's ever been. I haven't written a word. I have barely cooked. I haven't touched housework since then. Connor is pale and depressed and looks as if the world is ending. We can't get him to smile or laugh or play. He's just lying on the couch being totally miserable which, I think, just makes him worse. Hoping to distract him with something positive, we tried to send him to school this morning. He lasted all of two hours before his teacher gave up and sent him home.

I'm not asking for pity or sympathy or a shoulder. I'm mainly recording this because it needs to be recorded. I need to remind myself that yes, this is bad, really bad, but he's been bad before and then he got not-so-bad for a while. The school is more determined to help out this time. Last time they sent him straight home on the first sign of illness. Now, they give it four attacks before they call me.

There are moments I want to cry in frustration. I really thought the worst was behind us, that we were now working towards wellness. We were, for the most part, getting our lives back. Now I'm second guessing myself and wondering if I did the wrong thing by putting Connor back into the school system. I feel as though I can't cope with this again and then I get up and cope with it. My washing machine is back to running constantly and the house has redeveloped a sickly smell that clings to everything.

We are going to try school again tomorrow. And we're going to try everyday even if it means he's doing a mixture of school and homeschool. I feel it's important to keep him in the system this time so that when his symptoms calm down again he'll already be in the routine.

Until then, I'll be here, at home, staring out the window as the world goes on.

On commenting

I've had a few people email me to say they wanted to comment but couldn't. I put a block on commenting mainly because of the spam content I was getting. I have, however, opened commenting up once again, but it does come with a proviso. If I get spam or negative comments (as in, the reason I left Facebook) I'll have to block them again.

I am glad you're reading me and I love to read your reactions. So far I am really enjoying my total freedom from Facebook. For instance, now Facebook is gone, I'm writing roughly 1500 - 2000 words per day. Just this morning I've written 1300 and I've been up for an hour.

Having received three books in the past five days (The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough, The Autumn Castle by the wonderful and amazingly talented Kim Wilkins [thanks, Kim] and My Story - Lady Jane Grey by Sue Reid) I'm reading a lot. I'm also working on an assignment on Woolfe's Mrs Dalloway, plus researching the various witch trials of the 17th Century story while writing a story about them. So far The Witches Pit is 5000 words long and is roughly half way.

Okay, I admit, a few zombies have died at the hands of my plants and more than a couple of pieces of Candy have been Crushed, but on the whole I'm nowhere near as tied to computer games as I used to be.

What's more, I've been contemplating my spirituality and where I'm at. Yes, I believe in God, but my belief in the way I worship has taken a beating lately. There is going to come a point when I have to make a decision and believe me, it's no easier than the drawn out decision to leave Facebook. In fact, there are many, many similarities between the two. I've survived losing one. Can I survive losing the other?

So, that's where I'm at right now. Hopefully next week I'll be somewhere else.

That's life.

Trigger - it's not just the name of a horse

If ever Lee or myself were to die due to anything other than extreme old age, it's likely that any police officer investigating the case would walk into our house and immediately point the finger at the surviving spouse. Not that there's anything amiss in our marriage. We are, as most of you know, two people who have the utmost respect and regard for each other, two people who make the most of each day we get to spend together, two people still very much in love. 

We also love serial killers. Okay, we don't love the people themselves. I'm sure some of them (BTK for instance) loved their families, and others may even have been the charitable sort (ahem, John Wayne Gacy). However, I think we can all agree that serial killers are, generally speaking Not Nice People. No, what Lee and I love is reading bios about them, watching documentaries about them and taking in movies and TV programmes featuring them. When it comes to being writers, serial killers provide a wonderful treasure trove of stories and histories and we love them all.

However.

There are two serial killers who, for me, cause all sorts of anxiety within my bruised soul. Lee and I watch any documentary or docu-drama about this pair and immediately my heart speeds up and I go into panic attack mode. Lee checks with me over the course of the programme to make sure I'm okay and I always assure him that I'm hanging in there. He knows these two set off feelings of terror and helplessness in me. They are, in a word, my trigger.

That's the power of Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.

Even typing this I can feel my blood thumping in my ears. Anything to do with these two sets me off, and yet, for reasons I shall go into shortly, I persist.

Last night we watched a docu-drama about Lord Longford's relationship with Myra Hindley. Even before it started Lee asked if I was sure I wanted to watch it. I assured him I did. He pressed play. Straight away we had original footage of the case and the tent surrounding the recovered bodies. This is terrible stuff, but it's not what upsets me. I know it's coming, but for now I can sit, ostensibly detached, and just observe while we're taken through the drama of Hindley and Brady. 

And then it arrives. The picture and soundtrack that terrorizes me; the photograph and voice of Lesley Ann Downey. No matter how much I steel myself, how much I prepare myself mentally, it happens. I see that child's face, hear the pleading in her voice, and I'm lost in the fear of being helpless, of begging for freedom, of wanting to go home. 

So, why do I do it? Why put myself through such torture?

Recently, on Facebook, a friend stated they can't read or watch or interact with anything to do with the Holocaust. That's their trigger and they refuse to allow it into their lives. That got me thinking about my own life and the triggers I have. Oh, I have phobias (don't even look at my belly button) but they don't induce a neurosis-linked episode in me. Despite all that happened to me as a child, I can handle books, movies, stories anything to do with rape, child abuse and incest. I'm not saying I view such things with detachment. I don't. I very much identify with what's being presented. I take it on, I make it part of my experience, I rejoice in the fact that I made it out in one piece. I don't like what happened to me, but I do like who I am. I can handle anything of that nature that comes my way.

Except Lesley Ann Downey. She was a child, a little girl of ten, who was kidnapped, tortured, assaulted and murdered. Witnessing what she went through never fails to tear me in two. I know what it is to be her, to beg for freedom, to fear for life, to know that this is it, the final moment. I know what it is to have no will, no voice, no rights in the eyes of the other person. Every time I hear of it happening to Lesley Ann I feel that loss anew. I want to hide away and not be found. I want to be safe even while knowing there is no such thing.

So, again, why do I do it?

Lee and I talked about it at length last night and as we did so it began to make sense for me. It's because I'm here and she's not. That part of my life ended when my tormentor died. With him gone I was free to pick up the pieces and try to put myself back together. Obviously, as with any broken thing, there are bits missing, but I am relatively as whole as everyone else out there and I'm okay.

Not so for Lesley Ann. She never got away from her tormentors. They used up the little bit of life she'd had, then buried it in the moors. Only two parts of her remained behind: her voice, recorded on tape by Hindley and Brady, and her pictures, reproduced by the pair as they tortured and molested her. People view those pictures, hear that voice and they feel disgusted. Their focus is on the killers, not the victim. This is a situation we face over and over as we buy into the various media representations of serial killers. It's always about the killings, not the dead themselves. In Lesley Ann's case the viewer may feel sympathetic pity for the child but they don't place themselves in her situation. And that, I feel, is where I come in.

Despite my horror of the situation, I feel an empathetic bond with Lesley Ann. To live this life to its full with all its trials and its blessings is a privilege I have and she doesn't. I am alive and I am able to understand and digest what Lesley Ann suffered, and so, I do. I hear her words and I take them in. I remember them, I hold them close, I place them with my own memories. The pictures of her are placed next to those of me, both the good and the bad. No, it doesn't help Lesley Ann. She's dead and generally forgotten. As a result, there should be someone who knows what it is to be that child, to feel the absolute horror of it both peripherally and personally and then be able to push past the ghosts of Hindley and Brady and be with the little girl whose voice is still alive. 

End of this (current) era.

Today I took a massive step. Tired of the ugly toxicity of Facebook, I decided to close down my account. If you look for me there you won't find me for I no longer exist. Good-bye 'friends', good-bye Bejewelled Blitz, good-bye hours of trawling through a multitude of status updates only to find them filled with hate, bile and nastiness.

I am a humanist. In fact, I think the term may, actually, be secular humanist. I believe in the over-all goodness of humankind, the over-arching kindness we're capable of extending towards one another in both the best of times and the worst of times. I know humanity is linked by acts and thoughts of love. I believe in the power of one and many.

I really believe this and yet, trawling through the updates filled with ego and hatred this morning, I came to a startling realisation. I would not invite many of the people on my flist into my home to eat with me, so why did I allow them into my house day after day? What, in reality, were they doing to improve life (no, not mine, but their own)? Did they really think spouting hatred at one another was the answer? After some time spent moving back and forth along the various newsfeeds I sat back and wondered just what it was I was gaining from these so-called 'friendships'. And what were they gaining from me?

The answer, it appeared, was absolutely nothing. How could we enrich each other when all we're doing is talking but not listening? Nearly every post I read was nasty either in the original post or in the comments that followed. Opinions were slapped down and nobody really cared what anyone else thought.

And then, finally, came the last straw. I followed this link about friendship and realised, this was it. This summed up my feelings perfectly. I've ended friendships in the past. I've known when a relationship became too toxic to support and needed to be eradicated. I'd culled a bff-situation that had once been the virtual love of my life. I'd severed the bad links in the past and, after the grief of separation, I'd discovered a freedom of thought and spirit that made breathing easier. So it was with Facebook. It was time to acknowledge that the relationship was over and that I needed to move on.

So, I went onto Facebook and gave one hour's notice. I was leaving. What really surprised me was the number of PMs and comments I got supporting my decision. Lee, knowing how lonely I get, tried to talk me out of it. He advised me to cull the false-friendships rather than myself, but in the name of equality I needed to make a sweeping change and so I did. Those who are my true friends are still with me. We can still contact each other to catch up.

Look, end of the day, I really do care about people, both individually and as a group. I don't care what your political leanings are, or your religion, or whether you prefer soy milk over cow's. I don't care if you prefer cats to dogs or Mansfield over Woolfe. Your opinion is important but so is mine. You matter to me. My family matter to me. I matter to me. My membership on Facebook is not important. You are. And therefore, you know how to reach me if you want to talk.

The Ups and Downs of a Life More Than Half Lived

At the beginning of the year I posted 45 things I wanted to achieve in my 45th year circling the sun. If you've been following my blog you'll know I got off to a flying start and achieved quite a lot in the first two months. And then, suddenly, thanks to writing, uni and general stuff, I slowed down. Well, I'm happy to say that this week I unexpectedly managed to find the time and circumstances to cross another three off my list.

18. Clean out the walk in robe. 

To be honest, I hate making goals regarding cleaning. Keeping the house neat and tidy should come naturally to any house wife, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it? It doesn't come naturally to me. I hate cleaning and can always think of something I'd rather be doing, such as playing with my kids or reading or writing or...well, really, that's it. Also, I'm now married to a man who'd rather see me happy and relaxed with the kids rather than cleaning and handing out orders to the family, so he actively dissuades me from housework. I love that there's no pressure to Get Things Done, but at some point I begin to notice just how much it's built up and suddenly everyone is given a tea-towel and a spray bottle and told to get into it.

Last Wednesday was that day. Lee had spent the weekend painting Connor's school-room. We had put everything from that room into our bedroom, so as the painting came to an end and the various items removed back to their appropriate place, I once more began to notice just how bad the walk-in robe really was.

So, I grabbed a chair, placed it in the middle of the robe and made a thorough survey.

It was worse than I thought.

I had an hour before school started, so I called the kids in and between us we emptied the robe out. We were half way through when Erin had to leave. By this time I was sniffling and wheezing, so took this as my cue to ingest a hayfever tablet. It didn't help. I spent the rest of the day removing items, dusting them, dusting shelves, making decisions regarding what would be kept, thrown or given away. Piles were created, then dealt with. I vacuumed, I sprayed, I wiped, I put back. By the end of the day I was exhausted, but it was done. The walk-in room was spotless.

Here's the down part. I ended up with dreadful hayfever that I couldn't control. I had to double up on the dosage it was so bad. By Thursday I had what felt like the beginning of a sinus infection, tinnitus and asthma. Ventolin and two days of colloidal silver have seen off the infection and asthma, but the tinnitus remains.

But at least it's done and (ahem) dusted.

Our room is not normally like this. This was how it looked when everything from the robe was removed. Honest.

After. I love my robe. I'd say about 85% was removed and either thrown or given away.

Which leads me to:

25: Declutter 45 things from the house. 

This was accomplished without me even noticing at first. It was as I was marking off #18 that I happened to look down the list and notice this one. I'd already decluttered 28 items at that point, so the disposal of old magazines, kid art, old shoes, outgrown clothes, tatty handbags and other paraphernalia (including two wedding dresses) brought the total up and over the 45 mark. The bonus of that was a great feeling. What wasn't so great was opening the bag to my wedding dress and finding it covered in yellow and brown stains. I was hoping to sell both dresses, but in the end mine has to go to the Sammies. I'm not paying to dry-clean something I'll never wear again, so off it goes.

It's time to let go of the past and hold onto the present whilst exploring the future. My dress from my wedding to Lee. 

And, finally, the loveliest goal reached this week:

29: Play a full game of hopscotch with the children.

This was one of those unexpected moments that make life that little more golden. Lee and I had decided a weekend break was in order. The kids were desperate to try archery, so we decided on Toodyay, a town we'd often passed through to visit my Mum, but one we'd never seen properly. We did some research and found that the Moondyne Festival was coming up. Connor and I had covered Moondyne Joe (local bushranger and convict) in our lessons on WA history, so this all seemed to coincide nicely. We saved up our money, made our reservation and then, on Saturday morning, left on our trip.

It was fantastic. Lee and I have created a very strong and loving family unit with all our children, but what we have with the Battkids is really special. The four of us make a core unit that has faced, weathered and defeated some pretty big storms. Erin and Connor think nothing of holding hands while walking together and so that was us in Toodyay, being a family of tourists, the kids walking together with Lee and I arm-in-arm behind.

Armed with nothing but our good humour we arrived at the Archery Park and announced ourselves as absolute beginners whose only claim to experience was watching The Hunger Games. We were given a basic lesson, given our bows and arrows and told to go off and enjoy ourselves. And so, we did.

I have to admit, I was really nervous about Connor. My darling boy has the best personality in the world, but he is given to bouts of stupidity. Yeah, he mucks around and plays the fool. No, don't tell me it's a boy-thing. I have two other boys and they're not on the same scale of silliness as Connor. I was fully expecting to have to be on Connor's back throughout the entire excursion, pulling him up, reminding him how to behave.

I needn't have worried. Connor was excellent. Erin was also excellent, but then Erin's behaviour is always of merit. We knew she'd be fine. Connor's brilliant behaviour was an added bonus. At the end of our time I could only compliment my two wonderful children on their amazingness (yeah, it's a word. My kids prove it.)

Anyway, on we went to Toodyay. We had a lovely time touring the town, eating out, eating at the van, eating in the car. One of the rangery-types at the caravan park lit a bonfire and encouraged the kids to feed it while we sat back and enjoyed the show and a bottle of wine.

Sunday came and with it the Moondyne Festival. I won't go on about how great it was, except to say that we enjoyed it very much. At the end of the day we toured the Toodyay Gaol where Moondyne Joe was kept for part of his incarceration. As it was festival time, they'd made it an interactive experience with games and dressing up. One of the games on offer was hopscotch. The kids begged me to play. They didn't have to beg too hard. I told the kids the rules and away we went.

Obviously I'm not in any of these pictures because I was taking the photos. Lee may have one which I'm sure he'll blog at some point. Meanwhile, here are pictures of my kids. Because I love them.

The Toodyay Gaol people put on an amazing experience for families. Well done! 

You can find more photos of the Gaol (including Erin and Connor) at the Facebook page 

It was one of the best half-hours of the weekend. We threw our rocks, we hopped, we cheated. It was wonderful. Some of the better goals I've achieved have centred around enjoying myself with my family, particularly my kids. Which brings me back to my original point. Don't fret about housework. Spend more time with your kids. In 20 years Erin and Connor will remember jumping squares with their Mum, not that she kept the bathroom clean. Do what is right for you and the people you love. The rest will follow in its own time.

It's been a year, but...

It's been more or less 12 months since Connor's first attack of Rumination Syndrome. At the time we had no idea what the problem was. All we knew was our child was extremely ill and nothing seemed to help. We tried changing his diet, cutting out certain foods and introducing others. We tried Gaviscon and special waver-tablets that they give to kids going through chemo. Nothing helped. He was tested for every allergy and every disease, including leukemia. Everything came back negative. The doctors shook their heads. He saw at least 6 different doctors but none of them knew whether it was physical, social or psychological (I now believe the latter. Which doesn't make it less of an illness.)

Three times he was hospitalised. The final time I took him to Princess Margaret Hospital for Children and refused to leave until he was admitted. Meanwhile his sick bag filled and filled until, finally, it exploded.

They admitted him on the spot.

24 hours later (or 3 months, depending on how you time such things) we had the diagnosis. Rumination Syndrome: no cure, no real treatment. Try chewing gum. Try breathing exercises.

Nope, they didn't work.


Finally around January, just as we, as a family, had learned to live with the illness and make adjustments to our life, we started to see a slight improvement. Day by day we noticed some lessening of attacks. 40 became 30, became 20, became 10. From attacks every day we started to see the odd day missed. This was mid-February and Lee and I were starting to raise the possibility of Connor returning to school. Mid-March we started to see records broken.

3 days clear.

5 days clear.

A week.

The only thing we could put it down to was time and maybe, perhaps, Chamomile Tea. It was something we'd tried about 2 days before the first signs of let up and even now we notice it gets worse if he doesn't have the tea for a while (such as when he's been at his Nanna's).

Vomiting would recommence in between but for shorter periods.

Two weeks ago Connor enjoyed 9 days straight before he started again and even then it was only once a day for 3 days.

We could handle this. If Chamomile Tea was the answer then we were happy to make it an ongoing part of our life. The school was contacted and yes, they were only too happy to take him back.

No conditions. Connor is now accepted as having a disability because he's registered as such with Centrelink. It's amazing the difference a legal label makes.

Guess which 9 year old is super-excited about his first day back at school tomorrow? It's been a horrible, awful year, but this is the light at the end of the tunnel.

Yesterday, Lee and I took Connor to meet with the teacher who'll be picking up Connor's schooling. She's a young thing, early 20s, sweet, kind and everything I could have asked for. In fact, she's everything I did ask for. I put in a request for a teacher who is understanding of Connor's illness, who will make allowances for it, will be patient, will understand when he has to run from the classroom without explanation. The teacher was allocated and came to the meeting loaded with ideas on how to handle Connor. Our boy will be given a card which he'll place on the table when he has to leave suddenly. This way he doesn't have to put his hand up, but she'll see at a glance why he's left. No other child will know what this means, just Connor and his teachers.

Yes, teachers. He's been allocated to an assistant (there is another child with needs in the class) and she will give him any help if there are problems. He's also being given a blanket, beanbag and pillow and a 'chill out' area, so if he feels too sick to continue, he can lay down, then return when he feels ready. The theme this year seems to be "Let's keep Connor at school." This time last year they called me at the first sign of vomiting and told me I had to pick him up. In the end I gave up and home schooled. The feeling this year is very different. They asked me how many vomit sessions constituted a mum-call. I decided on four, usually because this is the point where Connor starts to feel weak.

We've decided to break him into the system slowly, one day this week, one day next week, two days the following...etc. Today Connor told me he wants to go two days next week. I'm more than happy to let him self-pace the return.

I am so pleased and happy with this result. Meadow Springs Primary School is an amazing place and I'm incredibly happy with the education and care my children have received there. The staff are nothing short of wonderful and deserve all the recognition in the world. The consideration they are giving our boy is second to none.

Below are some photos I took a few minutes ago. They show Connor getting ready for his big day. I'm as excited and as nervous as a new mum watching her baby enter their first day at Kindy. Yes, I'm scared. What if it all goes wrong? What if Connor hates it and wants to go back to homeschooling? What if I return to my normal life, only to have him get sick again.

Well, it's a no-brainer really. I'll hold Lee's hand and make the decisions as they need to be made. We've got through this together, as a family and we'll go through the next chapter in the same way. Because that's what we do.

Hat into bag, just like any other school kid.

Vomit bags into bag. Not quite like any other school kid.

"Tomorrow is going to be the best day ever..."

"I'm so excited, Mummy. Can you tell?" Umm, yeah, I sort of gathered.

My happy, beautiful boy, returning to life as a 'normal' school kid. (Ignore the messy bed. That's how Connor rolls.)

A tale of things past

Once, back in the 70s, 85 Amberley Road, Balga, had been an ordinary house owned by ordinary people intent on going about their ordinary lives. There was a Dad (ex-cop, now electrician), Mum (housewife, poodle-perm) and two boys (five and two). Dad was everything a Dad should have been: warm, loving, generous sense of humour. Mum was what you'd have expected from a Mum: great cook, semi-interested in housework, good with crafts and given to gossip. The boys were normal boys, rough, ready for a fight and really into Spiderman.

I loved this house so much. It was a classic house of its time and suburb. A product of the 40s, it was built to bring a second chance at life to returning soldiers and their families after the war. Most of the houses on the street were owned by the military and every few years we welcomed a new young family as our next door neighbours. As we grew older, they didn't. The house next door was given over to newly-weds and those with young children. We saw those children go from being babies to toddlers but never any further, for they'd move on again and the next couple would arrive.

Not number 85, though. Somehow the army had passed over it and a normal suburban couple and their kids lived there. They were a forever family, built to grow up and old in that little house, just like my family in number 37. 

I've spoken about Maureen in my blog before. Maureen was, and continues to be, the mainstay of my life. She taught me so much and it was through her I started to understand the importance of music, of marriage, of family, of crafting, of cooking and of reaching beyond what my own parents had given me. My mum and (various) dads might have created and raised me, but Maureen molded me into an individual. She was the first person to say "You're smart. You can do anything you want in life." At some point I stopped hearing the message, but I never stopped thinking about Maureen and what she would want for me.

The person I haven't spoken in depth about is Doug. Doug was important too. He taught me that men can be decent and loving without being abusive or over-stepping any boundaries. He, and only he, is the reason I trust any man today. In a childhood full of men, it was his character who shone most brightly.  He was good, kind, strong, opinionated and gentle. While Maureen taught me the importance of being true to myself, Doug taught me the importance of being true to others. He used to compliment me and tell me how amazing I was. Initially I was shy and refused to believe it. I would hide my face and shake my head. Later I held my head up and announced "I know." Doug was kind in both this instances and soon put me right. "It's best to say 'Thank you' to a compliment. Just a simple 'Thank you.'" And so I do. 

As I grew older and started to develop, he advised me to tone it back, to have people listen to my thoughts rather than look at my breasts. He taught me how to catch a man's gaze and hold it so he wouldn't be tempted to sneak a peek. Yeah, they still stare at me and they peek as much as they want, but the important thing is, I use my brain to speak for me, not my breasts.

I met Doug and Maureen when I was nine and for the next six years they were the most important people in my life. They kept me going through what was the absolute worst time of my life. Because of them I was able to hold my head above water and keep my sights on the shore-line of turning 18 and getting the hell out of my life.

And then, at 15, everything changed. Dad died. It as a sudden death, a freeing death, especially for me. I've never cried over my Dad's death because even then I knew it was the best thing ever likely to happen to me. That chapter of my life was over. My brother and I went off to live with my uncle and aunty and real life began for us.

I was happy for a while. Sort of. It wasn't a perfect life but it was better than the previous one. I still got to visit Doug and Maureen on weekends and kept them up to date with what was happening in my life. I told them about my new boyfriend. I shared with them when I lost my virginity. For the first time I talked to them about my childhood and just how awful it was. They'd known it was bad, but they hadn't known just how bad it was. However, I also outlined my plans for my future and uni. I was going to be a writer and an English teacher and have a big house and lots of kids and a wonderful husband. I was going to do all this and they were going to be by my side through it all.

And then they unveiled their grand plan. They were selling up, packing up their van and taking their boys around Australia. My Dad's death may have had a positive impact on my life, but it had also had one on theirs. They'd come to the realisation of how short life was. They had sat up late discussing his death and my revelations and decided that a close family was the most precious possession they had. They determined to close ranks and head out on the road.

Within two months they were gone.

I never ever saw them again. Thirty years later there's a place within me that still feels the deep and ongoing pain of their leaving. They were supposed to be my forever people. They weren't.

I think that's why I find it so easy to let go of people today. People I love come and go from my life with surprising regularity. Children, best friends, siblings. They've all, at some point, said, "Enough's enough. Good-bye." It hurts when it happens, it hurts like crazy, but not like losing Doug and Maureen. Back then I didn't know how to handle it. I was a child, a child who had, in turn, lost her mother, her father and now her best adult friends.The grief was immense and eventually I withdrew into myself until I was ready to let go. I still do that today and it helps.

On Sunday I had reason to revisit Balga. I pointed out my old street to Lee (it had changed from Amberley Road to Amberley Way sometime during the late 70s) and we took a tour for old time's sake. The biggest shock was not how run down my old house was or how small it seemed. No, the biggest shock was that number 85 is gone. Oh, there's a number 85 there. In fact, there's three of them, but they're not the 85 that I knew and loved. They've torn it down, removed my past and replaced them with faceless units that mean nothing.

I had Lee drive past twice to make sure I hadn't misread the number, but no, it really had disappeared. 

This is the stuff writers dream about. It's the stuff that informs stories, that builds setting and creates scene and character. This morning I woke up with the first paragraph in my head. Obeying my instincts I wrote that paragraph down and saw it as a gateway into my novel The Camp of Women. By the end of the paragraph I wasn't seeing the house anymore, but Maureen, Doug and the life they've led me to. They're gone, their house is gone, but I'm still here. I could have been the sum of my parents' input, but I'm not. I'm the creation of Maureen and Doug Smith. I am who I am because of them. I love my family because of the way they loved. I delight in cooking because Maureen taught me to bake. I can accept a compliment with grace because Doug taught me how to. 

I miss them so much but I'm grateful for the years that they gave me. I would be a very different person if they hadn't entered my life and I will always cherish them for that. I wish I could track them down and thank them personally, but it's not going to happen. I have accepted they're gone for good and I accept the good they left behind.

An update...sort of

I've been pretty quiet on the blog-front this week, mainly due to having very little to discuss. Most of my time has been spent either working with Connor at his home-schooling, or keeping up with uni reading. So far I've read Robinson Crusoe and Mansfield Park and now I'm about to start Jane Eyre (literally, as in, as soon as I've posted this and poured myself a glass of wine.)

This week I did manage to catch up with my daughter, Cassandra. I love hanging out with Cass, particularly as she's now matured into a fine young woman and a wonderful mother. There was a time when I despaired of even being able to have a civil conversation with her, but now we manage to sit and talk about all sorts of things and I feel a lot more confident about where her life is going. Cassie has so much promise and I feel she'll come to advanced education rather late (as I did) but I know she can accomplish great things with time, support and a loving hand.

This Thursday I'm off to UWA to see Alexander McCall Smith give a speech. I love McCall Smith with much loving lovingness. His Mma Ramotswe is one of my two favourite novel characters (the other being Henry from The Time Traveller's Wife) and so I really look forward to hearing the creator talk about his product.

As an author I really love watching other authors discuss their work. Mma Ramotswe is the sort of character I like to create myself, as she is quiet, gentle and good. Yes, good. She is a good woman who does good things for other people. Sometimes her clients are not so good, but they always get what's coming to them, one way or the other. When I was a child my dad used to talk about his mother and how she was the last 'true lady'. I always liked this idea of being a 'lady' and I think Mma is the embodiment of the ideal I built up in my mind. I'm not always 'good' and I have done quite a few wrong things in my life, but, like Mma and the lessons she took from her horrendous marriage to Note Makote I have used them to move onwards and upwards.

Because that's always the better than the alternative.

A fine day out

The other thing we did as a family this week, was visit the "Sculpture by the Sea" exhibition. Now, I must say that I enjoyed quite a few of the pieces, but on the whole was rather underwhelmed by the exhibition as a whole. I had, previously, seen two pieces from last year's Castaways exhibition that seemed to have been transplanted from one beach to the other, but what really surprised me was the huge number of recycled works on display. When I last visited (two years ago) I'd say most of the pieces were built from original materials that had not been repurposed. However, this year, a great many of the artworks were built from recycled material. I couldn't help but feel that this was, in a large part, due to the impact of Castaways upon local sculptors.

Below are some photos of my favourite pieces in order. The bottom one is not an artwork, but a piece of natural beauty we found at Cottesloe Beach.

This photo does not do the work justice. The spinning arms caught the sun's rays and threw them off. The effect was nothing short of dazzling.

There is something about this man's work that captivates me over and over. Lee finds him somewhat derivative, but I love the simple beauty of the lovers.

This begged "Please, touch me." I did. 

Standing under this was the ultimate in visual stimulation. No matter where you stood, the effect was unique.

Another view. We stayed with this piece for ages.

A piece of recycling showing the effect our debris is having on our oceans. Apparently, everything in the glass container came from the oceans. Each piece (syringes, bubble wrap, a toy car) was made to look like a marine creature.

Okay, not a firm favourite, but a lovely photo of our whole family.

There were heaps of these walking along the rocks at the jetty. They were truly beautiful to behold.

Yeah, it's a PVC goon bag. No matter where you went on the beach, you could see this. 

Connor obviously loved this piece. He took 25 photos of it.

This artwork is really rather blah, but it seemed to both delight and anger the butcher bird at its base. The bird kept trying to fight it and stroke it at the same time.

I took a few laps with the bird as it tried to work out what was going on.

I loved this. Pure and simple, love.

Watch out! A cranky lady resides here.

Well, you know that's not really me. When it comes to angst, I tend to turn my grumbling on myself rather than others. I am, however, a person who admires a cantankerous nature in others, especially if it's the sort of nature that is directed towards not only Getting Things Done, but also Getting Things Changed.

As a woman who went though her formative years in the 70s and 80s, I've witnessed a lot of change, particularly in the areas pertaining to women. Oh, there's still along way to go, but I really do believe that my generation was the first to be taught "You can be anything you want in life" and actually believe they meant anything, not just secretary, teacher, nurse etc.

When I was a Mum-deprived child in my pre- to mid-teens, the person who had the most positive impact on my developing psyche was my Dad's best friend Maureen Smith. Maureen was a woman in her early 30s, happily married to the love of her life, Doug, and raising two sons, Glenn and Neil. She wore a classic 70s poodle-perm and worked as a crossing guard to bring in a little extra money. She saw Dad dropping my brother off at Kindy in the early days of the separation and asked if Mum was okay. Dad told her Mum was gone and Maureen immediately offered to help.

Within days she was at our house and organising to look after us while Dad sorted himself out. Maureen was not a Cranky Lady. Far from it. She was gentle, kind and full of love for those around her. She was, to me, the embodiment of grace and gentility. She was, in short, a real lady.

She was, also, extremely determined to help me grow up with some sort of feminine ideal. She took me as a proxy daughter and taught me all she thought I needed to know in order to be a strong woman of the future. My family life was pretty bad but Maureen was constantly telling me that I was wonderful, that I was loved, that I was smart and fantastic and the best. She approved of everything I did and never made me feel bad about myself.

I worshipped Maureen, so when she said "You can be anything you want when you grow up" I knew what I wanted to be; I wanted to be just like her. And I am.

Thanks to Maureen, I learned:
To knit.
To crochet.
To make a fruit cake from All-Bran.
To put family-time ahead of house-work (she'd be proud to see how well I applied that lesson :))
To dress nicely for my husband once a week in anticipation of his return from work.

Yes, a lot of women would feel some of these go against feminist principles (particularly the last one), but I really do find they suit me. I am a maternal woman and family is important to me. But, I have also faced a lot of adversity and difficulty in my life and, thanks to Maureen, I've come out of them with a strong sense of my own self-worth. Nothing has defeated me and I like the woman I've turned out to be. I wouldn't be the me you yourself call friend, lover or mother without Maureen Smith.

Thanks to Maureen, I can knit Tom Baker-esque scarves for my son.
And ignore the cushions lying on the floor.

Now, as a middle-aged woman of the 21st century, I find myself looking beyond family happiness and focussing on what the rest of the world is up to. All too often I watch in despair as I see us do terrible things to each other. I witness my own country commit crimes in the name of "Good Government" and I feel powerless to do anything but share my anger via Facebook.

Yes, I'm a slacktivist. But what can I do?

Which is why I wanted to use this stop on the Cranky Ladies of History tour to discuss my favourite hero, Beate Klarsfeld.

The 70s were a time of growing awareness for me. At some point I learned the truth of my heritage. Joe Dineley (Dinely?) my biological father was Irish. Okay, I thought. There's a certain coolness to this, as long as he's not IRA. My biological maternal Grandfather, Rudi (Rudy?) Sander was, however, a German immigrant, who came to Australia some time in the 40s.

Also, towards the end of the 70s I became aware of the work of a man named Simon Wiesenthal. Wiesenthal's crusade to bring Nazis to justice made me aware of the atrocities of WWII and for the first time I came to understand the real horror that lay beyond the hi-jinx of Hogan's Heroes. People, I realised, had died during this time. Millions and millions of people. Later I would come to understand that it wasn't just the 6 million Jews, but also another 5-6 million non-Jews such as gypsies, homosexuals, intellectuals and yes, even my own Jehovah's Witnesses (called Bibelforscher in Germany). I was so embarrassed by this knowledge and the knowledge that I was, in part, German. However, I had no way of doing anything positive with it. So, I let it go.

Anyway, back to Wiesenthal. Simon Wiesenthal became, for me, the face of Nazi Hunting, but it was still an impersonal face. He was, after all, a Jewish man who had personally been exposed to the Holocaust. His cause was just that, his cause and the cause of those who suffered as he had suffered. I could see and appreciate what he did, but really it meant nothing to me.

Three years ago Lee and I were settling in for another night on the couch in front of the History Channel. The show we'd chosen to watch was one about Nazi Hunters and I was pretty certain the focus would be on Simon Wiesenthal. I was wrong. The first episode we saw was called The Monster and The Butcher. The story of Klaus Barbie (The Butcher of Lyon) was told and for the first time I heard her name: Beate Klarsfeld.

Beate Klarsfeld (nee Kunzel) was not born into a Jewish family. Quite the opposite, actually. Born in Germany in 1939, Beate was the daughter of a Wehrmacht soldier. Whilst her formative years were spent in relative ignorance of all that had gone on in her country, this changed when she moved to France to work as an au pair. One day, in 1960, she was standing at the Metro platform waiting for a train when a young man introduced himself as Serge Klarsfeld. A French Jew, Klarsfeld had been personally affected by the Nazi regime when his father had been rounded up and taken from the family in 1943. He never returned.

It didn't take long for Beate and Serge to become involved and, in 1963, they married and started their family.

Now most women, myself included, would have thought "How terrible. I wish I could do something, but I have a husband to look after and a baby to raise and really, it's all in the past. What can I possibly do?"

Not Beate. In 1966 Beate began campaigning against the West German Chancellor Kurt Kiesenger for his work within the Nazi propaganda department and as a result  lost her job. Now this, to me, is pretty amazing in and of itself and again, I think I would have been somewhat impressed with myself for this achievement had it been mine. I mean, apart from saying a few damning remarks on Facebook or Twitter, how many of us have actively led campaigns against an official in power? And, who would dare do so in a country that had an international reputation for dealing with those who spoke against authority?

Beate Klarsfeld would.

Beate Klarsfeld did.

In 1968, a year before I was born, Beate Klarsfeld took activism into her own hands, literally. Disguised as a reporter, Klarsfeld managed to confront Kiesenger during a conference, denounce him as a Nazi and slap his face. Yes, she was arrested and convicted to a year's imprisonment (reduced to 4 months), but this act of heroism had its effect. The following year, following denouncement after denouncement by Klarsfeld, Kiesenger was soundly defeated at the polls.

Klarsfeld, being arrested after the slap.

At this point I'm thinking "Well, glass of champagne for me and a good lie down before returning to the bosom of my family."

Uh uh. Not our Beate. She's already got her next target in her sights.

I could go on and on about all that she attempts and achieves (along with a few failures) after this, but I'm going to cut to the chase.

Klaus Barbie.

Growing up in Australia during the 70s and 80s, there were some Nazi names that equated to the Boogie Man for me. Hitler (obviously), Mengele and Eichmann were, in my young and impressionable mind, the most evil of men. They were the reason people hated all Germans. Klaus Barbie was a relative unknown to me, at least until that Nazi Hunters episode.

Known as the Butcher of Lyon, Barbie was a Gestapo officer placed in the French town of Lyon. Here he carried out acts of torture and barbarism against the citizens and was personally responsible for the deaths of 14,000 people including the 44 Jewish orphans he sent to Auschwitz.

After the war, a US intelligence service found him and offered him a position as an anti-communist agent. Once this became known he was moved to Bolivia. Tried and condemned as a war criminal in his absence, Klarsfeld turned her attention upon Barbie and began a campaign to have him extradited to France for trial. It took 12 years and her own arrest in Bolivia, but eventually Barbie was extradited and faced his accusers. Finally, in 1987 he was found guilty and imprisoned for his crimes. He died in his prison in Lyon, the scene of his worst crimes against humanity.

I fell head over heels for Beate Klarsfeld over this. Barbie was a man who was, to all intents and purposes, being protected and paid by the US and would have continued to be so if not for the ongoing actions of this woman. The plight of the Jews in France was not Beate Klarsfeld's problem, but once she knew the problem existed she got cranky and did her utmost to address it. The Beate Klarsfeld Foundation was started and as a result the following war criminals faced their day in court:

• Klaus Barbie (1987)
• Rene Bousquet (1993)
• Jean Leguay (1989)
• Maurice Papon (1998)
• Paul Touvier (1994)

Today, Klarsfeld is alive, well and just as vocal as ever. She is hated within Germany and seen as a traitor to her country, but I see her as a hero to humanity. As a woman in her mid-life, I am inspired by Beate Klarsfeld and all she achieved. The example she and her husband Serge set is nothing short of outstanding. At a time when I find it hard to deal with family, my son's illness, my writing career and university, I look to her and think "She had a family AND caught Nazis. Who am I to say it's all too hard?"

So, there we have it, two of the women in my physical and intellectual life whom I love and wish I could be like. We all have them, we all take a piece of them into ourselves. Now, let's celebrate these Cranky Ladies of History.