Monthly Archives: November 2014

Breaking Bread

It’s time to break bread. Now, if reader you find yourself in front of a farmer, let’s say, at an altar, anytime soon, listen carefully. You may not know it, but unknowns to you, he is going to craftily get you to bake him fresh bread every second day. You heard it here first.

At first, there’s outrage. ‘What d’ya mean your mother bakes you fresh bread?’

Then there’s denial. He couldn’t possibly want me to bake brown soda from scratch?

Followed by compromise. Look darling, this bread company delivers really delicious bread. And it’s fresh.

He says nothing (Watch out for the quiet ones).

Ok, I’ll try it once.

This is tasty. What if I were to add some honey for a bit of sweetness.

It’s missing something. One Egg.

And colour. A spoon of sunflower oil.

He still says nothing. There is, it seems, the beginning of a wry smile. And a habit is forming.

A really hot oven and the smell of baking bread rises above the noise and farm odours. A dish of water at the bottom of the oven and the bread is moist.

Eight years have passed.

Then comes the little voice that says ‘I love it when you put brown bread and jam in my lunch box.’

And the ‘don’t you make a lovely loaf’ from visitors.

‘Mommy bown bed.’

When the milk cheque is seeping out through the holes of the purse, it’s less expensive and it might just keep the doctor’s bills down.

And then there are the days with three children and getting to a shop when you live in the middle of a field seems impossible and you realize it’s just easier to put on the oven.

If you let the a jug of milk out for a couple of nights, it’s butter milk and that’s when your bread is so soft it brings a tear to the farmer’s eyes.

And then, you know he’s got you. Listen carefully to those vows. He might just whisper ‘In sickness as in bread’ while you stand there grinning and nodding at the cat who just got the cream.

The Dream Team

I’d take a doctor, a nurse, a child minder, a housekeeper and brow mopper (if it’s not an actual occupation, it should be) right about now. After a week of dispensing medicine, singing soothing ‘don’t-be-sick’ songs and worrying, I have succumbed to a pretty awful infection myself.

The Doctor, a farmer’s wife herself, said ‘go to bed for a few days’ knowing that this was not an easy task on a dairy farm. I have been able to go to bed bar milking time in the morning which luckily coincides with the best TV schedules for children. Intuitively, my beauties know that mommy is sick, I can’t imagine what has given me away, and are minding me by not being too demanding and well, actually, mimicking their lovely mom and giving me the odd kiss on the forehead to make me feel better.

And then there’s the farmer who despite having to run his own business, is here being doctor, nurse, child minder, housekeeper and browmopper. On days like this, when I feel miserable, exhausted, down trodden, I wonder why we do this. Why we farm? Why we keep going through this despite the dropping milk and beef prices. That answer is for another day. Throwing off his wellies at the back door, my farmer puts on the kettle to make me a honey and lemon drink before looking after very small boys who are hungry and want to play. Back to bed I go.

What lies ahead.

Instinct is huddled in the corner with her hand over her ears. Sense sought refuge elsewhere long since. Intellect is shrugging her shoulders. Did I wash the calpol syringe after its’ last use? What temperature was he again? Is that a tantrum or a child with a sore throat? Could he be coming down with it too? He might be teething.

And so for an hour this afternoon, when they all fell asleep including the farmer, I took the chance to walk into the world for the restorative walk. Walking to begin with, there is ranting. Crazy lady stuff. Questioning. Back and forth dialogue. Berating. Hands in the air. Where did it all go wrong. Marching and ranting. And some more questioning.

On I walked until I reached the top of the hill and the climax of my ranting and thus I began to descend back into sanity again. I noticed the lovely day, saluted a neighbour, walked through a freshly grazed field. Strengthened, I began planning for the evening ahead. It’s Sunday, there might even be a glass of wine whilst cooking dinner. Dessert? Sur’ why not? What would be a nice treat for a sore throat?

I take one last deep deep breath of fresh air and head back into God knows what. Ready for it again, in the promise of a relaxing Sunday.

Is it a bird?

Is it a plane? No, it’s Superboy and boy. Little did I think when I bought that light red silk scarf or that red and fushia pink chequered cashmere scarf (this is important) that they would be used to save the world from my kitchen.

All I want is my Sunday morning coffee. For that coffee, I need to get around planet Krypton, over the burst damn, avoid flying red swooshes circumnavigating the kitchen table to get to the coffee maker. On the way, I’m grabbed to the refrains of ‘I’ve gotcha girl.’ Lovely, I always saw myself as Lois Lane but I’m not sure Lois envisaged writing a blog whilst hiding from Superboys. Not very Daily Planet  is it?

Just one more step and I’m about to lower the lever. But no, it’s Lex Luthor, he needs his nappy changed. No, Lex, you’ll never catch Superman, he’s gone out to milk the cows. I’ll change it. About now, I’m as bitter as the elusive coffee as I can almost taste the coffee rush. It’s within my reach. If only, if only. Da,da,da,da,daaaa,daa,daa,daa, da,da,da,da,daaaaa,da,daa,daaaaaa. ‘Come fly with me Lois and I’ll never let you go.’ Foiled again. But hey, I get to be Lois, if only for a while.