Part 3: Chubby and Proud!

Having just scoffed some of last night's tortilla (i.e. not the pancake, but an authentic Spanish omelette but with a Lisa-twist: instead of King Edward potatoes, I used sweet potato and bacon, laced with garlic and chopped, fresh coriander) for breakfast in front of my laptop while checking email, I realised I hadn't written for aaaages on this blog, and couldn't really think of anything specific I would even want to write about. Why? With only 5 months to go until we are back in our magnificent South Africa, I am so focused on preparations that there's simply no time for brooding on things 'Soutie'. Obviously, the discrepancies between my homeland and this land of a 1/8 of my ancestry are still glaringly blatant on a moment-by-moment basis, but I've just got no energy to try and metabolise them through writing. (Other ancestral input? Norwegian, Sicilian, Dutch and German... 'n Regte-egte pavement-special, as we say in South Africa!)

A couple of days have passed since the sudden full-stop of the last paragraph. (There was even a bit more writing that happened last night but was interrupted, and made no sense this morning, so I deleted it: and instead of allowing myself to become angry about this constant state of interruption and the fact that my writing never seems to amount to more than these little blog posts, I've decided to let go of my quite selfish ambitions and focus on the source of interruptibility: my Layla. Before too long, she won't need me and I will be the needy one! Besides which, there is no point in fighting something which feels impossible, at this stage, to change. i.e. asking for some time to write, or paint (or catch up on sleep) is just not something my better half can quite understand from my point of view, no matter how hard and eloquently I try to explain. (I know I am not alone, ladies...) Conclusion: 1. My time will come (both senses of 'time' intended.) 2. In a roundabout way, I have illustrated 'What is healing but a change in perspective' with another real-life scenario, without ever having actually successfully explained my first scenario.

To go back to that, because I knew that sugar was my main problem, I decided I needed something to radically alter my perspective on it. Googling 'why sugar is bad for you' was enough to detrimentally sober my addiction to it forever! Besides a list of 146 things sugar does to your body, including myopia, my biggest spook was that when sugar is metabolised, alcohol is released as a byproduct, giving you a high not dissimilar to that given by my beloved vino. And, as alcohol is a mind-altering substance, I could see how I was *ab*using sugar to get me through the day both physically, in terms of energy, and emotionally/psychologically. The crunch? I was an addict. It was this that was the trigger for me: I did NOT, under ANY circumstances,want to be an addict - especially not a fat, (even more) myopic, constipated etc addict! Perhaps the biggest wake-up call for me was realising that an addiction to sugar is a precursor to alcoholism. (And that is another whole set of blog posts altogether...)

And so, suddenly, my perspective on my health, the food I was putting into my body and the reason why, underwent a shockingly swift change: that milky, sweet coffee that reminded me of my mom and our family home was suddenly not so nostalgically innocent. (Puts a whole new spin on sweetly sentimental, doesn't it?) Here I was inducing a high every few hours throughout the day to ease the homesickness. (Oh *&$@ - I just realised: I got my two blogs confused!!! May I blame it on not having slept the last two nights please?!) It suddenly became so easy to switch that sugary coffee for an unsweetened mug of rooibos tea. And now, every 3 or so days, I will make myself a 'Mommy-coffee' - but then I savour it, sip by indulgent sip, mindfully enjoying it for all it represents - instead of mindlessly glugging back mugfulls of it every day.

(A quick note before I head upstairs to fold some laundry: I was only drinking about 2 or maaaaybe three of these cups of coffee a day (1 heaped teaspoon of sugar), but it was also the biscuits I had WITH the coffee that contributed to my escalating addiction -- and widening hips!)

In the pipeline is a book I may be writing on my own or co-writing with an expert in the chosen field, as well as my own Etsy shop (though I am still looking for the perfect name to work under...) which I may or may not be sharing with my darling mom. (We've been dreaming about this for absolute YONKS, but we both allow mediocrity to distract us. Maybe this'll be the year, hey Mommy?)

{PS. Wishes vs Resolutions, I cheated and Part 1 and 2 of Chubby and Proud are on my other blog.}

Foodie Fetishes

Wanna know something really silly? I’m slowly nibbling a Crunchie in bed as I write as though it were, instead, a rare and luxuriously expensive chocolate imported from somemagnificently exotic land! And just why it’s so silly is because all my life, I’ve been an uncompromising Bar One devotee – probably only ever having consumed a total of 4 Crunchies in my entire South African childhood – and only then as a last chocoholic resort! But for some reason, the melting, sticky sweet roughness of the honeycomb in my mouth comforts my homesick little heart!

Funny how food has such a strong visceral link to your heart and memories… Some of the patriotic foodie habits I regularly indulge in are:

1. BOVRIL on hot toast into which the butter has softly melted, reminding me of so many breakfasts before school – even lazy Sunday morning breakfasts – where it was our family ‘thing’ to sit together every morning for breakfast: a half rule, half ritual. Never rushed, it was a time for stories, question-time, teasing, sulking, laughter… Now, every SINGLE time I spread butter into my hot, hot toast so that it turns the very toastedness of the toast to a warmly delicious mush, it makes me think of my dear dad and his strict penchant for insisting on toast that remained just that: crisp, hard, barely warm! How he glowered at us girls, drowning our toast in great big buttery dollops and oodles of marge, jam, Bovril – the works!

2. What I call ‘Mommy Coffee’: one generous teaspoon of good quality instant coffee, just about a third of a cup of milk – ever so slightly sweetened with half a teaspoon of sugar. Stir. Whizz around in the microwave for 30 seconds. THEN add the boiled water.

After pumping the cafetieres and milk steamer as a trainee barista at Starbucks for a few months back in 2005 in Newbury’s High Street, I became a bit of a coffee afficianado (actually, more of a fanatic!) what with the in-depth education we received via coffee-tasting, conferences and a brick-thick coffee manual we were regularly quizzed on. And so, I took to drinking my coffee pure and black so the top notes, bass notes, fragrance or body could never be insulted by the adulterous dousing of milk, cream, sweeteners or sugars --- looking down my caffeinated nose at any pleb who deigned to ruin a coffee like that! (In the back kitchen, us baristas even used to get ‘high’ on the literally intoxicating air that was left behind after we emptied a brand new pack of coffee beans into the grinders, pushing our faces deep into the bag and inhaling like a sorry addict – looking more like an old donkey with his feedbag than a glamorous coke junkie!!)

3. Carnation Treat Caramel : oh, the ecstasy, the rapture (!) of unhurriedly winding that can-opener in a circle to reveal a glimpse of what maybe heaven could be like!

A knocking at my kitchen door made me peek through the square of antique French lace that serves as a curtain, to see Ang (fellow SA and neighbour) grinning madly and pointing frantically to the tin of caramel she’d bought for me. Oh boy – it was only 3 days later, and there was only a mere memory left for me of the delights of that tin! Sjoe, and how it reminded me of home – of my mother’s well-stocked and enviously organised walk-in pantry… When either my dad or I couldn’t find something lekker to sate our sweet-tooth, we’d head straight to the back of the pantry to the tin section, right next to the noisy ol’ deep-freeze – and there, never ever disappointed, we’d seize upon a tin of caramel or condensed milk – for which we were fully prepared to endure the wrath of that question, “Who ate a tin of caramel?” It was never hard to find the culprit.

Something I have looked for, year in and year out, in every Tesco or Sainsburys I patronise is : tinned smoked oysters! For me, these reek happily of late afternoons, camping in Wilderness – the sun that hot gold that turns everything glorious, sipping some of Daddy’s cold, cold beer – and sharing a plate of salticrax dotted luxuriously with an oily, brown but deeeeeelicious smoked oyster!

If I just BEGIN to talk about biltong then we’d all be here till at least one of us turned grey! So, let me return to what I ACTUALLY set out to write about: my friend Caroline’s comment relating to my last entry about the NHS and midwives:

My first son was born in SA with all the best of what medical aid had to offer. It was very reassuring because I was very nervous so I can understand what you are saying.

The other two had midwifes deliver them although a doctor was called for no. 2.

That's the nice thing about having your delivery in a hospital - the doctors are never far away if need be.

I found the English midwifes very caring and (over) concerned. They react to every little thing. Although my midwife did try to persuade me to have a home delivery for no 3.

At some point in my third pregnancy I was sent to a gynae for a checkup and when he asked me about my 'birth plan' I looked at him with a look and said "what's up with all that - nothing ever goes according to plan anyway!. I just want a hospital bed and an epidural!" He burst out laughing...

Three very different deliveries --- though none of them sound like there was any disappointment or frustration on Caroline’s part (VERY reassuring for me!!) I’d have to agree that there is certainly a ‘culture’ of midwifery here which I haven’t heard happening in SA, where the whole pregnancy and birth process is overseen by a gynaecologist. My mom and I were both initially quite sceptical about a midwife being the sole carer for me during my pregnancy. I suppose it’s a mistrust based on the idea that a gynaecologist is more qualified. But saying that, women have been acting as midwives for each other since literally forever, and in each and every culture – except until the recent Western advent of the male-dominant ‘doctor’ culture (late 19th Century?!) This is when men put us on our backs, bent legs opened up, ankles in stirrups, in a very convenient position for the doc doing the delivering, but hellishly illogical and a bit pointless for the woman giving birth! Even ancient cultures had women walking around, squatting, sitting – doing what came naturally – and doing what is suddenly again (thankfully!) fashionable today.
And so, I’d have to agree with Caroline and all the masses of hearsay I’ve adsorbed through television, magazines, books and conversation: my birth plan’ll be just the same: get the baby out in one piece and help me not commit husband-homicide in my agony!