Just a whisper...

Thanks to Miss Mummy Daze's prompt for this week... "Whisper"

When I was a little girl my home was something from a story book. Not an idyllic fairy tale with princesses and unicorns... more like a magical comedy.

My family is full. However like most large families that is never actually the case, we seem to grow exponentially, attracted through marriage, birth or acquisition of long term friends. My pop would have said, "throw another cup of water in the soup", always welcoming a stranger to our crowd.

It is the noise that sticks with me, a background hum, tick and tumble that marked the ebb of our life together. As an adult I still crave it. I find myself doing housework with the t.v. on, writing essays in my local pub and finding anything to giggle at or sing along to just to fill that void.

We grew up and we spread around the world. The distance is deafening.

It was almost a surprise to me that my saturday morning coffee ritual suddenly wasn't as precious in my silent weeks. That buzz and hum gave my alone time value.

It pops back to me in little bubbles that home, leaving me with a little vignette as it breaks.

The downstairs of our home was hewn in to the side of a hill it was cool and dark. Showering the light would filter down through a shaft, golden and dust filled. The air in there hung with the faint scent of chemicals from a photography lab that Dad and I would set up in the holidays. The small brown squares creating a mosaic of poor workmanship under my feet. You soon learnt where to step for fear of scratching or slicing.

Then it fades.

A loose floorboard, no not a floorboard, a skirting board. Just a few inches of skirting board jammed between two doorways. It could be slid out if your fingers were small enough. In that little gap I buried a note to myself fifteen years ago. tucked under the floor is a tiny map of a tin my baby brothers and I buried at the far end of the yard. Still longing to unearth it,

and it fades.

I have a new family now, my boyfriend, my friends and workmates. Collected and stacked higgedly piggedly in my heart, Slowly building a chatter, a squeal and a din.

Its still there though, the hands and smiles encassing mine, still moulding me and bringing me age in whispers. Its just a whisper, but its enough to sustain me.

It's better than sex.. it's my city

I could tell you some love stories. I have a knack for falling in love, wether it be for five minutes on the sidewalk with a perfectly formed rose, for a summer with a glorious Riesling or for five years with my first boyfriend. I have a deep affinity and belief, in living for love.

But the minute I read miss Mummy Daze’s post all I could think about was the first time I remember having a strong feeling of what I liked and loved about my  life. I was just starting to get to know me as an adult, my life was begining to bud. I fell in love with my city.

Through the last eight years (as with all of us I’m sure) I’ve had a few challenges. There have been great loves and small loves, heartaches and breaks, death and loss, and of course above all, joy.  I moved to Adelaide with an ex boyfriend but have always been and had to be, very independent. Through out these events sometimes there has been no one here to hold me, no one to warm me, and no-one to keep me company. But I have always had the broad tree lined streets to hold me, a lonely coffee in a familiar café to warm me and a wander through the bustle of the central market has been enough calamity (and cheese) to help any girl forget herself.

A series of small constant relationships, like stars in the night sky. So I guess it is no wonder that when I have visitors I cant but help indulge myself by showing off my love, like a new beau or sometimes (the true treasures) a gorgeous faithful friend.

Here are four little loves, like little meals that have sustained me. Pick me up when blue, act as escapes for my heart and my senses. I could share these affairs for pages with you, but a girl has to keep a little something tucked away in her heart for next time xx

Morning Glory

Nothing wakes me up quite like the promise of a hot organic bacon and egg roll on a winters morning. It’s so cold your breath snaps at the air and you’re nervous to buy a coffee before you’ve warmed your hands. “Bacon and egg roll” doesn’t really do it justice, the bread is a heavy soft sour dough, home made almond pesto, add the chutney, twice smoked bacon and a googy egg. Wrap it up in paper and set off for a stroll around the market. There are cheese wrights, a French patisserie, the most succulent orange juice (my nephew has the gent trained to give him a mandarin icy pole in exchange for a chat and a giggle, well done all round! even if your lips are blue little one). Home made breads abound, scattered with ancient grains and seeds. I can never help but stop at the old French lady selling rillette, aioli and pate. She’s chatting of her ducks and geese like they are her children and then she offers up their innards – perhaps more akin to a Hansel and Gretel tale – but delicious all the while. Next to her grins the lavendar man, i'll have a glass of lavendar cordial before my coffee and perhaps a choc-lavendar brownie for later...

There is Barry that makes his own spices, a marvel and a treat. He has tiny shovels he uses to share and encourages you to lick it from the palm of your hand, great carbon neutral dinning I say. Two older women sell the sweetest lettuces and hottest chilli’s, quite a pairing. I think my favourite though is a gent who’s name I can never quite catch, he mumbles and has no front teeth. He isn’t always there, he’s grows organically and picks the morning of the market. Sometimes he has goods to sell and other times he can be found sitting watching the crowd with a coffee. 

He grows the most beautiful veg, mounds of broad beans, pumpkins, snake beans, tomato’s and eggplants. Never all at once, its famine or feast, true seasonal growing. It’s the most delicious surprise to see what he’s plucked that morning. I collect my prizes, shoulder aching with the haul and retreat up the hill to my favourite café. Its lined with books (mostly cooking books) I sip a long black, check the daily soup (the braised lentil and spinach is supreme) sketch out possible meals with my freshly bought treasure. Now who could want for better love, company or adventure with all that at your door step?

An Afternoon dalliance

In all the world, there is no where I would prefer to be than in the afternoon sun in my brother’s back yard. On his lawn and with his family and I can see us there; three short one’s, a bub and his lovely wife. She’s probably produced a jug of home made lemonade or some chevre on rye with garden tomato’s and basil. The kids would have picked them from the garden four minutes before and it’s lazily and loving passed around. In the dappled sunshine the baby would be on a rug on the grass, the boys have constructed medieval weapons and hats, and my precious niece sitting with the ladies, loving being that touch older. Its not just the family though – and I know it will come as no shock or disappointment to my family when I write this, but it’s that the dappled shade is cast by the most glorious fig tree.

You have no idea what a tease she is, she is statuesque dominating a corner of the yard. The huge fat leaves shade the trampoline and create hide and seek for her gem like fruit. She fruits twice a year in February and then again just before winter … but it seems an age as I watch her little bosom’s swell in to jam like fruit. They are un-like any fig I’ve had before. At the lightest pressure the thin green skin splits in to deep red jelly.

Don’t you see? She’s worth the wait.

At some point before the chill descends, the crusade that has occupied the boys will end and the six of us will wander a few blocks to the beach, mutt in tow. Sand will be kicked, races held, bargaining a plenty. Wander home, pants soggy, tired faces and promises of bedtime stories.

And then, once the short ones are heavy in their beds, we’ll break open a local bottle of Grenache and retrieve the figs we picked earlier. Perhaps we’ll wrap them in salty prosciutto from the markets, caramelise them in a pan and splay them on crackers with cheese, or throw them, as is, in a salad. Logs are thrown on the fire and we settle in.

So there it is, she’s my afternoon love (most probably unrequited). She embodies to me the essence of being South Australian. Perhaps it’s her who taught me how to love my new home. The produce purchased locally or grown, kept simple and shared. The wine collected from a small vintner down the road, all a stroll from the beach. She may be a flirt, but thank god she’s consistent.

 NO, I didn’t tell my friends about you…

I have rituals. Little rituals like putting my nose in the hot water of the shower before the rest of me, and larger ones like lighting a candle and drinking sweet wine on the birthday of a friend who passed away. I guess the one I’m going to share with you now really only happens once a year. Once a year…on my birthday. I work in hospitality and the thing about working in hospitality is that when you want to go out …so does every body else.. but its your job to serve them, not necessarily join them.

So my December birthday tends not to be celebrated, sure perhaps I can get the night off but my friends work hospitality too… cake for one? I think not. So instead I have my little ritual. Somewhere in the afternoon I go missing, dressed up, feeling chic. I return to my favourite cocktail bar, the thing I like best about it is that the entrance is through a mall, at the back of a very grotty pub. Its almost hidden like platform 9 ¾. It’s a huge lonely empty loft, filled with random furniture. Morrocan lounges, bali huts, pods, cushions, vast wooden tables, chandeliers, provocative art, floor lamps. Through the curtains that hang like veils between furniture arrangements, I find myself at the bar and I order a dirty martini. In the past I’ve had the place fairly well to myself, till the office crowd rolls in after five. In their Christmas drinks out fits I don’t look so out of place. I don’t much care anyway; I’ve got my annual diary, an entry for each birthday, while drinking a martini for the last few years. I sit and write like a madman, and perhaps look a little like one. Once I have had my fill – as if I had waited all year just to put the words out, I leave. I walk through the park, through the central markets and I collect a honey joy (well it IS my birthday) to an alley of vintage and retro wares. Where I buy myself a birthday present, blow the price. After all a girls got to be her own best friend.

The one night stand...

It’s a shonky pub, all angles and leans. In truth until recently I had no idea where it actually was in the city. I just used to give the taxi driver its name. It speaks volumes really about this lost island of a pub, that it can be found only when you’ve had too many pale ales. In the front are flannel shirts and beards, beanies and knitted skirts. No one I know, but in the back is a sea of familiarity. Billy Bob stands at the BBQ selling snags in bread for a dollar, such a treat after a long night at work and the clocks after midnight! A crowded courtyard of old and new friends brings warmth.  Get your snack (hope there’s onions left), here there are only two things to drink, straight Jacks or dark ale. I never drink this elsewhere but it’s the done thing and it fits here, its familiar. Its like having Russian caravan tea at your granny’s, its gross but you’d be sad if you didn’t.

There’s a push inside as Billy Bob takes the stage with his musicians, they jam in between sets from local artists, who turn up guitars in hand to sign the sheet. Local live music, framed with professional talent, sausages and dark ale. What’s not to love. It’s a guilty pleasure, a reoccurring late night faux pas. Well its only a faux pas the morning after.. 

So there they are, my little loves, my dalliances, faux pas' and affairs. It is enough to make any grey day melt away with a deep breath, a brave step and an open heart. A city that is my companion, my lover, my friend.
Thank you Adelaide, you're a doll.
Your Girl,
Grace xx

Hey Pesto!

SO lately I have been in the depths of study... not the depths actually.. more leaving the shallows as I finally exit my Masters degree (thats right.. it got a capital letter!). During this time I find it pretty hard to sit still. This ir mostly due to my sitting so often, typing, reading, marking, editing..... blogging. I find myself doing unnecessary things like making pesto for dinner from scratch. Now friends its not that this recipe is challenging at all... its that I have other things I should be doing! BUT the fresh green addition to  my salad as I sit on the couch marking has really brightened my day. SO I hope you give it a shot too.

Macadamia, Coriander and Chili Pesto

You will need to find yourself a blender, don't believe what they say- you don't need an expensive one. Mine cost forty dollars two years ago and I've never had  problem with it. I even use it to crush ice now and then. In this blender place your dry ingredients, I'd start with the nuts... traditionally you would use pine nuts, but of course mine is a macadamia base. I used about 300gms worth. Blend to a consistency you would like to eat. I LOVE finding the odd chunky nut piece in mine, so I leave mine quite rough. Then add two birds eyes chilli's. Mine were fresh from the garden theses winter chilli's are not particularly hot but give the paste a lovely warm spice. Then add two bunches of coriander, only the white parts of the roots removed, most of the flavour is trapped in the green coriander stem. Blend blend blend. At this stage you will probably notice that the blender isn't doing its smoothest job of combining them, remove the insert from your blender lid and while blending on a slow speed add olive oil. It is a little scary how much oil the nuts will soak up - don't get too stressed, the flavour will be worth it. You only need a small teaspoon of good pesto to set a dish buzzing so don't be mean with the natural fats! 

Your Pesto will start to come together and slowly change colour to a rich green. Once it is nice and pliable turn the blender off and turn in to a mixing bowl. have a little taste? Its not quite there yet...is it? What it is missing is a good squeeze of lemon juice, a FAT pinch of salt and a generous crack of pepper. Combine these through to taste. DADAAAH! isn't that magic? I hope it brings a little fun back in to your winter meals. I have used it as a topping for pumpkin soup, a dressing for salad, served it as a dip or of course as a sauce for a rather racy summer pasta. Enjoy my lovelies, Grace xx

Why do you fall in love and do you trust yourself when you do?

Looking back on this question I have to admit there is a small lump in my throat. Here’s the thing ladies… My boyfriend H knows I have a blog… he knows because I told him when I was drunk one night in an assertive pompous tone “glarf memm I have a Blog you know! Glmph snore”… But what he doesn’t know is what it is called and he’s never read it (I think). SO this space is very much mine. I realise at some point he might stumble across it ( I suspect he’s searching for it now and then…) or he may even already have read it, but I am not quite prepared to let him proof the drafts… because he’s IN them. You follow?

So before answering this question I want to take a very deep breath and say this first…

help.

Ha ha… No its fine, he’s the most consistent, calm and stable person I know. So I am sure when he finds this and reads it there will be a raised brow, a rib poke and maybe if I’ve crossed any real lines… a short ‘adult’ conversation.

Cross your fingers for me.

Why do I fall in love and do I trust myself when I do…. Hmmmm…

When I was younger it was all about looks and being slightly obnoxious. If there was a “good looking” guy that needed a chase… I had my sneakers on. It was fun. but was it love? No, I don’t think it was. It was a lot of angst and the odd romantic sleepover (is it rude to say one night stand?) and long drawn out beach walks with my besties plotting, renouncing and celebrating. It was being young. However I think all this kiss-chasey made me very cautious as I grew older. I mean when men would ask me out, without the games I was super confused…

um aren’t we going to tease each other? Oh well I just don’t understand this at all. Im not sure I can commit to just going to dinner because we “like” one another. WEIRD.

The first time this happened and I relaxed with it...I fell in love. It was a rebellious love. It was an incredibly romantic love (read as long distance for two years…plurk until I moved to be with him in Adelaide, where I now find myself). Romantic you say? Swoon…Well there were a lot of letters written, plane flights and weepy phone calls. I guess Hollywood would call that romance, but in retrospect it seems like a waste of resources. This love lasted five years. Five years was a long time. I think I was probably only in love for two and a bit of them, the second and third and maybe a little of the fourth. But I am (unfortunately for young Grace) a big believer in putting work into relationships. As a result I didn’t listen to my gut and the niggling feeling I had, that something wasn’t quite right lasted two years. I woke up one day and it had all been confirmed in my mind. I wasn’t in love.

I will never leave a relationship the way I did that day. I felt so sure of my decision and so desperate for oxygen, I made a surgical and polite break. I think he needed the yelling and the pain because he drew it out for months. He hadn’t really been given warning, he felt betrayed.  Don’t worry he got what he wanted, for months I politely listened to his complaints, his drunken rants and his tears. His aggression and constantly lingering in my workplace months after the break was the deciding factor in me using my “outside voice”. Then time wore away both our edges until one day he apologised and thanked me for breaking up something that he hadn’t seen was so unhealthy.  That experience taught me not to bottle your problems up in a relationship, to have a voice and use it. It’s not fair for the other person to not have chance to fix them. Love doesn’t have to look perfect.

That time in my mid twenties, even considering all the pain, when I awoke from a five year relationship was… glorious. It was golden and it had formed within me a determinedness not to fall straight back in love. This brings us to the relationship where I had to learn to trust myself. It brings us to H.

SO here I was determined not to fall in love, deliciously fit and doing better than ever in my chosen field and I met this guy… I couldn’t shake this guy. He was (to quote Christina Yang from Greys Anatomy) like something sticky that just wouldn’t blow off! For months he sought my friendship. I thought he was quite dull and a bit dumb. Worst of all he was younger than me... SO not going there. But was nothing if not persistent. He would insist on driving me home after work and would follow me in his car when I insisted on walking. He would bring me treasures at work (my favourite was a pie he’d half eaten when he thought I might be hungry…ewh what’s wrong with guys??) and he would always slide a drink in front of me when we were out with our friends. He was incorrigible. It took me ages, well six months to realise that of all of my friends, he was my most consistent, caring and well intentioned. It even turned out he wasn’t actually dumb.  He knew more about domestic politics than I did and I had a degree in it. Butt head. So there we are, the last time I fell in love it was because I learnt to trust. SO no I still don’t trust myself, I question my internal dialogue and my relationship all the time… but I don’t really ever question my boyfriend because he is consistent to a fault (but I’ll tell you about that another day)

So how do I fall in love and why? I’m not sure but from reading back it seems that the people drawn into my life reflect exactly what I am wanting from it. Drama, Romance and Consistency…

DO I trust myself when I fall in love? I guess I must, otherwise I wouldn’t be getting myself in to this beautiful muddle time again. The final thing I want to say is this: To those men, ratbags and boys I dated, I am so thankful for each of you, in reflection you all helped me learn and grow. There is nothing like learning about yourself by looking at the person you are choosing to walk your life with xx Grace

Just a small question.

Well maybe more than one.

So lately I have been thinking about being  woman. I mean here we all are on line peeking in to each others lives.  So why aren’t we allowed to ask? We wait eagerly for the morsels offered up, a candid photo, an overly honest post about a partner or a confession of or own humanity.

But why? Why are we writing and reading these things? You know what I think it is? I think we all want to know we aren’t different, that we did things the right way or aren’t missing out on anything and … god forbid if we are... is it worth missing? All these questions… why don’t we just ask each other?

 So I thought I’d kick it off myself. I give you full permission to ask anything you like about me and I will answer in the most honest way I know how.

So here are a few things I’ve been thinking about that I want to know about other women… If you want o share you are welcome in my space but to start with I am going to have a crack at answering them… So keep an eye out.

Why do you fall in love and do you trust yourself when you do?

How did you know when you were ready to start a family?

Do you still love your partner everyday? How can I learn? If I don’t should I leave?

While I'm thinking I am going to share with you my latest favourite tune, Hold on by the Alabama Shakes (I'm so in love)

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iQXbf1i24C8

Leverage

My Boyfriend is filthy.

He hasn’t built a cave out of his own faeces yet, but if the occasion arises I’m getting to the point that I would be proud rather than disappointed. I mean a poo-cave would take energy, ingenuity and a dedicated approach.

None of these attributes are currently displayed in his approach to house work. In fact even calling it “an approach to housework” seems to be a little presumptuous.

I don’t think I’m high maintenance, but I’m willing to acknowledge that it is possible…perhaps my knickers are in a twist.

 I understand that my standards aren’t his, and that my chosen life style (featuring an absence of cockroaches, mice and being able to walk with stepping on food) may not be his ideal living situation.  

And that his cleaning suggestions, which have included bringing the hose through the window to clean the bathroom, are not always …. Shit.

However, no matter how I relax my cleaning roster (excluding washing the sheets- this is non-negotiable- which shall always happen on Thursdays… and sometimes Wednesdays if I’ve had a slow week…) my darling and I, we just can’t seem to find a balance.

I’ve yelled, I’ve pleaded, I’ve rationalised.

I’ve stooped to offering sexual favours… he was unpersuaded (Why would I do that I’m a satisfied man…).

 I’ve revoked sexual favours! (His response? He laughed... you’ll break before I do). Damn it he knows me too well.

So what does a girl do? I love my ape, but how does one train them?

This week something happened. I politely told him that it was “crap” that he hadn’t cleaned all week when I’d been ill and working and on teaching practicum. I said it. Just plain like that.

“the least you could do is the washing up”

There was the ticket… The least.  

I didn’t whinge or bully or yell, and it certainly wasn’t rationalizing.. I mean he’d actually completed the least he could’ve done quite successfully, that is SFA.

But no… the washing up was done. I had a little extra time for uni work, what a god send. I’m not sure how this new system will prevail but my goodness it’s nice to have a tool in my frustrated time-stretched belt.  It’s nice to know I have just a little bit of leverage.

I made a point of not saying thank you. I want “the least” to become a standard, an expectation. At least until he masters the art of building a poo cave, then I’ll know the possibilities are endless.

Put a Spring in your step Salad

So Im a big fan of Spring. In fact I’m a sucker of every season.

 I love that warm breeze in Spring pushing around all the leaves.  Walking in to town in a summer dress and finally getting to bring my favourite cardi out of the cupboard.

One of my favourite traditions is taking all my boots to the shoe repairman and getting him to check them over, repair them and wax them up for a blustery winter. That’s not to mention buying a new scarf, or sitting in the library as rain pushes down the payne.

Taking that first walk in cool sunshine and taking your jumper off anyway, you’re cold but you don’t mind so much because winter was such a long one! And seeing the heads of blossoms and bulbs start to burst with Spring.

But Summer ahhhh summer. I just adore it. I love feeling so hot that that I want to transport out of my body, envelope myself in water and sit open mouth in front of an air conditioner. I love the relief of a gin on a sweltering afternoon, or a glass of champagne when it’s hot enough to sit outside at midnight.

But the thing I love the most about the seasons is the food… Everytime the season changes it brings with it a new collection of vegetables, fruit and meat to adore. Spring lamb anyone? A pineapple? Vegetable soup? Sunday night roast? Food=Seasons. Enough said.

So this is my favourite spring salad recipe. That’s right I’m sharing again. God knows why... I think it’s because I just ate it for dinner and now I want more, and I’d like you to make it for me.

So first you are going to need some beetroot. I love home roasted baby beets- but tonight I couldn’t for the life of me be bothered so I went with the good old tinned stuff. Get the whole baby ones and cut them into quarters. Put them in your favourite bowl. Admire them, what royal food they are.

Next you’ll need a fat old brown onion, a little butter and a big glug of olive oil in a medium to hot pan, chop the onion into strips and let it cook along slowly. You want it to caramelise, cook right down til brown and sticky. You do this by not adding the onions til the butter and oil is hot, throw in a pinch of salt and pepper. You shouldn’t need sugar- some people use it but I think there is generally enough sugar in the onion itself. Turn the heat to medium and stir them as the cook down. At this point you’ll need to have chopped up two cups of pumpkin.

The pumpkin needs to be about a few centimetres long, but not more than a centimetre thick.  Good fork-ing size.  Throw the pumpkin in with the onion and let them hang out together. Keep an eye on them and give them a stir now and then, but they should go soft without too much effort.

From here on its pretty simple (it’s been so complicated so far right…) on top of the beets throw a couple handfuls of rocket. If you don’t like this peppery little beast, you can always choose a lettuce you like- minuet lettuce is a favourite of mine.  Then pluck a few basil leaves, I use a bout a handful all torn up- did you know you should always tear basil and not cut it? The way a knife cuts causes it to respond differently and changes the flavour, now we couldn’t have that.

Now add some olive oil and some candied balsamic vinegar if you have it- otherwise a splash of champagne or regular balsamic will do just fine. It is time to take the pumpkin and onions off the heat. If you have time chill them down, otherwise just throw them in- I’ve never been shy of a hot/cold salad. Add a few handfuls of walnuts… or pecans if you don’t like the tart taste.

Now here is the kicker. Crumble some goat’s cheese across the top.

I don’t know why we don’t eat more goats’ cheese. It’s delicious tart, sour and creamy. It’s a bit pricey if you don’t have a good local producer (we are a bit spoilt here in hippy loving Adelaide). If you haven’t bought it before give it a go, it’s better for you and easier on your stomach. Often people who are lactose intolerant can have goat’s milk products (including myself). Now give that old salad a toss!

I hope you like it, it’s so full of spring I adore it.

So what are you going to do about accountability!?!

So it’s been a week (perhaps even a little more) and I know I promised to write and I’m behind ...but I swear I have been thinking of you. This week I’ve taken a keen interest in my health, I’ve even ventured back to the gym. True story.

Chatting to my sister on the phone the other night and I was telling her about my plans. Like most sisters heading into summer she was thinking the same thing, time to shed a few wobbly bits...

Much to my surprise after hearing about the changes I'd beeen making she spat out the words...”what are you going to do about accountability??”.

You should probably understand at this point that my sister in an international lawyer and her brain functions in a highly effective and clinical manner- even when it comes to her mouth and knicker size. So yes she was literally asking me “how are you going to record and track it, how are you going to prove your commitment”. Ahhhhh the legal profession.

So what am I going to do about accountability?

nothing.

As I have said in the post before this eating and exercise change is out of love of my body not out a self hate or disappointment. However my big sis has a point… maybe I need a system.

So I went out and bought a lolly jar.

What’s that you say?  Lollies aren’t on diets? Ummm no they aren’t…. But guess what… they are on mine. See to be quite honest I’m not a big sweets eater but this little jar is in my cupboard as a sign that I trust me and if I want a peanut M&M… I can have one. I’m just choosing not to at the minute. So my jar sits there, leaving me totally accountable.

Physician Heal Thyself.

Today I made a decision.

I haven’t weighed myself in a long time; I’m just not a big fan. I know that once I weigh myself, I will obsess. I’ve been a bit fixated in the past and part of growing up for me was choosing to only measure myself by the clothes I wear, how I feel about my body and how healthy the food I eat is.

Lately that has not been a sufficient measure… things have gotten a little relaxed on the waist, arse and thighs front. And by relaxed I mean… fat.

Usually in this situation I would launch into a furious diet, find a trainer, draw up a schedule, deny myself alcohol or deliciousness.

Usually I start a journey of self-loathing that would successfully whittle my self-esteem down to slim.

Not this time. I’m just not doing it. I refuse.

Ok so I’m no longer a size eight, but I’m really proud of who I am and what I do each day. It takes immense amount of patience, love and dedication. Ok so I don’t like the way I look and I miss wearing my favourite things but, I’m managing a huge load at university and work, and keeping my relationship spiffy and my house (mostly) clean.

So this time I’m not going to get angry at myself, I’m going to remind myself that I love what this body does for me and that I need to take some more time loving it. I might need to put me first, not the house, or the study or my lovely time-consuming-often-inconvenient-and-unorganised boyfriend. Love you honey.

Off to the greengrocer I went. I bought everything I felt like, spinach, pears, apples, parsley, garlic and many other goodies. I went home and made a huge salad, sat in the sun and put my uni work aside. I just enjoyed Being for a little.

Then tonight I went old school and had an Epsom Salt bath. A favourite of mine, Espom salt is cleansing for the skin (or so I read) and I had a good old fashioned soak. Tomorrow I’ll make tracks towards the gym. This leaves just two things:

I solemnly vow to blog in love about my health progress once a week.

And secondly this, I hope that others will join. I’m new to blogging, but I’d like to make an offer. Share my blog with others and comment beneath (indicating where you shared it), In return I will send the first five of you (do the math.. there are currently only four of you!) a box of Epsom salts and candle bath pack, on the promise you have a long soak and consider that masterpiece you are living in, look how much it’s done for you, what it represents and reflects in your life. I bet it’s given you heaps, let’s give it a little love back.

Save My Soul Chicken Soup

SOooo I don’t share recipes easily. I’m serious. I have a real problem with it.

Before you go assuming anything, I want you to know that I am a generous person, I have time, money and laughter to share freely, but recipes... are…different. I only cook things that I have played around with and perfected, I have many recipe books but usually I just use them as a guide and cook by the heart. So sharing MY recipes is more than a little personal.

Giving this to you today is a gesture of pure love. I love to cook, it is the heart of the home I make,

the soul of the body I love and,

the product of the earth I live on.

You can tell I’m still struggling sharing this can't you.

OK so here goes it. 

I got the idea for this recipe from a darling friend, the larger than life Miss Pipi.
We often cook together over a bottle of wine, but we have very different cooking styles. Subsequently I love learning her ideas and exploring her reasoning behind the way she prepares food. I took her recipe and bastardised it to quell my winter desires.

Oh and one more thing... I don’t write recipes out properly… you didn’t honestly think I was going to make this easy for you did you??

Save my soul chicken Soup

What I love about this recipe is that it is lip smacking delicious, even the kids will polish off a bowl or three. Also it freezes really well and on top of all of this it’s incredibly healthy. YUM.

I like to prepare all my ingredients before I start cooking so you’re going to need to do some chopping first.

My rule with soups is that I never chop anything larger than the size I’d like to eat it off a spoon.

Three onions finely diced and three cloves of garlic in a pan with a big GLUG of olive oil and a few mean cracks of pepper. Only have the heat down low, our aim here is for the onions to go limp and smell gorgeous. No browning.

Now pour yourself a huge glass of wine and take a small sip. I’d recommend the Landhaus Grenache… lightly balanced with rich raspberry and cranberry elements, with a peppery finish it’s a great bottle for under twenty bucks.

Good. Puuurfect.

Chop the stems of a bunch of parsley as finely as you can. YES you heard me. STEMS. You don’t want the woody bits, just the bright green fresh bits. Small as you can, and then throw them in with the onions.

Stir stir stir.

Sip sip sip.

When it is all lovely and limp and the house is starting to smell like a proper Mammas house it’s time to add three litres of stock. I don’t make small amounts of soup... I mean what would be the point of that?

I don’t mind what kind of stock you use, for no reason I can pinpoint I like to use 1 litre of veg and 2 litres of chicken stock. My butcher makes his own stock and it’s very well priced, but if you are in no such luck and can’t make or buy fresh stock easily I encourage you to use the liquid stock over cubes. This is purely due to bias and general snobbery. I just think it tastes better.

Now Lid on the pot and turn the heat up high.

You have already chopped two carrots, two zucchini’s, a quarter of a cauliflower and the corn from two ears. You have stripped the skin off a bbq chicken throw away the filthy stuffing and coarsely shopped the meat.
Every time I buy a BBQ chicken I remember my Dad watching me piece one up for the family when I was a teenager. I must have been wasteful, because he looked at me and said “...anyone could tell from looking at that, that you’ve never lived through a depression.”
It has stuck with me. SO I implore you scrape the meat of the bird and then glad wrap the carcass and put it in the freezer. Another day I’ll teach you to make stock with it. promise.

So all of our chopped items are sitting prettily on the bench. As soon as it starts to boil throw it all in and turn the heat down just below medium.

Let it simmer. Drink your wine, pretend to stir it, ignore your boyfriend and enjoy the smell.
Pure Kitchen glamour.

We are almost done. Are you proud? I’m sharing really well.

Ok two minutes has passed and you add in a bag of baby spinach, two chopped birds eyes chilis (obviously you don’t have to add this, or you may add more- personally if I’m cooking for my freezer I add an extra habanero chili), toss in the leaves of the parsley chopped, a lemon juiced and a half a cup of parmesan cheese. You want the stinkiest parmesan you can find, ask your local cheese lady- often a good Asagio or Pecorino. It adds a bite and a salt to the soup that is addictive. Turn the heat off, you’re done. Serve up a big bowl, pour another glass of wine and enjoy it with the people you love. Just don’t give them the recipe.

Love Grace xx