The Bandit Rabbit and the Homicidal Hipster.

Happy World Book Day. 

She became a much happier lumberjack once the tickly beard was removed and an untickly one painted on. Now I await their return from school and the indignant clamour of 'the other kids were dressed as superheroes, you said superheroes DIDN'T COUNT. *I* wanted to be a superhero too.' 

One day they'll appreciate my push for them to be creative, literary, individual, right? Right? 

Apricot, rosemary and almond.

It was four years ago last week that we first came here on holiday. It was the end of September, we had finished our first big run of weddings after having W&P and they were 9 months old. Nye’s parents had been here for three years and after spending the first year travelling around had bought a half built house at the end of a hill track out of the village. They had more or less finished the upstairs, although the kitchen worktop was still chipboard, and they had built one beautiful bedroom and bathroom for us in the downstairs, which was otherwise a wall-less, ceiling-less construction site.

Ammie slept in a cot in that construction site while Ella had one upstairs in her Grandpa's office. I use the word 'slept' loosely because at nine months old Ammie was yet to do very much of that. That week in separate rooms with walls, doors and a staircase between them was the most sleep Ella got for the first year of her life.

Every night as three out of the four adults ate their dinner either Nye or I would be downstairs for at least an hour, patting and singing and rocking and begging her to just go the fuck to sleep. On the nights when it was my turn I would try to see it through but almost invariably would tread heavily up the jangling steel staircase and tearfully whisper (lest I wake Ella) 'I really need your help'. I couldn't settle her but he could, eventually. My efforts almost always ended either in my scuttling for the door before she was asleep deeply enough not to notice or - more often - losing my cool long before she was even anywhere near settling, my frustration and distress only fortifying hers. It was a tough time for our relationship with that kid.

While the evenings and the ensuing hours of unsettled sleep were hell, the days were glorious and we carted W&P around the region, tucking them under our arms, hauling them up mountains and through vineyards. It was le vendange (the grape harvest) and in the vineyards of Villeneuvette a burly older gentleman with a bald head, red cheeks and an epic moustache the likes of which are only possessed by French wine growers and Eastern European circus strongmen, paused his picking to grin broadly at Ammie in her pram and flex his muscles - the universal sign language for 'that's a chunky one'. He chucked to himself that she would be very good at grape picking, when she was a little bigger.

One day on that first holiday we went to the market in Pezenas, bumping up against the legs and heels of the locals with our super truck of a pushchair. After we were done we had lunch sitting outside under the striped awning of a pavement café. I can't remember most of what I ate but afterwards I ordered tarte aux abricots; golden apricots glistening on a bed of sweet crème pâtissière, crisp pasty crumbling onto the plate. I've had a lot of good tarts in France – apricot, and raspberry, and lemon, and pecan, and chocolate - but that one was the one that I will always remember, the Tart of Tarts. Its crowning glory was that the apricots, or perhaps just the glaze, were flavoured with rosemary. It took me a few mouthfuls to figure out just what was going on there and it was as delicious as it was unexpected, two flavours that until you tried them you would never thing to combine, like strawberries and balsamic vinegar, orange and olive oil, dairy milk and ready salted crisps.

I've wanted to recreate it ever since and it took four years and temporary residence in France to get around to it. Let's say it was because getting hold of fresh apricots that taste of anything other than indigestion is a challenge in the UK.

But actually when it came down to it I didn't recreate it at all, it was more of an imitation sort of a thing. I wanted the girls to be able to eat it and Ammie has a dairy allergy so the crème patisserie that sits under the fruit in a traditional French tart was off the table. I worried that without some sort of cream filling just apricots on a bed of pastry would be a little dry and when I found this recipe for a sort of apricot Bakewell sort of a thing on La Recette du Jour I was pretty satisfied that it sounded delicious enough to work.

Seeing as I am wholly incapable of not meddling with a recipe I made a few alterations. I didn't fancy a compote-based tart, preferring the texture of whole pieces of fruit so instead of making compote in a pan I baked the halved apricots in the oven for half an hour at 180c, sprinkled with vanilla sugar, rosemary needles and a splash of muscat. The rosemary needles were a pain in the tits and my fingers burned and sticky by the time I'd picked every last one off the apricot halves but I couldn't think of any other way to impart the flavour while caramelizing the fruit. In the event, the fruit didn't actually caramelise as much as I'd have liked, I don't know if I needed the oven hotter or to leave them in there for longer, but I was impatient.

Before putting the apricot halves into the tart case I sprinkled ¼ cup of ground almonds over the base to absorb the extra juice from the fruit (no one wants a soggy bottom) and then I dolloped over the almond topping made exactly as it is in the original recipe. I made a glaze by boiling 4 tablespoons of apricot jam with another splash of muscat and a sprig of rosemary, then strained it (pushing the fruit pulp through the sieve) to get rid of the leaves.

It's been ages since I made it but I think I remember it being delicious. I also forgot to take a photo of the middle of it with all of it's beautiful chunks of apricot nestled in almondy cakey topping, because I eat fast and suck at food blogging.

While it was good it wasn't as good as the original tart and that is fine. I've often thought about seeking out that café and hoping that it's still on their menu but I don't dare, what if it's just not as good as I remember? While a recreation can never be expected to live up to the original and can yet still manage to enhance your memory of how good the first one was in comparison, eating the same tart in the same restaurant and it being a disappointment would just be deflating. I can't help but feel that it would make me question the integrity of my memory, of how good it that first tart really was and that in the questioning the glitter would be shaken off, The Memory of The Tart shunted from that shiny picture frame in my mind into the box of tattered, faded pictures of less-than-special meals I've eaten over the years. 

How unbearable that would be. 

what else?

Nye has gone off mountain biking in Scotland for a few days, to 'train' for the 30km downhill race he's taking part in this summer. Because apparently breaking his collarbone this time last year wasn't enough to put him off. I love my husband but he's a moron. He has left me alone with W&P for five days and I know that looking after your own children for five days is nothing to congratulate yourself about, I really do, except that IT FUCKING IS. 

Five days with no pre-school.
Five days with no adult company.
Five days preparing every meal while two people sit in kitchen doorway asking 'what are we having for breakfast/lunch/dinner?' incessantly, repeatedly and increasingly loudly, no matter how many times you tell them the answer and then once you've made the meal having not one single person appreciate it.
Five days of showering with 'help' and then wondering how to deal (naked, wet, covered in shampoo) with the child who has an epic tantrum because while she was leaning into the bathtub to collect water from the bottom, YOU got her wet.
Five days of 'help' getting dressed, meaning that every day you have to explain that no, you will not be wearing the pink, silk, feathery mini dress today, and no, probably not tomorrow either.
Five days of having no one to reassure you that at least they like you, when your kids are making it perfectly clear that they think you are a total dick. Or to give you a hug when one of them punches you right in the face as you're tucking them in at night.
Five days with no one to direct your kids to for answers when they've asked you for the 17th time in the 5 minutes since you got up 'what are we going to dooooooooooo today?' 

That said, we're doing okay. Granted, he hasn't been gone 24 hours, and yes, W&P had so many time outs* this morning that they spent more time out than in, and yes, I forgot to do any laundry last night and am currently wearing Spanx** because I don't have a single pair of clean knickers, but aside from that I think we're managing. 

Looking after children full time is (needless to say) very very different from the two person juggling act that is parenting with a partner and running a business at the same time. It's more focused and although I miss Nye, my children drive me fucking crazy and there's no way I would want to do this ALL the time, it is nice to a) know that I'm capable of looking after them alone and entirely (about 90% of the time I am certain that we would sink if it weren't for Nye) and b) to spend a day doing one thing - looking after the kids - instead of skittering between work and family and self like a squirrel on acid. 

I made a rookie mistake though; I played all of my good cards in the first 24 hours. We have done both messy crafts AND baking, and now they want to know 'what else?'. There is the play park but it's raining. We can't go to the library because I have books that are six months overdue. I'm not taking them on public transport because I'm just not. So, before I become the most hopeless parent in the world and google 'things to do with three year olds',  I ask you, what else? 

*'Time out' is ostensibly a way for them to learn that punching mummy isn't okay, in reality just an excuse not to have to deal with them for a few minutes while you breath deeply and slowly and tell yourself in a comforting voice that no, you can't have a glass of wine because it is 9.30am, but yes, you can have one later, once you have put them to bed. 

** wearing Spanx on a school day sucks and does nothing for one's irritability levels. There's a good reason that they're supposed to be worn with party wear and that reason is liquor. 

A letter to my daughters, on the eve of their 3rd birthday.

Dearest girls, tomorrow you will be three. You have been two for one day less than a year and let me tell you, what a year it's been.

We spent your second birthday travelling back to our funny little steading house in Evanton. We were renting it before we moved to London. Three weeks after your second birthday we moved. Your daddy drove us to the airport, your great-granny met us there, together they put us on the plane to London, your great-granny cried. There was a hairy moment as we were climbing the steps to the plane door, Ella heard the engine and froze, Ammie tried to keep climbing but the steps were too tall for her little legs, and as we were the first to board every single passenger on the flight stood on the steps and the runway, waiting behind us while I tried to persuade Ella to keep walking and help Ammie up off her knees. Eventually we were in our seats and I started unpacking my survival kit that I had been putting together in a desperate attempt to get through a flight by myself with two two year olds. You were perfect. You spent the whole journey playing, ripping up the wax from your tiny cheeses and dividing it between the plastic cups the air steward had given you. You weren't quiet but then I've never expected children to be quiet. Fuck them if they don't like your noise, you be heard. When we got to Gatwick you ran off down the glass tunnel over the baggage reclaim and every time I've gone down that tunnel since I've seen Ella in her tiny teal woollen coat, greeting her life in London with toddler sized glee. Then you both got tired and grumpy and mummy needed coffeeand I'm almost certain that you cried and grizzled all the way into London on the train until you eventually fell asleep in your pushchair, for the first time in months. That night you slept sprawled on a blanket on the floor, like tiny romper-clad drunks. We had moved to London.

This year has been hard, I won't deny it. That thing people say about terrible twos? Like most things people say it has some truth in it. There were tears and screaming and collapsing on the floor, from all of us. Two is hard, it's hard for parents and it was really hard for you. You were learning but not fast enough to give you the freedom and understanding that you wanted. You so desperately wanted to do things but you could not possibly understand why you weren't allowed and when you weren't allowed you were furious. You were getting bored but you were also so tired, your growth spurts exhausting you so that you still needed a good big nap in the middle of the day. You were curious and grumpy and completely unreasonable. Punishing us when we left you, treating us with disdain whenever one of your grannies was around, wilfully ignoring everything we said and telling us that were naughty, bad, silly, smelly. It sounds funny now but the vehemence with which you threw those words at us cut us to the bone. But oh the sweetness, the sweetness of two made all of it worthwhile. 'Mummy, are you sad?' 'Mummy, do you need a hug?', your awareness that other people have feelings was a milestone, your willingness to give affection and your desire to comfort others came just at the right time, just when it seemed that you were really trying to kill us with your demands and tantrums. And you started to seem to like each other, which I won't deny was a relief. When you didn't think we were looking you started playing together, inventing games and sharing and cooperating, then you realised we were watching and went back to fighting and whinging and more often than seemed necessary biting, scratching and gouging. Ella learned that she was faster and taller, Ammie that she was stronger and that her rage burned brighter. Ella, when she could, stole Ammie's things, not because she wanted them but because she wanted to hide them from her, knowing that it would make her incandescent with rage. Ammie in return would bite, push, scratch and yell.

Ammie, over the last few months you've worked so hard to learn some self-control and I am so proud of you for it. I know how hard you struggle, how strong your emotions are, that they rise like a flood tide through you and you can not see anything but injustice, feel anything but tage and despair. The day when instead of biting Ella, you clenched her fists and yelled 'ARGHHHHH BITE YOU' at her I was so proud of you that my heart ached. I know how hard it was for you not to just clamp your teeth around her arm and use your tiny powerful jaw to express all the fury was coursing through you. Emotions are hard, I struggle with that too. So often I just want to scream and yell and throw myself on the ground crying. So often these days it's only wanting to set you a good example that stops me. I hope one day you will understand that we will always have at least that in common. Alongside your rage comes the greatest, warmest love in the world. As intensely as you feel anger and desperation you feel love and affection and joy. Ammie, you give the greatest hugs that there ever was. You wrap your little strong arms around my neck and you squeeze me so tightly that it hurts. Then you kiss me, little sloppy open mouthed kisses that leave my face wet. Anyone who gets one of your 'great big hugs' is very luck. I love the strength and the power in you. I love your rage and your fury and your love and your fire. You are always warm, you don't get cold hands, your limbs are soft and kneadable like warm bread dough and when you curl in my lap to read a book or watch tv, your wild curls tickling my chin, you are my hot water bottle. You look more and more like your daddy and I see his concentration and determination glowering from your brow when you are confronted with something that doesn't make sense or just something really quire serious that demands a lot of respect, like milk.

Ella, your independence and your brightness astound me daily. You are always learning, always listening. Your sense of humour is more sophisticated than most of the adults I know. You do voices and accents, you play with language and you take delight in making us laugh. You will not perform on demand though, your urge to do your own thing outweighs your urge to entertain. Your urge to do your own thing, never to give in, outweighs everything. On your more difficult days I call it stubbornness, your daddy; sheer bloody mindedness. You would rather miss out on something you really really want than give in and do something someone else has told you to. You remind me so much of me that it scares me. One day I will tell you the stories about the Easter chick and the back seat of the bus and I hope that you will believe that we are made from something similar. I am learning to only pick the really important battles with you but I think that it will be a long road. A while back you went through an extreme independent phase. Maybe once a week you would agree to a hug, never a kiss, and while your sister was revelling in being 'a little baby' you were quite determined that you were 'a big boy', telling us so many times a day, dressing only in trousers, only in blue and getting really very cross if anyone suggested that you were either a baby or a girl. Then, just as suddenly as it arrived, it passed and now you are neither girl nor boy but 'a baby bunny'. You will let us hug and kiss you again and I am so glad. I love to feel your long arms and legs wrapped around me, to stroke your delicate shoulder blades and feel your whispy fine hair tickle my nose. I love to feel that for a little while longer you are my baby, because I can see you striding off into the world on those wonderfully long legs any day now and while I know great things wait for you out there, I don't want to let you go.

Both of you have the most wonderful language skills and pretty much daily something you say makes us laugh. You have parents who love language and who will rarely tell you that you'rve got a word wrong, often preferring your version anyway. As such you will likely go to nursery and be mocked mercilessly. I'm sorry about that. Even if being laughed at is too much for your lexicon to survive, it's very unlikely that your daddy and I will drop the wonderful things you said in that year you were two from ours. Our clothes will never again be too small or too big but always 'too fit'. Going out for dinner will always be 'fahncy', not fancy. It's unlikely that either of us will evera sk to be excused but always 'please maybe squoozed' and on cold mornings I will always brew my coffee in a chocolatey ear.

My girls, tomorrow you will be three and it seems so sudden. I remember this night, three years ago, as clearly as any night. In fact infinitely more clearly than any of the nights since, because you two have royally scrambled my brain. Early fireworks popping and whizzing as I lay quietly in the darkness waiting for you to arrive. Tomorrow we will take you to see your first firework display, you'll probably hate it and complain of the cold and the darkness and the noise because as much I would love to imagine otherwise, I'm almost certain that the irascibility of two does not stop with three. In fact I've heard it gets worse. Oh well. Along with everything that might get worse with this coming year I am absolutely, entirely certain that you're going to keep getting better too. That your love and your sense of humour and your curiosity and your conversation and your friendship with each other is going to grow and grow and grow and that your daddy and I will continue to think that you are two of the best people to ever walk this earth. Happy birthday baby girls. 

Bird and Bear {a family photo session}

A couple of weeks ago I spent one Sunday morning with this totally adorable South London family. Twins twins twins, I could get used to hanging out with other people's twins!