Healthy baked chicken burgers with help from the glamorous Turtle
So during half term, my adorable twin niece and nephew, Miss Turtle and Mr Jackson came to stay with my two chisellers. We decided to have a blow-out junk food and video night and Turtle agreed to be my glamorous assistant, tearing herself away from her mobile phone and nail file (how the girl doesn’t have stumps for fingers the amount of filing she does, I’ll never know) for just long enough to knock up some yummy chicken burgers.
These burgers are a bit of a fave in our house. Not only are they really cheap, they’re very healthy too and there are endless variations. You can make little dinner party ones to serve with a nice Thai dipping sauce, you can make them into little meatballs and serve with a tomato sauce, or you can vary the flavours, say, with coriander or chilli…
Anyhoo, onto the main event. Firstly, you’ll need:
Breadcrumbs (I whizz 2 slices in the blender of doom)
1 onion, or a couple of spring onions
1 egg
500g minced chicken or turkey
Seasoning
Firstly, then, your glamorous assistant needs to bung a couple of slices of slightly stale bread into the food processor (actually we’re using the blender – not that blender – because I broke my lovely braun Braun MR400 Plus Multiquick Handblender 300w
Next up, warn the aforementioned glamorous assistant about the perils of mixing fingers and blenders (she’s worn hers down enough as it is), then bung in the onion/spring onion and the egg. If you’re using anything else, like chilli or coriander, chuck it in now. Of course, if you don’t have an onion-phobic child and therefore don’t need to resort to this kind of stealth cookery, you could just chop them finely. Whizz until you get a strangely satisfying frothy green liquid and silently pray to the cocktail god that your next mojito won’t taste of spring onion:
Next, and this is the good bit, bung the green goo into the breadcrumbs and add the chicken mince. Season generously with salt and pepper, then roll up the sleeves of your glamorous assistant and set her to work squelching up the mixture (with clean hands and beautifully manicured nails) into an even paste:
When the mix is nicely combined, form it into about 6 patties, or smaller little cakes, or balls or whatever (and yes, they do have a slightly green tinge, but don’t let that put you off):
Put them on a non-stick tray (important that) and bake at 180 degrees/gas 4 for about 20 mins. The smaller ones will take less time, but make sure you check to see that they’re thoroughly cooked in the middle.
Now just assemble your burger. We used fresh crusty rolls and garnished our burgers with crunchy lettuce, grated cheese and a little spicy tomato salsa, but feel free to experiment.
Finally, we got out every single fattening thing we could find, including ice cream, whipped cream and a variety of chocolatey stuff, and set about having an ice-cream sundae competition (#1’s is the one that’s just a sundae dish full of chocolate):
And the winner is? Yup, you guessed it:
A few of my favourite things…
So I finally got tagged in Tara Cain’s ‘favourite photo meme’. I was beginning to feel like Norma-no-mates as blogger after blogger got tagged (no, Tara, I’m not bitter…). Finally, though, the fabulous, 51% Linda from Got Your Hands Full and the lovely Zoe over at Diary of a Surprise Mum took pity on me and challenged me to publish my favourite photo…
And actually, I’ve cheated a bit as there are two. The first is a picture of my firstborn, the wondrous Mad Professor, giving his beloved Grandad a piece of his mind, as usual. I love the look on his face (it’s obviously a good story), and you can see that my Dad’s smiling as he’s listens to his Grandson waffling on. Magical.
Second up is my favourite photo of The Death Wish Child. He’s on a very windy beach in Lanzarote. I’m not sure why I love it so much, but I love his scrunched up little smile and his funky denim hat:
And lastly, here’s my absolute favourite song. Hubby has it on his laptop, my rockin’, Slipknot loving #1 has this on his phone, as does funky, Chipmunk loving son #2. It’s a proper family favourite:
So now, I tag the lovely Liz at Living with Kids, and let’s open it up a little farther shall we? To Coastal Aussie in the land of Vegemite. Off you go, then…
Curse you, Supersleepover Mum…
Picture the scene:
It’s dinner time. My child has come home from a sleepover and is enthusing about it, telling me every little detail. He’s stabbed a chip and is currently waving it about as he tells us how cool his mate’s mum is. I’m trying to sound interested, I really am, but frankly, the old eyes are starting to glaze over…
‘…and she’s, like, really trendy – and like, really interested in all the same music as us…’
['but I like your music...', I fight the urge to wail, 'I can name every member of N-Dubz... even the one with the hat...']‘, but actually I smile and say: ‘no way? That’s great!’
The chip continues to wave around in mid-air.
‘…and we got a chinese and were allowed to order anything we wanted…spare ribs, crispy duck… anything.’
['No veg, then?']
‘…I had tons. It was gorgeous…’
['but I cook you nice stuff too...' Home made stuff...'] I follow the chip as it waves around in front of his mouth: ‘Wow, chinese? You’re so lucky’.
‘…and she made wicked cookies with Green and Black’s and we were allowed to eat all of them…’
['but I do cookies - don't I? I do! I do cookies all the time! Okay, mine say 'bollocks' on, but hey... And cake! I do cake!] ‘Ooh yummy, bet they were gorgeous’.
The chip finally hits the target and there’s a brief pause before my torture continues:
‘…and she let us go on the trampoline in the snow. It was awesome!’
[Shit. Broken twisted limbs - no fucking way I'd let you do that...] ‘Gosh, really?’.
Come on, admit it. You’ve all been there. Your child has come back from a sleepover and ‘X’s mum is awesome!’ Oh God.
X’s mum is obviously far trendier than me. She must have the patience of Mother flippin’ Theresa and be as deaf as a geriatric. I feel inadequate. I’m crap at sleepovers. I get really grumpy. It has been known for me to request that their friends ’shut the f*ck up’ when they’re still giggling at 2am.
But X’s mum goes above and beyond. There was trifle. Eaten in bed. And she’s, like, so funny too…
['But wait, what about my hilarious parody of Kardinal's rap in Akon's 'Beautiful' ... pretty funny huh?...']
The thing is, she’s actually a really, really nice person. It’s just that at the end of every sleepover, I want to poke out her eyes with a blunt kebab stick. Talk about raising the bar.
To Ireland, with love.
So that’s it, then. Packing has commenced, the chickens have been collected in a trailer and carted off to their new home, and in a very short time we shall land back on terra firma in the good old Kingdom of United.
I have mixed feelings, frankly. When we first moved to Dublin I was miserable. I missed my friends, my family, the familiarity of having lived in a place your whole life; bumping into people you know in Tesco (frankly, being able to even go to Tesco without an hour’s round trip). It was rotten. The children hated their new school (#1 was the only native English speaker in his class), everything was alien, everything shut for lunch, or on a Monday, or on a Wednesday or had to be requested in writing, and I lasted about 6 weeks before I fled home, leaving poor Hubby blinking in a bewildered fashion in a big empty Irish house.
Still, we made it back. And with a new school for the boys, a new dog (the wonderful and much missed Becks), a new friend in Jenny and a new blog to take up my time (EnglishMuminIreland.blogs.ie – where it all began), I started to settle in. The Irish are a wonderful breed: open, friendly, always up for a laugh, never too busy to help… With Hubby’s new job we found ourselves here in Cavan and from the moment we walked over the threshold of English Towers, we felt at home. With the lovely C next door already terminally ill when we arrived, a sad by-product of being able to help in small ways like minding children or fetching medicine from the chemist was that we (selfishly) felt needed and wanted very quickly. We made friends with The Lovelies, the Galway Cs and Poppy’s Mum and her family (if you’re new here, check out ‘All about me’ at the top of the screen for more info), all via D, who was unceasingly generous with both his time and his friends, and have felt happily and contendedly as though we were home for the past two years. D now has a new, lovely lady in his life. The children are delighted and so are we. We wish them all the love and happiness that they so deserve.
But things change. The Recession came and bit us on the bum and it’s time to move on again. I’ll miss the beautiful countryside, the wonderful people and the laid back lifestyle, but the hustle and bustle of town life is calling me back too. Living in this huge house with the dog and the chickens and the lovely garden has been a massive adventure for us all. The children have made lifelong friends, received a fantastic education and enjoyed some amazing life experiences. They have benefitted immeasurably from their time here, as have the Hubby and I. We’ve been lucky enough to share this fantastic place with our friends and family when they came over for our wedding blessing and have even been welcomed into the new community of the church by the kind and gentle Revd Craig - something I never would have imagined in a million years. I know we’ll return so much more open to new experiences, and with a fresh appreciation for all the people and places that we’ve missed over the last four years.
Onwards and upwards, then. Pass the bubble wrap. Goodbye Emerald Isle. It’s been a blast.
5 Reasons why I am a bad mother.
1. Saturday morning. I wake up to accusing looks from both offspring. It turns out that I forgot to go out and shut the chickens up last night, now two of them are missing. I am a bad mother. I go out to look for them and find mounds of brown feathers strewn all over the coop. It’s pretty obvious that a fox got to them. I sit on the patio step and dissolve into tears. Minnie pecks at my wedding ring. I push her away and continue to cry guiltily before it dawns on me that she is obviously not dead. Chilli is standing about ten feet away from me looking feathery and fine and not bald at all. She must be moulting. I give them both revolting smelly chickeny hugs and smile smugly at evil-eyed offspring.
2. Sunday morning. I am upstairs folding washing when all of a sudden a blood curdling scream chills me to the core. Hurdling the dog, whose first instinct is a hopeless attempt to try and force himself under the bed, I take the stairs four at a time to the kitchen where #1 is found to be the source of the screaming and is running around clutching his posterior. #2 is standing looking guilty. Turns out big brother wanted a hug from small brother who wasn’t too keen and shoved him a little too hard. He hurtled backwards into the corner of a door and sustained a nasty injury to: ‘MY ARSE! OW! MY ARSE!’, or more accurately, the base of his spine. Injured party is now running around, clutching aforementioned arse and squealing in a pitch so high that only dogs can hear him.
I calm things down and fetch an ’arse pack’ from the freezer which causes me and the small one to dissolve into fits of hysteria and the large one to tell us to go away with words that would make his Grandmother blush, interspersed with ‘OW! MY ARSE!’ albeit in a slightly calmer tone.
3. Sunday Evening. Both offspring want to go down the boat road to watch the Pumpkin Festival fireworks. I don’t. I am a bad mother. It’s two against one and I seem to be losing. Happily, D-next-door comes to the rescue and offers to take them. Two hours later, happily snuggled on the sofa with red wine and chocolate, the back door slams and the high pitched ‘OW MY ARSE!’ dog-deafening resumes. Turns out instead of being sensible and representing the family and staying close to D as I had instructed, they’d messed about on an old rope swing down by the lough and #1 had fallen, yup you guessed it, straight onto the aforementioned injured bum again. I offer the arse pack. #2 and I collapse again. #1 stomps off to bed.
4. This morning. #2 is taking part in a sponsored walk with the school. I have forgotten that I promised to email his Grandparents and various aunties, uncles and friends. His sponsorship form is completely empty. Feeling that I am an incredibly bad mother I spend ten minutes inventing people and filling in his sponsorship form with fictional sponsors. He is not impressed. I am a bad mother.
5. #1 wishes to go up to Cavan with his mates and watch ‘The Vampire’s Assistant’ or some such. I’m not sure. Not only am I not sure whether he’ll be able to use his bus pass at half term, I’m also not sure that he should be in town on his own, even though he promises they’ll go straight to cinema and not hang around in one of those horrible teenage ‘gangs’ that make half term so unpleasant for us normal people. I ‘obviously don’t trust him’ and am a bad mother. I ask his Dad. His Dad says yes. Victorious child can barely keep smugness from his face as we drive to bus stop. I am tempted to enquire after the wellbeing of his arse but fight the urge. Smugness disappears instantly as he realises he’s left his bus pass at home.
Hurling the child from the still-moving car, I shout at him to hold the bus, execute a pretty impressive J-turn in the middle of the N3 and hurtle home to retrieve the bus pass. Just as I’m speeding back, he rings and tells me the bus is here. I assure him I’m two minutes away. He rings again. The bus driver couldn’t wait but allowed him to get on the bus as long as I catch up with them and give him the bus pass.
Cue ‘Benny Hill’ music as I drive like a woman posessed trying to catch up with the bus which is obviously being driven by Nigel Mansell. Half way to Cavan I manage to catch them up. As I hand over the bus pass, the bus driver gives me an ‘I am not impressed’ glare.
I give him an ‘oh piss off’ glare back and head home.
#1, however, sends me a text telling me that, on the contrary, I am a ‘legend’
I reply and tell him that he is a spanner.
I am a bad mother.
Restaurant Review: The Forge Restaurant, Pottlereagh, Carnaross
So here, finally, is the review of The Forge Restaurant where we celebrated English Grandma’s 70th. We went with open minds because (let’s face it, like most restaurants) some of our friends had had fabulous experiences, and others not so good - we’d also heard tales of being rushed through desserts to free up tables, but when I phoned I spoke to a very friendly waitress who assured me that we could take as long as we needed.
First things first, then, it’s in an absolutely beautiful spot. Nestled in quite a rural location, but only about 5 minutes off the N3 (the main road between Kells and Cavan) and just 4 miles north of Kells. I’d guestimate that it’s probably just over an hour’s drive from Dublin. It’s a beautiful old stone building with plenty of parking, and we were given a very warm welcome by owner Irene, who was reassuringly present in the restaurant all evening, and the lovely smiley waitresses.
Obviously the first thing we did was order some wine and we weren’t disappointed with our South African Lookout Ridge Chenin Blanc ’08, which was fresh and zingy. The dinner menu (we booked at 7pm) is small but lovingly chosen, and Irene was more than happy to chat about the decisions behind the menu, their suppliers, where their seafood comes from, etc.
We got an amazing platter of warm home made bread while we were waiting, with some lovely spicy fruity walnut bread being my particular favourite. The fellas all chose a mussel casserole as a starter. The mussels were small and deliciously sweet, swimming in a generous broth of cream, white wine and onion (which was a bit too creamy for their tastes, but I thought was lovely – maybe in need of a bit more reduction, although I’m no expert):
Grandma and I both chose the smoked haddock fishcakes, which were exactly as promised: with chunks of soft smokey fish and a lovely crisp coating:
Everything was beautifully presented and absolutely scrummy.
For mains, Hubby and I both chose salmon with a crab Creole sauce, #2 went for a rib eye steak and #1 chose a rack of lamb. I can’t remember what Grandma chose (I blame the Chenin Blanc). Again, every meal was painstakingly decorated and lovingly presented: the lamb expertly cooked and just pink in the middle:
… the salmon moist and delicate (what? I stole some chips, okay?), nestled on the Creole crab which was amazingly sweet and warmly spiced:
… and the steak (what was left of it by the time we got a photo) huge, meltingly tender and perfectly cooked:
The side orders were beautiful, and generous: big fat chips, lovely creamy dauphinoise potatoes and fresh crisp vegetables. Most importantly, they were included in the price of the meal – it really annoys me when restaurants charge you 6 quid for a teeny plate of veg.
On to desserts, then. And although we were all feeling a bit like overstuffed cushions, the menu was so tempting that we had to go for it. Hubby and I shared a Baileys and mixed nut parfait in a hazelnut tuille with fruits of the forest coulis, which was first class. The parfait had an amazing texture and creamy flavour, and the tuille was light and crisp. Yum:
#2 naturally went for a big slab of squidgy chocolate roulade, complemented by a lovely sorbet (can’t remember what flavour but it was zingy and fruity and fabulously countered the richness of the chocolate roulade):
…and even the birthday girl managed to squeeze in a bit of sorbet:
All in all we were delighted. It’s not a cheap meal, but the care and attention taken with the sourcing, cooking and decorating of each plate of food means that you feel that you get proper value for money. The staff and owners are friendly and welcoming (even to little English boys with very loud, squeaky voices) and passionate about their product, the setting is divine and the restaurant is homely, warm and inviting. If you live in Ireland, do try and make the effort to head north and try out this absolute gem of a place, and if not, then next time you’re in Ireland, you must visit. In fact, you can pop in to English Towers and say hi at the same time.
The Forge Restaurant
Pottlereagh
Carnaross
Kells
Co. Meath
Tel: 046 924 5003
Fax: 046 924 5917
Random conversations: political correctness for beginners
I am baking (I know, what a shocker). Well Hubby is away and I’m missing him badly (I have nobody to annoy, and it’s really depressing to talk during a television programme and not be told to shush), so it’s either brownies or vodka, and it’s 4pm, so brownies it is. #2 is doing his homework at the kitchen table. The conversation goes something like this:
Me: ‘What are you doing?’
#2: ‘I’m writing a recipe for witch’s brew. It’s really cool. I’m doing it in my best writing ‘cos it’s going up on the wall’
Me: ‘Excellent! What have you got so far?’
He starts to read out his recipe. It contains the usual suspects: ‘one newt’s eye, one lizard’s tongue, one tarantula, one disabled person…’
Me: ‘WHOAH! One what?!’
#2: ‘one disabled person’
Holy shit.
Me: ‘Erm sweetheart, you can’t say that, it’s horrible’
#2: ‘It’s meant to be horrible, it’s witch’s brew’
Me: ‘No, I mean you really can’t say that. You’ll get into trouble. That’s terrible. You can’t.’
#2: ‘Why? It’s funny. Sean’s putting “one bulimic” in his’ *
Holy f*cking poo.
Me: ‘That is SO not funny. It’s not kind to make jokes about disabled people.’
#2: ‘I’m not making jokes about disabled people. I’m just putting one in a stew’
Somebody kill me. Please.
So we have the big long conversation about political correctness, about how somebody disabled would feel if they read it, how he would feel if somebody made fun of him or one of his disabled friends or family. It was a long, excruciating conversation, but I think he got the point.
I mean, how bloody hard is parenthood? When you’re wallowing like a whale in your parenting classes, chewing on your 7th marmite and peanut butter sandwich, nobody ever mentions that you’re going to have to explain what tampons are to a four year old who has fished one out of your bag and is now waving it in a restaurant shouting ‘can I have one of these sweeties?’, or why pointing out in a really loud voice that you’ve ‘got a stiffy’ in the middle of Tesco’s isn’t a good idea. Ohhhh no, it’s all cuteness and changing mats and baby powder and solids and all that. But disabled people in soup? Nope, not even a mention.
Have you ever thought about how you’d explain it, for goodness’ sake.
Me (in self important tone): So now do you see how important it is to be sensitive to other people’s feelings? Disability is no joke.’
#2: ‘Yes’
#2 (muttered): But you laugh at Andy in Little Britain.
*name changed to protect the incredibly guilty.
And in the spirit of even more political correctness, I’d like everybody to pop over to Belgian Waffle and read her Eat Your Words post. It’s quite the funniest thing I’ve ever read in my life. Ever.
In which the YTPR comes to tea and talks me into being sociable
I am miserable.
I am also baking.
This is a bad mixture. At the best of times, I am the most spectacularly messy baker in the history of messy baking so I’m crashing stuff around, I have flour on my nose, every surface in the kitchen is covered in packets, bowls, utensils, half-chopped almonds and blobs of cookie dough… the mixer is going full pelt…
The doorbell rings and I yell at #2 to get the door.
It’s the YTPR, Craig. He obviously has the same amazing ability as Mr Lovely for sniffing out baking the moment it goes into the oven.
‘Hello!’, says the Rev, ‘I’m stalking you’.
‘Come in’, says I, ‘…and two emails and one blog comment don’t technically count as stalking. Cup of tea?’
‘Oh go on, then’, he says, ‘ooh, are you baking?’
We chat and drink tea as I continue to hurl things into the Very Special Anniversary KitchenAid. He threatens to tell Jen that I moaned that the whisk doesn’t get right to the edges.
He’s noticed, via my blog posts (that’s the way my life works) that I seem a bit down. We chat some more. He mentions that several of his female parisioners get together on a Tuesday for a few nibbles and a chat – nothing heavy or religious, just a bit of mutual support and a few cookies…
‘Whoah…’
[Cue sound of needle screeching across record]
‘I’m not very good at socialising’, says I. It’s true. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, really, as I’m quite friendly – but there’s something about socialising that scares the living crap out of me. I envisage a group of women all chatting and having fun. I walk in, and it goes all quiet like that scene in the pub in American Werewolf. I then continue to compound my awkward situation by uttering a string of increasingly absurd things. Eventually, they all throw their cookies at me and leave. Stupid, I know, but I can’t help it.
He reassures me that they’re all really friendly. His wife goes (I like his wife). One lady is a real foodie and does catering and makes chutneys and stuff…
‘What, like chutneys and chilli jam and stuff?’
‘Yeah, stuff like that’
‘Okay then, I’ll think about it. Biscuit?’
‘Oh go on, then.’
Personal blogging: cathartic or a step too far?
I was interested to read (on Twitter, via my friend Laura) that the legendary blogger, Petite Anglaise, was hanging up her keyboard once and for all. And although our thoughts turned first to the fact that it will leave a space in the #1 slot of the Top 100 British Mummy Bloggers chart (elbows out, girls!…hey, hang on, I’m down 9 places to #15 – the shame!), her reasons for ‘turning the page’ on blogging were very interesting.
It seems that personal blogging, the very thing that earned her the lucrative book deal and led to a career as a writer, had started to leave an unpleasant taste in her mouth. If you don’t know the story, she famously got fired by her boss, about whom she was distinctly unpleasant, when her anonymous blog came to light (she did subsequently win damages against him in court, though). The story made her quite famous, but once the anonymity had been removed, there was the constant worry that somebody would be upset or offended with what she might say, and with that new-found worry came the inevitable dearth of subject matter. Interesting, also, that it was THIS INTERVIEW with Liz Jones, a weirdly neurotic, no-holds-barred journo who has managed to alienate half her family and her entire village (including my friend and fellow Disney 7er Exmoor Jane) with her bare-all style of writing, that finally tipped her over the edge. But in short, she just stopped enjoying it.
I sympathise, I really do. When I started my blog, way back when we first moved to Ireland, I was obsessive about anonymity and never posted pictures of anyone I knew. Slowly, I’ve relaxed this rule. I still try not to post full-face photos of the children, or anyone whose permission I haven’t sought (Mad Uncle Alg is fair game, obviously), and don’t mention people’s full names. But now we’re settled here, it’s natural that more and more people get to know me, start to read the blog, and my cover has been, I suppose, somewhat blown. In fact, I’ve even been caught out giving my rather frank views by someone that turned out to be a reader. Yup, that was awkward. I’d hate to think I’d ever hurt anyone by what I’d written and I’ll always check first with, say, D-next-door before I mention C, or the kids.
With all this in mind, I’ve had a long hard think about this blog and did decide to go back and remove certain pictures and videos, including our wedding vid. You can still email me for a link, but I wondered if I was going too far towards making my family live a life online, so I took a step back.
Add this to the fact that I now write for other websites, such as the fabulous HaveALovelyTime.com and you’ll probably find my first name dotted about, if you really look hard. Funnily enough, when I, and my fellow Disney adventurers travelled to Walt Disney World and met up with our American alter-egos, the ‘Mommy Bloggers’, they were completely dumbfounded by our wish to remain anonymous. Most published their full names, pictures of themselves and their families and couldn’t understand why we wouldn’t wish to do the same:
‘What, you don’t WANT to be famous?’
‘Erm, no, actually, I don’t’.
Englishmum.com is a, I suppose, a bit of an eccentric mix. There’s family stuff, yes, but the foodie/garden stuff tends to take precendence. And if I’m honest, I suppose that as the children get older, it’s harder to write honestly without risking embarrassing them in front of their school mates (#1’s been known to comment whilst in his IT lesson). My readership has risen steadily (thank you!) and though I’m sure I’ve lost and gained different readers as my content has meandered, I am lucky to be blessed with friendly and loyal readers and commenters. I regard my blog as a little piece of me. It’s stuffed full of things that I love and I’m always happy that people pop in and enjoy reading my waffle.
And this, I suppose, brings me neatly on to the fact that after much soul-searching, we’ve decided to have Bert rehomed. This is a HUGE decision for us, but basically he’s been showing some signs of aggression for a while and obviously our children have to be our main priority. There’s a load of history behind this that I won’t bore you with, but my lovely mate Jen is still in touch with a lot of people in greyhound rescue, and is going to make sure he goes to a good home somewhere with people that know his history and will really love and care for him well. I’m sad, but I think it’s the right thing to do.
So for now, I’ll crack on (800 posts, 8553 comments and counting…), I’ll continue to be anonymous-ish, and there’ll be the same old stuff – maybe a bit more food and a bit less about the fellas, and obviously no more Bert, but don’t worry, if anyone humiliates themselves in any way, you’ll be the first to know.
Oh and here’s my rather pathetic review on Mmmmmmcake. ‘It was nice’? C minus for effort there.
Healthy lunches, fruity peanut flapjack and a small moan
So things aren’t going well here at English Towers. In fact, that’s a total understatement. Things are going shite (recession, you b*stard, go take it out on somebody else for a change). Anyhoo, instead of making you read a whole big chuntering moan all about how terrible my life is, I thought I’d tell you about my little trip to the lovely little local school yesterday where I took great pleasure in watching as #2 turned puce with embarrassment as I manned a healthy eating cookery stall. See, they had a fabulous bash for the launch of their new School Healthy Eating Policy, and they kindly invited me along, knowing that I’d be tempted out of my kitchen here at English Towers with the promise of an afternoon of showing off and the chance to embarrass my youngest child.
Now as you probably know, in Ireland there’s no such thing as school lunches. Nope, Sir Jamie of Oliver’s magic wooden spoon hasn’t touched these vibrant shores, and kids are still taking a peanut butter sandwich and a Mint Club to school (ooh, I love Mint Clubs…), furring up their little arteries and basically making themselves into little chubby sumo wrestlers. So in an inspired bit of forward thinking, they took it upon themselves to come up with a healthy eating policy, encouraging the children to bring healthy food in their lunchboxes and banning the undesirables like sweeties, crisps and fizzy drinks.
Yesterday, the school launched their new policy with the help of a fabulous committee of children, a few random Mums (of which I was one) and a very nice lady from the HSE (sorry about the butter thing, Mary, I just can’t bring myself to cook with anything that starts with ‘mono-unsomethingorother). Mrs Galway C and a few other ladies spent hours peeling and chopping masses of fruit and vegetables to give the children the opportunity to taste everything from watermelon to spring onion, and yet more Mums brought in their fabulous home-grown vegetables and fruit (I kept quiet at that point, thinking that the comedy cauliflower from my garden would probably frighten the children). The kids did all sorts of pictures and displays (one of which was a fascinating wall display showing the sugar content of several items represented in actual lumps of sugar – scary).
For my part, I printed up a few healthy recipes and brought along some blueberry muffins, flapjacks with dates and apricots, some easy hummus with lots of dippy vegetable sticks, and a broccoli and salmon quiche (okay, tarte, if you’re posh) for the children to try. Oh yeh, sorry, the recipes:
Fruity Date and Dried Apricot Flapjack
140g butter
2 tbsp peanut butter (or omit and use 170g total butter)
4 tbsp golden syrup or honey
100g brown sugar
30g dates (or chopped nuts)
60g dried apricots, or cranberries work well here too (see pic)
400g oats
So melt the butter along with the peanut butter (if using), golden syrup/honey and brown sugar over a low heat in a large saucepan. Chop the dates (or nuts) and apricots very finely and stir into the butter mixture.
Finally, weigh out the oats and stir them into the mix. Press into a very well buttered non-stick baking tin (I use bake-0-glide as these have the potential to stick, concrete-like to the bottom of the tin). Now, I’ll let you in on a secret, if you let them sit for half an hour before baking, they’ll be even soften and more delicious when they come out. Finally, bake for 15-20 minutes at gas 4/180 degrees until just golden.
Hummus (especially for Anouk):
1 tin chickpeas, drained
2 tbsp olive oil
1 clove garlic
Salt and pepper
Squeeze of lemon juice
Place all ingredients into a blender and whiz until puréed. Serve with breadsticks, sliced pitta bread and fresh vegetable sticks for dipping. Hardly a recipe, but very yummy all the same.
There was the odd ‘bleurgh, what’s THAT?’ to the hummus in particular, but plenty more of the kids tried things for the first time, and even vowed to have a go at the recipes at home. And let’s face it, if that makes one less teeny sumo wrestler, you’ve got to chalk it up as a success.
Last word, though, must go to Little Miss Lovely, who, when asked whether she wanted a recipe sheet, waved it away saying ‘oh no, I’ve got the internet’. Bless. My biggest fan.
