Certain scents have a unique skill - teleportation. Most of us have experienced getting a whiff of something that immediately transports us to a time and place in the past. For example, whenever I smell Michael Kors, I am taken to my honeymoon in New York 2001. If I smell Fahrenheit by Dior, I am whisked back to my hubby's flat to the wonderful loved up days when we first started dating.
But not all scents take us to a pleasant point in history, for example, L'instant Magique by Guerlain takes me back to a very unhappy time in my life, because it was what I had been wearing during that whole time. Every time I smell it now, I get knots in my stomach and I tense up. The reason it comes to mind now is because of my commitment to work my way through my entire perfume collection and my dread of wearing it again.
This relationship between smell and memory fascinates me. For me, music has the same ability to transport me to another time and place. Just the opening bars of 'Follow you, follow me' by Genesis takes me back to the late 70's in my childhood home, in the back room with my mum doing the ironing. Unlikely as it sounds, 'No Limits' by 2Unlimited is a favourite song of mine because it reminds me of when Kid 1 was born as it was a massive chart hit at the time.
I could list hundreds of songs and smells that hold a special meaning for me, not because they are great smells or songs, but because of where they take me, but is it possible to change what a smell or song represents? I suppose it depends on the strength of the attachment to the memory. Because the period of time that L'instant Magique takes me back to is so unpleasant, I could never imagine that it would ever be a scent that I could wear again which is a shame as it is a truly lovely scent (although not as nice as the original L'instant). Likewise I feel the same about the song 'Baby baby' by Amy Grant. That song takes me right back to the day my dad died. Again, I can never imagine that I will be able to enjoy the true meaning of that song which is a celebration of love.
So I'm going to conduct an experiment. Baking is one of my favourite past times and I'm going to have a baking day this weekend. I normally listen to very cheesy pop very loudly and abstain from wearing any perfume so as not to detract from the heady scents of the baking, but this time, I am going to listen to 'Baby baby' and I will wear L'instant Magique. Nothing bad happens when I bake and I find it a very blissful way to spend the day, so I'm hoping that this will have an impact on the hold they have on me.
I'm under no illusions that this will magically happen in just one afternoon, such is the power that the scent & song have to take me back to such horrible times, which is why I will deliberately wear L'instant Magique when I have a fun event planned and will have 'Baby baby' ready on my iPod to be the soundtrack to happier times.
This has turned out to be quite a morbid blog hasn't it? Sorry. I didn't intend it to be. It was just me being curious and wondering out loud, as it were, whether I could change the meaning of a scent. I'll get back to you with my results.
HH
XX
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
I was born to bake you happy.....
Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was 5 years old and loved watching her Mum pottering about in the kitchen making dinner or baking cakes. One Sunday the little girl perched on a stool at the end of the worktop watching her Mum take the hot Yorkshire pudding pan out of the oven ready to pour the batter into it. For reasons unknown, the little girl stuck her finger in the sizzling hot fat whilst asking "is that hot?". The mother, shocked at her daughter's staggering stupidity, administered cold water to the now blistered finger and berated her telling her to "get out of the kitchen and you are not allowed back in".
Fast forward eight years to secondary school. That same poor girl had to endure Home Economics classes. Week after week the teenage girl ruined perfectly good ingredients while all her classmates smiled smugly from their stations laden with perfect replicas of the teacher's recipe. After yet another disastrous practical of making fruit buns, the teacher finally lost her patience with the girl and told her "don't worry about bringing in ingredients from now on dear. You can just stand and watch the other girls".
That girl grew into an adult and a mother, completely incapable of cooking anything without either burning it, or not cooking it properly and making people sick. The latter happened with monotonous regularity and she regularly sent her kid's friends home with mild food poisoning when they came to tea. Sunday roasts consisted of frozen roast potatoes (burnt), frozen ready made Yorkshire puddings (burnt) and various vegetables (boiled so much that all nutritional value was lost), but the show stopper was the meat, which you would be hard pressed to identify as beef, pork or chicken as it would all be grey or charcoal black.
Yes, I am sorry to say that the little girl was me. I didn't set out to be a bad cook. I always really tried to make something decent, but I always expected a disaster and therefore it was a self fulfilling prophecy. Then one day something amazing happened....
In October 2007 I attended a course on project management skills and techniques, the same course that my Director had attended years earlier. When I returned to the office, he asked me what I thought of the course. I said that I had enjoyed it as it played to the logical, organised side of me. He said that he only ever used the critical path analysis, but even then not for work, but for cooking. He went on to say that he cooked only once a year - at Christmas - and he treated the meal as a project. The objective was the dinner, so he used the critical path analysis to work backwards to plan what he had to do, by when and in which order. He swore by it as he freely admitted that he too was a lousy cook and this helped him.
That night on the way home, I pulled a recipe out of the evening paper and bought the ingredients. I treated the recipe like a project and organised myself. Before I started, I made sure that I had all the necessary equipment ready to hand and everything measured out in bowls. I wrote down the time that I wanted us to have dinner, and planned everything right down to the minute. I served up the gammon and chickpea casserole that I had made from scratch and held my breath.....
If this moment had been one of those films that they show during X Factor, (you know the kind with the sob story of a contestant right before Simon tells them that they are through to the next round?) there would have been mood music from someone like Snow Patrol while I nervously tended the casserole on the hob and then the uplifting bit of the song would kick in as my family all took their first bite and then looked up at me, holding their thumbs up in approval. It was an edible success! Of course, before it could be declared a complete triumph, I had one more hurdle to jump. The long wait began to see if anyone would be ill overnight. No-one got sick!!!
I'd broken the curse and buoyed by my success, I made a chocolate mousse the following night - another success and a roast dinner on the following Sunday, making actual real roast potatoes AND homemade Yorkshire puddings from scratch! Even the meat was the right colour and delicious! My transformation into a decent cook was almost complete. Only one challenge lay before me. Baking. At the recommendation of a work colleague, I bought Nigella Lawson's book 'How to be a domestic goddess' and set myself the task of making her coconut macaroons. They didn't come out looking like the picture in her book, but they looked even better AND they tasted equally as good!
With the continued help of my friends Nigella, Jamie, Rachel and James I am now a confident and able cook. I still treat each recipe as a project and I always measure out my ingredients in little glass bowls just like Auntie Delia does on the telly. But my most favourite thing is baking. These days I love nothing more than locking myself away in the kitchen, donning my pinny, listen to a play list of cheesy pop at a loud volume and bake lots of lovely goodies.
I still live in fear that the rubbish little girl will come back, but it's been nearly 3 years and she hasn't resurfaced yet. Besides, I think that it's good to be a little bit fearful of her as it means that I put more care and love into what I am making and that can only enhance the results.
I have broken through the cocoon of being genuinely the world's worst cook to emerge into the sunlight as a domestic goddess. This transformation was complete when after a baking session, Kid 2 stood in the kitchen watching me pull out another tray of deliciousness and said "I love your cooking Mum". Naturally, I began to cry because that's something that I never thought would be said to me and something that I will never forget. In fact I seem to have inspired Kid 2 as he wants to be a chef and starts a course in professional cookery at college this September. He says that I have proved that if someone like me can learn to cook, anyone can!
HH
XX
Fast forward eight years to secondary school. That same poor girl had to endure Home Economics classes. Week after week the teenage girl ruined perfectly good ingredients while all her classmates smiled smugly from their stations laden with perfect replicas of the teacher's recipe. After yet another disastrous practical of making fruit buns, the teacher finally lost her patience with the girl and told her "don't worry about bringing in ingredients from now on dear. You can just stand and watch the other girls".
That girl grew into an adult and a mother, completely incapable of cooking anything without either burning it, or not cooking it properly and making people sick. The latter happened with monotonous regularity and she regularly sent her kid's friends home with mild food poisoning when they came to tea. Sunday roasts consisted of frozen roast potatoes (burnt), frozen ready made Yorkshire puddings (burnt) and various vegetables (boiled so much that all nutritional value was lost), but the show stopper was the meat, which you would be hard pressed to identify as beef, pork or chicken as it would all be grey or charcoal black.
Yes, I am sorry to say that the little girl was me. I didn't set out to be a bad cook. I always really tried to make something decent, but I always expected a disaster and therefore it was a self fulfilling prophecy. Then one day something amazing happened....
In October 2007 I attended a course on project management skills and techniques, the same course that my Director had attended years earlier. When I returned to the office, he asked me what I thought of the course. I said that I had enjoyed it as it played to the logical, organised side of me. He said that he only ever used the critical path analysis, but even then not for work, but for cooking. He went on to say that he cooked only once a year - at Christmas - and he treated the meal as a project. The objective was the dinner, so he used the critical path analysis to work backwards to plan what he had to do, by when and in which order. He swore by it as he freely admitted that he too was a lousy cook and this helped him.
That night on the way home, I pulled a recipe out of the evening paper and bought the ingredients. I treated the recipe like a project and organised myself. Before I started, I made sure that I had all the necessary equipment ready to hand and everything measured out in bowls. I wrote down the time that I wanted us to have dinner, and planned everything right down to the minute. I served up the gammon and chickpea casserole that I had made from scratch and held my breath.....
If this moment had been one of those films that they show during X Factor, (you know the kind with the sob story of a contestant right before Simon tells them that they are through to the next round?) there would have been mood music from someone like Snow Patrol while I nervously tended the casserole on the hob and then the uplifting bit of the song would kick in as my family all took their first bite and then looked up at me, holding their thumbs up in approval. It was an edible success! Of course, before it could be declared a complete triumph, I had one more hurdle to jump. The long wait began to see if anyone would be ill overnight. No-one got sick!!!
I'd broken the curse and buoyed by my success, I made a chocolate mousse the following night - another success and a roast dinner on the following Sunday, making actual real roast potatoes AND homemade Yorkshire puddings from scratch! Even the meat was the right colour and delicious! My transformation into a decent cook was almost complete. Only one challenge lay before me. Baking. At the recommendation of a work colleague, I bought Nigella Lawson's book 'How to be a domestic goddess' and set myself the task of making her coconut macaroons. They didn't come out looking like the picture in her book, but they looked even better AND they tasted equally as good!
With the continued help of my friends Nigella, Jamie, Rachel and James I am now a confident and able cook. I still treat each recipe as a project and I always measure out my ingredients in little glass bowls just like Auntie Delia does on the telly. But my most favourite thing is baking. These days I love nothing more than locking myself away in the kitchen, donning my pinny, listen to a play list of cheesy pop at a loud volume and bake lots of lovely goodies.
I still live in fear that the rubbish little girl will come back, but it's been nearly 3 years and she hasn't resurfaced yet. Besides, I think that it's good to be a little bit fearful of her as it means that I put more care and love into what I am making and that can only enhance the results.
I have broken through the cocoon of being genuinely the world's worst cook to emerge into the sunlight as a domestic goddess. This transformation was complete when after a baking session, Kid 2 stood in the kitchen watching me pull out another tray of deliciousness and said "I love your cooking Mum". Naturally, I began to cry because that's something that I never thought would be said to me and something that I will never forget. In fact I seem to have inspired Kid 2 as he wants to be a chef and starts a course in professional cookery at college this September. He says that I have proved that if someone like me can learn to cook, anyone can!
HH
XX
Sunday, 25 July 2010
The Book of Kid 2: Vol 1
My kids are two of the many things that make me happy, but Kid 2 has been worth his weight in gold for the funny memories he has provided us with. There are so many stories about him that it will require several volumes to share them all with you - this is the first in this series.
Some parents share funny memories of their children with anyone that will listen purely to get revenge on said child once they become teenagers, but that's not the reason that I am doing this. In fact, I have spoken to Kid 2 and asked him if he was OK with me including his stories in my blog and apart from two particular stories that he hates being mentioned, he is happy to let me publish his many, many tales.
I enjoy retelling these stories as they make me smile, but I appreciate that some of them make be of the 'you had to be there' ilk. I apologise in advance if the humour in these stories is not immediately obvious, but please indulge me, because these stories really do need to be published for posterity.
Where do I start? Well, the beginning is usually a good place, so travel back with me to May 1994. After a few hours of pushing, shoving and, at one point, a genuine fear that my body was going to rip itself apart and spilt me in two, Kid 2 arrived. He was 10 days late so looked like a flaky walnut. I can admit that now, but at the time I would have disemboweled anyone with my bare hands if they dared to say that he was anything other than the most gorgeous baby to ever have been born since the equally gorgeous Kid 1.
He was a strange little package. Still is. But I mean that in the nicest possible way. I love the fact that he is odd. In the hospital at the tender age of less than 24 hours old he was already proving himself to be a source of amusement. He laid there in the little clear plastic crib things that they have in hospitals, sleeping like a, well, baby I suppose. During our first night together, I heard an occasional tiny knocking noise followed by a sigh - the delicious kind of sigh that only a contented baby and my cat B can make. I couldn't sleep as I was too besotted with my new little friend, so just as I had done with Kid 1, I sat on the edge of my bed transfixed by the sight of something so small and utterly gorgeous and wondered in amazement at how I had produced something so wonderful. And then I discovered the source of the tiny knocking noise. Every now and then something would make him jump and he would fling his tiny arms out in surprise, knocking on the side of the crib. It was something that was going to become a regular feature in Kid 2's life.
Fast forward to 1997 and the family holiday in Wales. Kid 2 has inherited my ability to fall asleep very quickly on long car drives*. At the tender age of 3, Kid 2 spent a lot of time asleep in the car while we were in Wales driving to and fro various excursions. Other than arriving at our destination, there was only one thing would wake him from his slumber....
Wales is a lovely country with lots of farmland, well, the bit of Wales we were in was like that anyway. The hills and fields we drove past mainly contained sheep and cows. Up on the Welsh mountains, farmers need to have some way of making sure that their livestock do not wander off too far, so at regular intervals you get cattle grids in the road. Driving over cattle grids vibrates the whole car and jiggles the passengers around a bit. Not exactly scary though is it? No, not if you are awake and see the sign for the upcoming grid and know to expect a juddering. But imagine that you are a sleeping 3 year old, so sound asleep that your whole body is slumped forward and being propped up by the seat belt with drool slowly running down your chin. A sudden loud shaking motion will surely scare the willies out of you.
It did. As the car juddered over the cattle grid, Kid 2 once again flung out his arms in surprise, briefly open his big blue eyes, only to immediately close them, and once again settle into his usual, comfy position. He had the same reaction if he was awake and we drove over a grid. It was very amusing to witness!
He didn't like it. Not one bit. It got to a point that we started warning him that we were approaching a grid so he could brace himself. Like most of the stories, he hasn't lived the cattle grid reaction down. We still warn him if we are approaching one today.
And then there was his reaction to fireworks at Disneyland Paris. We were behind the big castle, walking back towards Main Street to watch the impending fireworks display. It was very dark and very few people around there, as they were already in position to watch the display. As we made our way round, there was an almighty bang as the first rocket went up. Kid 2 naturally thought that the best thing to do would be to throw his arms up in the air and run in the opposite direction to where his parents were, into the darkness and then panic and run back towards us!
See what I mean? Odd. But we like him.
HH
XXX
*Can I just point out that my predilection for falling asleep in cars only applies if I am sitting in the passenger seats, NOT the driving seat.
Some parents share funny memories of their children with anyone that will listen purely to get revenge on said child once they become teenagers, but that's not the reason that I am doing this. In fact, I have spoken to Kid 2 and asked him if he was OK with me including his stories in my blog and apart from two particular stories that he hates being mentioned, he is happy to let me publish his many, many tales.
I enjoy retelling these stories as they make me smile, but I appreciate that some of them make be of the 'you had to be there' ilk. I apologise in advance if the humour in these stories is not immediately obvious, but please indulge me, because these stories really do need to be published for posterity.
Where do I start? Well, the beginning is usually a good place, so travel back with me to May 1994. After a few hours of pushing, shoving and, at one point, a genuine fear that my body was going to rip itself apart and spilt me in two, Kid 2 arrived. He was 10 days late so looked like a flaky walnut. I can admit that now, but at the time I would have disemboweled anyone with my bare hands if they dared to say that he was anything other than the most gorgeous baby to ever have been born since the equally gorgeous Kid 1.
He was a strange little package. Still is. But I mean that in the nicest possible way. I love the fact that he is odd. In the hospital at the tender age of less than 24 hours old he was already proving himself to be a source of amusement. He laid there in the little clear plastic crib things that they have in hospitals, sleeping like a, well, baby I suppose. During our first night together, I heard an occasional tiny knocking noise followed by a sigh - the delicious kind of sigh that only a contented baby and my cat B can make. I couldn't sleep as I was too besotted with my new little friend, so just as I had done with Kid 1, I sat on the edge of my bed transfixed by the sight of something so small and utterly gorgeous and wondered in amazement at how I had produced something so wonderful. And then I discovered the source of the tiny knocking noise. Every now and then something would make him jump and he would fling his tiny arms out in surprise, knocking on the side of the crib. It was something that was going to become a regular feature in Kid 2's life.
Fast forward to 1997 and the family holiday in Wales. Kid 2 has inherited my ability to fall asleep very quickly on long car drives*. At the tender age of 3, Kid 2 spent a lot of time asleep in the car while we were in Wales driving to and fro various excursions. Other than arriving at our destination, there was only one thing would wake him from his slumber....
Wales is a lovely country with lots of farmland, well, the bit of Wales we were in was like that anyway. The hills and fields we drove past mainly contained sheep and cows. Up on the Welsh mountains, farmers need to have some way of making sure that their livestock do not wander off too far, so at regular intervals you get cattle grids in the road. Driving over cattle grids vibrates the whole car and jiggles the passengers around a bit. Not exactly scary though is it? No, not if you are awake and see the sign for the upcoming grid and know to expect a juddering. But imagine that you are a sleeping 3 year old, so sound asleep that your whole body is slumped forward and being propped up by the seat belt with drool slowly running down your chin. A sudden loud shaking motion will surely scare the willies out of you.
It did. As the car juddered over the cattle grid, Kid 2 once again flung out his arms in surprise, briefly open his big blue eyes, only to immediately close them, and once again settle into his usual, comfy position. He had the same reaction if he was awake and we drove over a grid. It was very amusing to witness!
He didn't like it. Not one bit. It got to a point that we started warning him that we were approaching a grid so he could brace himself. Like most of the stories, he hasn't lived the cattle grid reaction down. We still warn him if we are approaching one today.
And then there was his reaction to fireworks at Disneyland Paris. We were behind the big castle, walking back towards Main Street to watch the impending fireworks display. It was very dark and very few people around there, as they were already in position to watch the display. As we made our way round, there was an almighty bang as the first rocket went up. Kid 2 naturally thought that the best thing to do would be to throw his arms up in the air and run in the opposite direction to where his parents were, into the darkness and then panic and run back towards us!
See what I mean? Odd. But we like him.
HH
XXX
*Can I just point out that my predilection for falling asleep in cars only applies if I am sitting in the passenger seats, NOT the driving seat.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
