Lady of the Cake

One of the things that bothers me about not being able to work outside the home is that as a homemaker, my skills leave much to be desired. Without the the pressures of work as an excuse, I have nothing to explain away my utter lack of imagination when it comes to our home and meals.

It makes me feel incompetent. And I'm not used to feeling incompetent. Allow me a moment of immodesty here to say that I was a cute baby, a smart child, a happy and well-adjusted teenager, an above average student, and a top-rated employee. And my family and friends had better would agree that I'm a good person to have in their lives. So though I may not be particularly talented in any one thing, there are several things I can do without appearing like a total idiot.

Unfortunately, cooking is not one of those things. When I step into the kitchen to cook, the results are usually offensive to all 5 senses (If you're wondering how food can sound bad, it's not the food, it's me that sounds bad once the inevitably inedible dish is finally ready). It is as if my DNA is missing some crucial cooking gene. Up until now, this inability of mine wasn't something I felt particularly bad about it. So I can't cook. Big deal, was what I thought.

But then Moppet happened and I find myself wishing that I could make her something that she would love to eat. Something that 'nobody can make like mom does'. Something that when she's grown up and away from me, she will remember fondly as mom's special.

It is particularly ironic that I should feel this way. My Mil slaves away in the kitchen all day whenever we visit and is disappointed when we cannot eat more than a quarter of what she has prepared. I have gently told her several times that we know she loves us and that the making and consuming of vast quantities of food are not necessarily indicators of love and regard. And yet, here I am today, wanting to have my child eat and enjoy something I can make for her myself, wanting it to be another special something we share.

But here is the problem. My mom and Mil are as gifted in the matter of cooking as I am challenged. Which means that whether by miracle or dumb luck, I do manage to produce something edible, it will not hold a candle to anything either of the grandmas make. So what to do?

The answer came to me a couple of days ago. Baking! That's what I'm going to do! It has several advantages. I love all manner of baked stuff. Nothing I make will be compared to what Mom makes. And since they won't be everyday items, I won't be called upon to produce them too regularly. The perfect solution, don't you think? I'm already dreaming of the wonderful things I'm going to bake - cakes and cookies and brownies, maybe even bread! So this weekend, I am going to blow some cash on baking equipment and supplies and in a week, you should have a report on how my first ever cake turns out.

Maybe when you visit next, you will be treated to some homemade carrot cake or shortbread biscuits. Then again, with my natural gift for all things culinary, they may end up being store bought, and we may be eating them by candlelight because the oven blew out the power supply. But for now, just call me Lady of the Cake! :-)

Edit: Just realised after I posted that this was my 100th post. So even if my little baking project does go bust, at least I can do a small 'yay-me' on this blog project! :-D

Snippets

"Moppet, do you need to go do susu?"

"No!"

"Are you sure? Come on, let's go sit and see"

"No! No, no, no!" (vigorous head shaking)

"Ok, then"

60 seconds later, she's standing in a pool of piddle, her plastic blocks and stacking cups generously splashed too.

She meets my angry glare with equanimity. Straight-faced, she says: "Uh-oh"

********

Moppet is doing her little pick-me-up jig at my feet. I bend down and tell her that big girls go walking; so should she.

She considers this for a moment then points at herself and says "Baby." And looking up at me as if to emphasize my bigness, she pats my knee and says, "Mama, walking."

Confident that there can be no further argument, she raises her arms to be picked up. She is.

********

Whenever she does something good, I usually give her an enthusiastic 'Good girl' and a high five. Moppet has picked this up and uses it to her own end. After she's done some mischief (usually of the expressly forbidden kind), she knows no one's going to say good girl to her, so she says it for herself. "Goo-gal!"

Goo-gal, indeed!

Mischief, mysteries, and suchlike madness

There's no doubt about it. I have given birth to a goonda. The fact hit home last weekend when our friends and their 5 year old daughter stayed with us. We went out shopping, and the way Moppet bossed over E, one would think that she was the one who was twice as big and 3 times older. It helped that E is a lovely, sweet natured child who was happy to play along with Moppet's crazy ideas.

Like they would go running down the mall hand-in-hand, yelling some sort of war cry, leaving a scattered bunch of startled shoppers in their wake. Or they would conspire near supermarket aisles, and attempt to knock down powder tins with one swipe, like dominos. Dash into a store and throw around some giant plastic balls that were piled in a corner. And of course, they went completely mad at Toys-R-Us.

I don't think E has done as much mischief in the last year as she managed to accomplish with Moppet in that one hour. She was giggling uncontrollably throughout, although her natural well-behaved self did assert itself at the supermarket and Toys-R-Us, where she followed Moppet, putting back everything she swiped from the shelves.


For the first time, I found myself questioning my wish for 2 or more kids. More kids, like this one? With this one as the gang leader?! Heaven help me!

*************************************************

These days, I am called to Moppet's bedside 3 or 4 times a night, usually with a piteous cry for 'Maaaama', or a croak for 'waaaater'. These are simply dealt with. A pat and a firm 'go back to sleep' is mostly enough for the first cry, and a sip of water takes care of the second.

Sometimes it's other people who are called. Her best friends Ishta (Ishita) and Bin (Ben) are often sent midnight summons, and since her grandpa arrived, Daadu has also been requested on a couple of occasions. Telling her they're still asleep and she should go back to sleep too usually works.

There are also some extraordinary calls - Bucket! Apple! Boat! Bubble! - what on earth is going on inside that little head of hers?

But that's not the mystery here. The real mystery is how her Papa has managed to NEVER be the one getting called at night. What I wouldn't give to be able to turn over in bed, poke him and say - She's calling YOU!

Sigh! In my dreams, maybe.

*************************************************

Apparently Moppet has a fetish for hair. I'd noticed that she liked to play with her friend Ishita's pony tail (much to Ishita's annoyance), but I thought it was more about playing with her than with her hair. Then this little Japanese boy about Moppet's age, owner of a most luxuriant head of soft silky hair moved into our building. For the last few days Moppet has been vigorously chasing him around the park, trying to stroke his hair, causing much merriment among the rest of the park population.

*************************************************

My dutiful DIL phase continues. Actually, my FIL is a sweetheart and is really no trouble to look after, but he does like to talk. A LOT. And unlike his son who gets away with rude remarks like, 'Yeah, I've heard that a dozen times already' or 'Ok, ok, get to the point now', I have to resort to gentler tactics such as 'Ah I remember you mentioned that before', or 'So you were actually tellling me about...' Not half as effective I'm afraid.

But in all, we're having fun. Every afternoon, we explore some new side street in Bangkok together, and have even managed to locate a South Indian restaurant not too far from our apartment. FIL has given his seal of approval: Prices are not alright but it tastes ok like.