Wightwick Manor

A lot of what comes with having a child is unexpected. The pain of labour, despite what everyone has told you, despite the fact you know it’s going to do more than smart, is unexpected. The unrelenting sleep deprivation of the first however long, although also not a surprise, is unexpected in terms of how intense and challenging it is. The initial shrinking of your world, of your days, into feeds and nappy changes and winding and cuddling and pacing and achieving precious little beyond changing out of your pyjamas at midday into jogging bottoms and brushing your teeth at 2pm, is unexpected. The love, although again you knew it would be there, is unexpected in its strength, its depth, its ferocity.

And then suddenly you blink and a toddler is standing before you. A toddler who walks and talks and actively makes sense of the world before your very eyes. And for me this has been unexpected because when we decided to try for a child, I don’t think either of us saw beyond having a baby, beyond nappies and weaning and babygros and milk and a tiny little thing that you would cradle in your arms.

What having a toddler has given us, wholly unexpectedly, is the chance to look at the world afresh. We are lucky enough to raise our child in a developed country. We have water on tap, we earn enough to keep him fed and clothed and sheltered. He has not been exposed to any hardship beyond not being able to read Barry the Fish with Fingers for the fiftieth time today or not being allowed to watch Chuggington for every waking minute. And so he has no sense of fear, no awareness that the world can be a frightening place, or a sad place, or a difficult place. He has no idea that people can be cruel, can fight each other because they believe in different things, can set out to harm each other.

His world is bright and shiny and new. He takes delight in everything he sees. He relishes every day, every new thing he is exposed to. He is open minded about new experiences, places and people. He judges nothing until he has tried it (I’m glossing over his attitude to food here.) Having Blake has helped us to re-examine the world around us and made us far more appreciative of it than we have been for years.

Today we had a simply gorgeous afternoon. We visited Wightwick Manor – a National Trust property in Wolverhampton. If you’ve been, you’ll know it has 17 acres of higgledy-piggledgy rambly grounds – with an orchard and ponds and a woodland walk and a topiary. Until we had Blake I associated the National Trust with being a sulky 14 year old on a Bank Holiday, grouching round dark houses with tapestries, drinking strong tea and going for drizzly walks around parkland in a mac. But take a toddler to a National Trust property and how your eyes are opened! A topiary, it turns out, is quite the perfect setting for a glorious hour of hide and seek. Woodland is, of course, the home of the Gruffalo and the Mouse, and you must actively seek them out. Orchards can be raced around, lakes crossed by bridges (A BRIDGE MUMMY, A BRIDGE!!), rocks jumped on, apples fallen from trees analysed in detail, birds fed with discarded raisins, slopes charged along and steps skipped up. Even an open expanse of lawn can be danced on. I feel that I spent my twenties looking at the world but only seeing about twenty percent of it. Spend an afternoon looking at the world through your toddler’s eyes and it’s like discovering it all over again. Unexpected and exciting and beautiful. I hope I never again lose what this feels like.

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If you are local and haven’t been to Wightwick, I would urge you to have a look. We didn’t go into the house itself but I thought the grounds were lovely, and the cafe did a mean Welsh Rarebit (not Vegan today!)

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Today is the day: Sat 30th August 2014.

Hanging like a mofo. I believe that’s the phrase. I am something of a reformed drinker these days – I was a horrible boozer throughout my twenties, earning myself the nickname ‘boozehound’ as I staggered around University and then Harborne with a bottle of wine in one hand and my tattered dignity in the other.

Having Blake has changed my attitude to drink. I’m not such a fan these days because a) I cannot lie reeking of booze, on a pillow covered in the makeup I did not remove the night before, recovering all day – my child won’t look after himself b) a hangover immediately compromises my ability to be the best Mum I can. It’s hard enough work being a Mummy without feeling like an animal died in your mouth, your stomach is about to explode and your brain is trying fight it’s way out through your forehead.

So I made a decision at the beginning of the year that it’s just not worth it. If I have a drink at all (I have completed a few dry months over the course of the year) I limit myself to two glasses except on special occasions. And that suits me well – I can still be a good Mum the next day and am not eaten up by guilt at my own selfishness.

But things happen sometimes don’t they? (DON’T THEY? Please tell me it’s not just me.) Last night a very dear, long term friend of mine popped over for a takeaway and a film. I’d got a nice bottle of SauvBlanc (ARSE, just call it WINE and be done with it) in in preparation. She came equipped with tales of a tough week at work, and two more bottles. We were done for. By the time the takeaway arrived one bottle was gone, there was wild gesticulation and my poor Husband was looking completely confused as we did that thing drunk Women do and communicated in wild jabbering that made COMPLETE sense to us but is unintelligible to anyone else. Fast forward to 1am, all the wine was gone, we were telling each other how much we loved each other and I’m hazily aware that we may have been running around outside the house.

We had an absolute blast but today has been, whilst not a total write-off, enough to reconfirm that the decision to lay off the booze is the right one. I have battled through and been super enthusiastic with Blake to compensate for my sorry state, but I have also:
– fallen asleep during a massage and SNORED
– thrown milk all over my freshly washed floor
– dry heaved repeatedly at the smell of the wine my parents drank this afternoon
– walked into a door

I am looking forward to bed. Tomorrow will be a new wine free day, we will do something together as a family and I will be a better Mum. And next time Vicki comes over maybe we will just limit it to one bottle and then switch to tea.

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dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Adventures of a part-time Vegan: Cauliflower Alfredo

I’ve done it again. Convinced myself that I am a good enough cook to magic vegetables into replicas of unvegan dishes (remember Marrowghetti? This is worse). When in fact, I am an idiot.

Tonight’s attempt – Pasta Alfredo. Using Cauliflower. You can start laughing.

I was musing today, as I munched on a ginger biscuit that I suspect was really not vegan, about where this sudden change in diet materialised from. I’m fairly confused – if you’d asked me 2 months ago if I could give up meat and dairy I’d have laughed IN YO FACE and yet here I am quite contentedly avoiding both during the week with no clear idea of exactly why. Well, I say no clear idea, the root cause is obviously vanity, this was my newest fad to shift a few pounds – the shock has been that not only has it shifted the bloat, but I have found myself for the most part unrepentant about the change. Except for tonight – because it turns out I cannot make a pretend Alfredo dish, using blended Cauliflower, especially when of the 12 or so mainly American ingredients the recipe calls for to bulk the flavour out (Onion powder? Nutritional yeast? Can one purchase those over here?) I have 1: garlic.

I don’t know why I’m pissing surprised it was a disaster. Probably, had I had the ingredients needed and had I roasted the Cauliflower rather than leaching any semblance of flavour out of it in a massive pot of boiling water, it would have been better.

As it was, it was Cauliflower blended down with coconut milk (i know I KNOW shut up), garlic salt, garlic and a blob of Vegan spread for good measure. I TOLD YOU I AM AN IDIOT.

So I decided peas PEAS! were the solution that would salvage this dish. Except they had been in the freezer for about 6 years and were just one giant pea-y frozen lump, and so I smashed the bag merrily against the counter top for ten minutes until I was sure that the lump had broken down into its constituent petit pois parts and merrily upended them into the pan. And of course OF COURSE this happened.

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And so I hacked merrily away at the pea-y lump with my wooden spoon until I had broken it down, by which point my pasta (should have been posh wheat linguine – was in fact Sainsburys’ Basics Penne), had congealed into a mighty pasta blob in the colander. I think I recognised how badly doomed I was at that point but there really was no turning back by then.

So in went the blob with the peas, and over went the ‘Alfredo’ sauce. It tasted like pasta, peas and too much garlic, with a backtaste of vinegar by virtue of me being a lazy cow and using Lazy Garlic. That’s quite a special backtaste let me tell you.

And it looked like this.

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Yes! Tonight’s post-Bank Holiday meal is brought to you by the colour beige, with a few jazzy hints of green. This is pathetic fallacy for its creator’s stupidity if ever I saw it.

And guess what – I used a whole Cauliflour. I have a mountainous vat of this stuff just sitting on the hob.

Ate 12 Falafel today too. I am done.

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

My women friends

This is a post that has swirled around my head for a day or so now. I am trying to be honest with it, trying to make sense of something. If you are hoping for an hilarious anecdote about me falling down the stairs, this probably isn’t the post for you, although I haven’t done that for a while so it’s bound to feature soon.

There is a truth I have known, somewhere in the depths of myself, for some time now but have only just really acknowledged and so fully realised. It is this: it is a really great thing to be friends with women.

Growing up, I was a tomboy. An only-child who grew up next to a family of four boys – what else was I going to be? No amount of cajoling was going to make me a girly girl. I used to swing my Barbie round by her hair and whack her into the wall and chuck her out of the window, and then tear up the road to fly kites and charge around those boys’ garden like a banshee with an occasional break to watch Fireman Sam.

We had a holiday home (CARAVAN YOU ARSE) in North Wales, and I was best-holiday-muckers with the boy who holidayed in the home (BIGGER CARAVAN) three up from ours. My childhood holidays were blissful days of rock climbing and tree climbing, body boarding and jumping off beach hut roofs, and crabbing at the end of the day while our parents got merrily sloshed. Even now I am an odd mix of tomboy and feminine – I love me a pretty dress, I like to keep my nails prettily painted, but actually I cannot be bothered to go the whole hog and manicure them and I am at my most comfortable with a bit of beauty balm smeared on my face, in my age-old jeans and battered hi-tops charging around the garden with my boy.

So for a long time, my good friends were boys. This didn’t really improve at school because I just didn’t really get how to be friends with girls. My oldest, dearest friend Liz A took pity *THANK GOD BECAUSE WHAT WOULD I BE WITHOUT YOU* on me at Ballet class (see – there’s that paradox again – can barely stand up most of the time but love a bit of pirouetting and twinkly toes) but other than her, friends who were girls really didn’t happen until I reached University where Karma dealt me a blinder and landed me on the same Halls of Residence corridor as a group of mad, brilliant girls who became the very core of my University existence and are the reason I class those three years in Sheffield as some of the greatest times of my life. We are still friends now, and have done that lovely gradual thing where we have really grown up and become women together.

Likewise Liz S, who I attached myself to like a limpet the weekend I arrived back home from University. There were several years of, frankly, chaos involving masses of alcohol and verging-on-indecent outfits and silliness. Then we both settled down and found husbands and the silliness contracted a little and we no longer found ourselves charging around Brindley Place but instead sitting on sofas in our homes or local pubs, chatting the working week through over a bottle of wine. And then came our children, and the wine was replaced with tea and cake, and occasionally fruit when we’re feeling extremely virtuous, and the chat continues.

And so I suppose I was almost desensitised, by virtue of it always being there with these two Lizs and the SW4 girls, and a few others, to what it means to have brilliant women friends. It started when we were girls and I am so used to them being in my life, so used to having their presence constantly on my phone and in person that I hadn’t really recognised the women we have gradually become and the way I depend on them and value them now more so than I did years ago when we were just twenty-somethings living for the moment.

Recently I reconnected (via Facebook OF COURSE) with three women who I went to sixth form with. I vaguely knew all three of them then but I wouldn’t have said we were friends at the time. However, we have all had our children at about the same time and this is the force that brought us back together. Likewise, I have grown close to several of the women I work with over the last few years. And because these are newer friendships they have made me realise what it means to have friends who are women, and to recognise afresh how wonderful my friends are regardless of when or how I met them (over Archers, over a nappy change, over the best way to explain the phrase ‘beyond economic repair’).

Maybe this is a thing that is just occurring and happening to me. Like sleep-facebooking. I don’t know. But when I was a girl, being friends tended to mean liking the same things, shopping at the same place, thinking you had lots of answers and drinking lots of cheap cheap awful white wine or Malibu.

With women, it’s different, at least in my experience. You grow together and realise how much of everything that was once important doesn’t matter. You learn about yourself and who you are and you also recognise that change in each other. You love each other for your differences, for the quirks that make you each unique. You rarely do things like shopping (except food shopping) and reckless drinking of nasty alcohol. As I’ve come to recognise this week, you realise you do not have the answers. You have hardly any answers, certainly not for the big important stuff, the heartbreaking stuff, the difficult stuff. But you do have each other. You have the offer of an audience at any time of the day or night. You have the offer of someone to sit alongside you and puzzle over something with. You have someone who can’t and doesn’t try to give you THE answer but can give you a suggestion or talk with you until you find AN answer. You always always have the offer of practical help, of the downing of tools and jumping in a car, or making you tea, or watching your child, or sending over a husband to rescue your Kitten stuck up a tree, or countless other things. And, if nothing else, you have someone who won’t give you the answer, won’t even try, just someone who will cry with you and help you know you are not alone.

And so I am grateful, beyond grateful in fact, for these women who are my friends. I count myself very lucky. I still love you boys who are my friends, but I think I really do understand now what it means to have women friends. I am privileged to have you, to talk late into the night with you, to ride out tough times with you.

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Today is the day: Tues 19th August 2014

My day started like this:

SLEEP-FACEBOOKING

I kid thee not. Blake cried in the night, which was apparently enough to rouse me out of my snoring, dribbling, warthoggy state and trigger a round of sleep facebooking. I came to, phone in hand, logged onto Facebook, staring at a Jezebel article about a missing model in NYC. What the actual funk.

And ended like this:

Scalded, shredded roof of mouth from a slice of pizza.

Probably Karma’s payback for eating like a pig over the weekend and not immediately resorting to the week of misery (see here) but instead choosing a meaty, cheesy extension of my loutish gluttony.

If our generation is as I keep reading, doomed, based on today I would say I am its trophy girl.

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dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Bunk beds

Have you tried sleeping on a top bunk as an adult? I attempted that feat last night. I imagine any flies on the wall were pissing themselves with laughter.

I am tall for a girl you see. I am known amongst one group of friends, all of whom are petite gorgeous things, as ‘the giant’. I’d be affronted were it not a.) so brutally accurate, b.) a self given name after years of laughing at photos of us. I tower above them, and add a pair of heels into the equation and it’s game over – my head is partially/totally lopped off on close ups of the six of us.

So I fill a bunk bed. Toes touching the frame at the bottom, a centimetre or so between my forehead and the frame at the top.

Add to this the fact my child is sleeping on the bottom bunk and is generally a light sleeper.

Add to this the fact that, whilst I am neither three sheets to the wind nor tanked up enough to have a hangover the following day, I have over the course of a thoroughly pleasant afternoon and evening sipped my way through a few glasses of wine and am at the silly stage where your footsteps seem as loud as an elephant’s and you are hyper aware of every creaky floorboard and squeaky door, and so you creep around rather like I imagine a rhino in slippers and a tutu would, making more noise by trying to be quiet.

Add to that the fact I am clumsy. DREADFULLY CLUMSY. And so I am paranoid that I will at some point in the night roll off said top bunk like a sack of potatoes, dropping from a height of twenty foot (OK FOUR FOOT, IT’S STILL HIGH), crashing through the ceiling and landing on my mother-in-law’s very lovely dining table, breaking it in half and shattering a load of windows in the process. WHAT? IT COULD HAPPEN.

What this looked like, I imagine, was a lanky moron tip-toeing into a dark room like a burglar in a comedy sketch, flinging themselves inelegantly onto the top bunk and making the whole thing shake like it was about to upend itself, and then lying with their back against the wall as far away from the edge as possible, listening to their child stir and deciding they will not move at all from this position to avoid disturbing said child and killing themselves. And then realising it is the most uncomfortable position imaginable. All to the distant soundtrack of their husband and brother-in-law doing karaoke to ‘Hungry Eyes’ from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.

And then realising how utterly ridiculous this must look and in the process of trying to not laugh raucously, SNORTING. REPEATEDLY.

Glad to report that I did not plummet from height, or disturb Blake, and I had a significantly better sleep than my poor husband who found himself on the sofa after an air bed fail and did not really sleep at all.

And it was a great weekend – Happy Birthday Ross-in-law!

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Today is the day: Thurs 14th August 2014

I have watched, over the last few days, Colleagues and friends having a tough time. It is not an easy thing to see people you care for struggle, when you know that no matter how much you would like to help there is really very little you can do beyond a hug, or a shoulder squeeze, or a few words of reassurance, by just being there should they need you.

And I have also had some lovely news this week, that a family who were having a very tough time are now happy and tired and doing well.

Life is a funny old game I think. It twists and turns, and at the moment when you think you have found your footing it uproots you and makes you start all over again. It is transient. There are moments of glory and moments of profound sadness and everything in between, and this week really makes me think that I should be more conscious of the small happy moments, the times of simple joy and laughter, the times that are peaceful and calm and content; and delight in them. Because there is no set pattern for this life of ours, no map to be read, no easy navigation. We are all just finding our own way through and standing by each other as best as we can.

Here’s a poem (with a handy bird theme):

Hope is the Thing with Feathers – Emily Dickenson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm

I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Coming soon – something daft and irreverent!

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Nerves

I am a bag of nerves most of the time. It is so frustrating. These nerves bubble away close to the surface, making me doubt myself and over-analyse and second guess situations and generally drive myself nuts. I am sure they are the reason I am so bad at small talk, because I am too busy worrying to be able to work out how I can start or maintain a conversation and then it is too late, the moment has passed and I am convinced people think I am a bore which only serves to make me more nervous.

I am at my nervous worst when it comes to people in authority. If a police car pulls up alongside me, I automatically assume this guilty shifty eye sneer and start following the trajectory of a pretend bird through the sky, when all I am really doing is driving my little yellow car to work. I once hitched a lift from one Christmas party to another with a heavily pregnant colleague and we were stopped at a festive road block where they were breathalising drivers. When the policeman asked my colleague if she had had anything to drink and she pointed to her heavily pregnant tummy I found myself screeching from the passenger seat ONLY A COUPLE AND I’M GETTING A TAXI HOME.

If a more senior colleague at work engages me in conversation my reaction is entirely predictable. Blush furiously. Make a rubbish joke. Grow a pair of Mr Tickle arms and gesticulate with abandon. Lose the ability to end a sentence and ramble on and on and on and on and on and on about the same point before trailing off into silence and giggling sadly, all the while screaming at myself internally.

Today I had to present at an important decision-making committee at work. It is the first time I’ve been to his forum, and despite the fact I locked myself in the bathroom several times over the weekend to practice in the mirror, despite knowing this presentation inside out and back to front, despite having second guessed every challenge that might come my way, the nerves still got to me. Or got to my voice to be precise. I sat on my hands to stop the gesturing and expressly forbade any attempts at humour and so my bloody voice betrayed me. I honestly have no idea what happened, it was like an out of body experience listening to myself and thinking ‘what for the love of statistics is going on with your voice.’

My words quickly started quivering and before I knew it I was quite literally BLEATING. Like a demented goat trying to give a presentation. I might as well have launched into a rendition of ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ from The Sound of Music. And I couldn’t get a handle on it, so a baaaaaaa-d my way through it and took some questions and then resorted to taking some frantic notes on some of the conversation. Only by that point I was so agitated I couldn’t write properly and so my notes look like a 5 year old tried to transcribe the discussion. Ultimately, a decision was made, but I walked away feeling like a fool.

It is completely infuriating. I did Theatre Studies AS Level! I played the Mad Hatter in a school production of Alice in Wonderland! I sang a relatively tuneful solo at our Year 6 leavers assembly! And now, at 30 years old, I cannot find a way around these nerves of mine. I think that is why this writing suits me and why I am so touched by your support and kind comments. Because I can articulate myself when I write in a way that is true to me. I have time and room to get the phrasing right, to convey the crux of what’s in my mind, and my fingers are so occupied with the typing that no gesticulation can occur. Through putting pen on paper (or letters on screen) I have space to breathe. I don’t have to fight the nerves, I don’t find myself raging in frustration at the foolishness of my situation. I just pootle on. So thank you for reading, it means a lot. X

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

We interrupt this blog to bring you a recipe: Sun 10th August 2014

I have been getting on quite nicely with my week of misery regime recently. It goes like this – in the week I am veggie wherever possible and I also avoid dairy. James has met me half way with the dairy thing but he draws the line at being veggie so at the weekend carnivorous activity is resumed (sorry veggie and vegan friends).

He had to go into work today – Sunday is one of two precious days off for him ordinarily, but not today alas. And so I wanted to cook something nice for our dinner but something that wasn’t Sunday-lunch-ish considering he’s served up in excess of 200 of those bad boys today.

And so I settled on Roast Gammon. It is one of those things I just never thought to cook before Christmas 2012, when it was suggested to me as an alternative Boxing Day lunch, served with roast new potatoes and Winter Slaw. And, minus the roast pots, that was exactly what I had a crack at today, albeit without a specific recipe because I thought I’d wing it.

It was a TRIUMPH! I can’t tell you how surprised I am! I am an avid recipe follower you see, and even then I generally balls it up. My food is occasionally tasty, but usually only about edible, and I am far too afraid to ever go off piste without a recipe. Who knows why I did today, but it worked a treat and so I hope you don’t mind me capturing it for posterity on here even though I know I have totally overdone it with the mindless prattle this week.

Sian’s Cobbled Together Alternative Sunday Dinner.

The Gammon

Buy some smoked gammon. I bought a 750g chunk.

You will need to marinade it first. My marinade was as follows:

1 tsp ground cloves (I like cloves but if you are not mad keen maybe half a tsp or even remove altogether)
1 tsp smoked paprika
2 tsp agave nectar (I own agave, not because I’m an arse – although we know that I am see here – but because James is diabetic and it is a low GI sweetener that is useful to have when cooking for such a person)
1 good dollop of marmalade SCHLOP (I used an Abel and Cole one that is not too sugary, which worked really well)
2 capfuls of white rum your lovely Jamaican neighbours brought back for you after their latest trip to the island

Chuck it in a bowl. Chuck your gammon in on top and roll it round until it’s coated. Then cover the bowl, bang it in the fridge, and go wake your toddler from his nap.

When you’re ready to cook it, shove a slow cooker on high heat, let it get nice and toasty and then throw in the gammon plus marinade and slug a load of cider on top. I used a 750ml bottle of Sainsburys Medium Dry cider for this.

Speak in piss poor Somerset accent and laugh at yourself because you are a moron.

Bang the lid on and let it do its thing for an hour and a half or so.

Whack the oven on 180.

Elegantly transfer said gammon into a roasting bag with a few ladles of the cider sauce and let it cook for an hour.

In this time, you could put your toddler to bed, or do a spot of reading, or paint your toenails, or fanny about with an exercise video. Hell, you could be a right swot and prepare your Slaw in advance. The choice is yours.

After the hour is up, turn the over down to 150, snip open roasting bag, pour away the juices and transfer the gammon onto a roasting tray. Find the nice marmalade again and spread a dollop onto the fatty top bit of the gammon. If, like me, your gammon is drunk from all the booze you have thrown at it, and keeps toppling over onto its side DOOF then spread some marmalade on the side too. Just not loads.

Sling back in the oven for a further 15 mins.

At this point, if you are totally paranoid like me and have one, use a probe to check the middle of your meat is cooked to 65 degrees or more. If not, cut into it and check it’s cooked through.

Let it sit for a few minutes.

The Slaw

CAVEAT This is a good old Jamie Oliver rehash – if you Google Winter Slaw you will find his recipe. I have made it lots of times, so didn’t bother with the recipe, just made it up LIKE A MAVERICK BADASS.

Grate some celeriac.

Grate some carrot.

Grate some fennel.

Chop up some red cabbage.

Chop up some plain old white cabbage.

Chuck in a bowl THWACK.

Squeeze the juice of a lemon over it to stop it discolouring.

Mix 1 tsp of grainy mustard, half a tsp of English mustard, with about 8 dessert spoons of natural yoghurt and the juice of two lemons. Season. At James’ suggestion I added in a shakey shake of dill and one of celery salt.

Stir through your grated veggies. For extra fun, go at it with gusto and fling a good amount all over your surfaces and floor.

End with a gigantic bowl of coleslaw that will keep you going for a clear week, like the one below.

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Wimp out of plating it up entirely and leave that to your Chef husband.

We ate this with some Sourdough, and I thought it was delicious.

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused