Friday, December 24, 2010

Kourabiethes (Κουραμπιέδες)

Justine from A Half Baked Life and Ants from Making Baby Giraffes have both inspired me to post a delicious recipe that I would like to share. As it's the festive season, these Greek icing sugar biscuits are amazingly light to the stomach and are also a comfort food. These biscuits are a tradional and integral contribution on dining tables and gift giving in Greece during Christmas. The icing on top reminds me of snow.

An Australian Christmas I have experienced with my husbands family include: beer, seafood, pudding and a day at the beach. A Greek Australian Christmas usually consists of: beer, lamb on a spit,  kourabiethes and a relatives backyard.

These biscuits are also a reminder during my IF journey. Every time I called my mum up to tell her the disappointing news of a failed IVF cycle, she would be there in a heartbeat with a container full of kourabiethes. Up until that time it was all about healthy eating, no coffee and exercise. I needed the indulgement.

Comfort my my aching soul.

(makes around 40)

• 250g butter, softened

• 2 1/2 cups pure icing sugar

• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract

• 1 orange, rind finely grated

• 1 egg, at room temperature

• 2 1/2 cups plain flour

• 1 teaspoon baking powder

• 1/2 cup almond meal (ground almonds)


1. Preheat oven to 160°C. Line 2 flat baking trays with baking paper.

2. Using an electric mixer, beat butter, 1 cup icing sugar, vanilla and orange rind until pale and creamy. Add egg and beat until well combined. Sift flour and baking powder over mixture. Add almond meal. Stir until dough comes together.

3. Using 1 tablespoon dough per biscuit, roll out into 8cm-long sausage shapes. Bend to form crescent shapes. Place on baking trays, allowing room for spreading. Bake for 20 minutes or until light golden. Stand for 5 minutes on trays until firm.

4. Place remaining sugar in a bowl. Coat warm biscuits, 1 at a time, in sugar. Place on a wire rack to cool. Sift any remaining icing sugar over biscuits when cool.




Thursday, December 16, 2010

Permission to Breathe

A long long time ago in a galaxy not too far away lived a girl who wanted to have a baby. After many years of trying, she finally was blessed with a beautiful little boy. When he was born, she looked at the little guy not with the first instant reaction of love (shucks!) but with a wry smile and a feeling of hopelessness and fear. What the fuck was she supposed to do with this little skywalker?


Truth be told dear bloggies, I wasn't one of those infertiles who said that once I got pregnant and had a kid that I would be a great parent. I knew that I would at least be better than the ghetto fucks who live down the street or my filthy sister in law who has 2 degrees but can't manage to use a mop. I looked at my wee little man, took a deep breath, thanked God for blessing me and then it hit me. What now?

Was I supposed to have inherited or be instilled with the skills of master parenting just because I wanted a baby so fucking much? I was the lucky one and now I should be "happy and grateful" with the blessing and should shoulder the medal for all IF's. Seriously? Am I allowed to breathe first?

I parent with the flow, the way the wind blows. What I feel is appropriate or completely wrong to do or not do. I have the support of my husband, who in the early days, his head was in the sand further than mine but nonetheless there for me. My mum the gem, her unwavering support is absolutely endless, but her Greek traditional ways sometimes bothersome (READ: Ouzo on the gums when the kid is teething) I also had a smidgen of support from the fertile friends, their relentless information sometimes overwhelmed me more than helped me.

I never had a birth plan. I never researched the benefits of cloth nappies over disposables. I never cared about the type of wipes I would have to use or whether a fucking grow bag will help with sleeping over a simple wrap. What I did care about were the safety and benefits of immunisation, prevention of cot death and my little guy reaching his milestones in a safe, comfortable and loving home.

I'm sure there are plenty of parents out there who research and learn all of the above. I will never understand though why designer cloth nappies are so bloody great and why baby wash products have to be organically made. Sometimes I think that their child needs permission to shit. That reminds me - I love that movie Fight Club and I bet the liposuction of some obese women's fat arse fat is what makes most of these products.

I have a clean home. I cook fresh and healthy food. I have a husband who adores me. I have family and friends who love me. I have a happy and content little man named Callum who only recently approached me, patted me on the head and said "nice Ma".

I'm not perfect. As every day goes past I say thanks to God for my little family. But if when I make mistakes or complain or whinge or bitch about parenting, it's because I can. And, I. Will. Say. It. Out. Loud. Not be tight lipped for fear that I might be judged for breathing and that I should be grateful for having a kid after IF.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Dear Sickness

Dear Sickness,

I am writing to inform you that you are no longer required to infestate the living quarters of a Field of dreams premises. Please fuck off vacate the premises immediately.

As a result of 2 months of antibiotics to treat a sore throat, bronchittis and again a sore throat your continued presence has enabled you to be subsequently labelled as a pest. You now have inhabited both my husbands and son's throats, caused fever in my wee little man and including an ear infection. Seriously, Sickness it's time you said goodbye and take your shit baggage with you. I'm over it.

There was a time where we both pleasantly co-inhabited. You knew that you weren't very welcomed, but after 3 or so days you parted with a sly smile and I hoping to see your back not soon enough. You got what you wanted from my lack of immunity and I got a few days off work catching up on day time soaps and eating chicken soup. But this time its absolutely ridiculous, you've attached yourself to me like some B grade horror alien film monster. No amount of medicine I take helps. I have a barking dog stuck in my chest and a throat that cannot enjoy any luxuries, like food.

I continuously worry for my son. He is so little and doesn't understand why he is feeling like this. You Sickness, are a bully. Consequently, you are also a loser, a tyrant and a self absorbed pathetic attention seeking petty bacterial fungus cunt.

If you require any further abuse information regarding your eviction, please go take it up with the Ombudsman, because i couldn't care less. Piss off.

Yours truly,

a Field of dreams

Bloggies - What's your experiences with Sickness and how do you handle it when you're children are sick?