I recently decided that my family needed a morning motivator. The early hours of every day are a highly charged affair in my household, with drama, panic, and bad language in abundance, all before most sensible people are awake.
Understanding the power of a special offer, I decided to motivate the kids to get downstairs faster with the promise of pancakes. Naturally, they leapt out of bed with alacrity the next morning, and sat eagerly awaiting their cooked breakfast at 6:30 am. What I had failed to think through was that I would have to be compos mentis enough to operate the stove at this ungodly hour. I shambled through however, and everyone left the house well fed, fully dressed, and on good terms.
Of course, the kids requested that the special offer be extended. We now renegotiate the terms every night. I have been whipping up boiled eggs, fried eggs, oatmeal with syrup and fixings, waffles with fruit and cream -- anything that will get them up on time with a smile on their face. If I brushed my hair, I could almost pass for Martha Stewart.
This sounds like a lot of effort. But it takes me less time to crack an egg and slam a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, than it does to persuade them out of bed, adjudicate breakfast disputes, and run around screaming like my ass is on fire.
I am secretly hoping that breakfast will eventually come full circle. I will be able to present Cheerios as the special offer of the day, and it will have the kids excited.
Novelty and nostalgia, all in one easy, get-it-while-you-can bowl.
Showing posts with label breakfast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breakfast. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Fruit smoothie
My 10-year old son picked up the sliver of banana and held it at arm's length.
"You want me to eat all this?"
"Yes. There is about one-sixtieth of a portion of fruit there, but it's better than nothing."
"I don't want it."
"Just eat it."
"No."
This conversation, with the insertion of various seasonal fruits, is part of my family's cozy breakfast ritual every morning.
While my younger son will eat pretty much any fruit or veg, my older one is much less obliging in this department. When he was 3, he went grey from poor nutrition. Strawberry Starburst was his side dish of choice.
It wasn't like this when I was little. I didn't know kids who didn't like fruit and veg. Really I didn't. We had parents who grew up on rations, and who made you feel like an ingrate if so much as a pea was left on your plate. Today however, we have raised a generation of children who are encouraged to have opinions, which may be a good thing in many ways, but is an absolute bugger to manage at the breakfast table.
I considered forcing the banana issue. But this is the son who has, on more than one occasion, vomited up food he does not like all over the table. I was not equipped to deal with anything quite so theatrical this morning. Instead, I reached for the blender.
I dropped in one banana, a handful of blueberries, a questionable-looking pear, a good slug of milk, and a splash of strawberry syrup. Whizzed it up. He drank the lot.
The smoothie ploy wins every time. And while I am delighted that it prevents my son from turning an alarming shade of grey, I cannot help but be conflicted about the message I am sending.
You can get people to swallow anything. As long as you whizz it up the right way.
"You want me to eat all this?"
"Yes. There is about one-sixtieth of a portion of fruit there, but it's better than nothing."
"I don't want it."
"Just eat it."
"No."
This conversation, with the insertion of various seasonal fruits, is part of my family's cozy breakfast ritual every morning.
While my younger son will eat pretty much any fruit or veg, my older one is much less obliging in this department. When he was 3, he went grey from poor nutrition. Strawberry Starburst was his side dish of choice.
It wasn't like this when I was little. I didn't know kids who didn't like fruit and veg. Really I didn't. We had parents who grew up on rations, and who made you feel like an ingrate if so much as a pea was left on your plate. Today however, we have raised a generation of children who are encouraged to have opinions, which may be a good thing in many ways, but is an absolute bugger to manage at the breakfast table.
I considered forcing the banana issue. But this is the son who has, on more than one occasion, vomited up food he does not like all over the table. I was not equipped to deal with anything quite so theatrical this morning. Instead, I reached for the blender.
I dropped in one banana, a handful of blueberries, a questionable-looking pear, a good slug of milk, and a splash of strawberry syrup. Whizzed it up. He drank the lot.
The smoothie ploy wins every time. And while I am delighted that it prevents my son from turning an alarming shade of grey, I cannot help but be conflicted about the message I am sending.
You can get people to swallow anything. As long as you whizz it up the right way.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Frostbite
I think I'm going to lose 3 toes.
It was a bit of a morning. Mr Berman had to leave at 5:00 am to catch a flight to San Francisco. He brought me a cup of tea, bless his heart, but it was all downhill from there.
I managed to hoist myself into a sitting position, and switched on the laptop to get a head start. Time ran away with me -- suddenly, it was 6:45 am, the kids were still asleep, and we had 30 minutes to get up and out to the bus stop.
The boys were not exactly fired up and ready to go. I did manage to get us all dressed before 7:00 am, which I consider to be something of an achievement. I shoveled vitamins down their throats in lieu of more adequate sustenance. I yelled "Come ON guys" a lot.
We left the house in a scramble, I as usual, dressed in my floor-length padded down coat, to cover the offensive array of articles I had managed to grab from the dirty laundry. I did not have time to find socks, and grabbed the nearest footwear in my size.
Flip flops.
Initially, I did not realize that it was sub-arctic -- my attention was distracted when the door fell off its hinges as I closed it. I simply could not shut the damn thing. I wrestled with it and swore heartily for a minute, then had to make a split-second decision -- miss the bus and wait in for handyman, or catch the bus and return to burgled house and murdered cats. I chose the latter, and went haring off after the boys, flip flops and floor-length padded down coat flapping in the icy breeze.
As we reached the bus stop, I realized that I could not feel my feet. I mentioned this, and the boys looked down, horrified, at my flip flops.
"You're wearing flip flops."
"I know."
"That's silly."
"I know."
"It's really cold today."
"Bloody hell. I KNOW."
The bus came, and I hobbled home. Half an hour later, 3 toes on my right foot are still white. I remember with growing concern that Scott of the Antarctic perished from a combination of starvation, exhaustion, and extreme cold. While god knows I'm no danger of starving, I panic that the other two combined are very likely to cause my demise.
Mentally fast-forward to the emotional eulogy at my funeral.
"Tragic as her untimely expiration from exhaustion and frostbite may be, at least she didn't shame her sons by wearing slippers to the bus stop."
Amen.
It was a bit of a morning. Mr Berman had to leave at 5:00 am to catch a flight to San Francisco. He brought me a cup of tea, bless his heart, but it was all downhill from there.
I managed to hoist myself into a sitting position, and switched on the laptop to get a head start. Time ran away with me -- suddenly, it was 6:45 am, the kids were still asleep, and we had 30 minutes to get up and out to the bus stop.
The boys were not exactly fired up and ready to go. I did manage to get us all dressed before 7:00 am, which I consider to be something of an achievement. I shoveled vitamins down their throats in lieu of more adequate sustenance. I yelled "Come ON guys" a lot.
We left the house in a scramble, I as usual, dressed in my floor-length padded down coat, to cover the offensive array of articles I had managed to grab from the dirty laundry. I did not have time to find socks, and grabbed the nearest footwear in my size.
Flip flops.
Initially, I did not realize that it was sub-arctic -- my attention was distracted when the door fell off its hinges as I closed it. I simply could not shut the damn thing. I wrestled with it and swore heartily for a minute, then had to make a split-second decision -- miss the bus and wait in for handyman, or catch the bus and return to burgled house and murdered cats. I chose the latter, and went haring off after the boys, flip flops and floor-length padded down coat flapping in the icy breeze.
As we reached the bus stop, I realized that I could not feel my feet. I mentioned this, and the boys looked down, horrified, at my flip flops.
"You're wearing flip flops."
"I know."
"That's silly."
"I know."
"It's really cold today."
"Bloody hell. I KNOW."
The bus came, and I hobbled home. Half an hour later, 3 toes on my right foot are still white. I remember with growing concern that Scott of the Antarctic perished from a combination of starvation, exhaustion, and extreme cold. While god knows I'm no danger of starving, I panic that the other two combined are very likely to cause my demise.
Mentally fast-forward to the emotional eulogy at my funeral.
"Tragic as her untimely expiration from exhaustion and frostbite may be, at least she didn't shame her sons by wearing slippers to the bus stop."
Amen.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Chocolate milk
My 8-year old is an adventurous eater. He eats tofu for breakfast (I like tofu as much as the next liberal-minded, vegetarian, organic granola-eating hippie, but for breakfast?) He noshes down on Indian, Thai, Sushi. And he practically drinks Frank's Red Hot Sauce.
But he won't drink milk.
I worry about his bones. So I decided to splash a little chocolate syrup in his milk.
Being a liberal-minded, vegetarian, organic granola-eating hippie, I struggled with it. Sugar is The Enemy. Obesity a Growing Epidemic.
But bones are important. So we splashed on.
Then my 10-year old began demanding chocolate syrup in his milk. What next -- Froot Loops?
I let it slide. And still, we splashed on.
So far, their teeth have not fallen out (apart from the usual tooth-fairy business one would expect from young men of their age). Their nails look good. And I trust their bones are growing stronger.
Because for once, I didn't let perfect get in the way of pretty damn good. We need to remember that sometimes.
Be good with being pretty damn good. Splash on.
But he won't drink milk.
I worry about his bones. So I decided to splash a little chocolate syrup in his milk.
Being a liberal-minded, vegetarian, organic granola-eating hippie, I struggled with it. Sugar is The Enemy. Obesity a Growing Epidemic.
But bones are important. So we splashed on.
Then my 10-year old began demanding chocolate syrup in his milk. What next -- Froot Loops?
I let it slide. And still, we splashed on.
So far, their teeth have not fallen out (apart from the usual tooth-fairy business one would expect from young men of their age). Their nails look good. And I trust their bones are growing stronger.
Because for once, I didn't let perfect get in the way of pretty damn good. We need to remember that sometimes.
Be good with being pretty damn good. Splash on.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Bridal Galleria
I am staying with dear old friends, and have been reminded about an incident that occurred about 13 years ago. I am not sure what the moral is, I am only sure that there must be one. If something washes you anew in shame more than a decade later, there is something to be learned.
It was my final fitting for my bridal gown, and I needed to pick a suitably-glamorous-but-not-too-beauty-queen tiara and veil. My friend Kate was coming with me, to restrain any extreme diamanté impulses I might have.
Unfortunately, we had both been Out the night before. Out, as in a dozen or so greyhounds apiece (the fashionable drink du jour), which left us on fairly shaky feet that Saturday morning, as we shambled towards the Bridal Galleria.
As we came within view of their dark, mirrored windows, I realized that there was no way on god's earth I could keep down the egg sandwich I had optimistically forced myself to ingest an hour earlier. Sure enough, most of the egg sandwich, a whole lot of vodka, and more grapefruit juice than I ever hope to see again in my life made their sudden reappearance. Kate, bless her heart, gamely held my hair back, and encouraged me to aim forward towards the windows, rather than downward towards my open-toed shoes.
After this bilious ordeal, we brushed ourselves off and headed into the store. We were shown into its hushed recesses, and my gown was brought out, reverently wrapped in crisp layers of white tissue. I was forced to make a quick detour to the bathroom at this point (the egg sandwich was not coming quietly), but Kate was able to zip me in, and the attendant then began to attach a variety of headpieces for me to choose from. I chose rather more quickly than I am led to believe brides usually do ("That one will do. Get. it. off. my. head. NOW.")
The staff were very understanding and unfailingly polite, even though I must have smelt like a sewer. I put it down to the fact that they were used to dealing with fainting, tizzicky brides, albeit caused by high emotions rather than high jinks.
However, as we were leaving the store, Kate nudged me urgently in the ribs.
"Look at the windows."
"Can't. look. at. anything."
"Look at the bloody windows."
I looked up, and realized with horror that they were not made of dark, mirrored glass. They were made of one-way glass. I hadn't been able to see the store's inhabitants, but they had sure as hell been able to see me, depositing the remnants of my night out all over their nice, shiny windows.
So, what's the moral?
I can think of two:
1. Choose your mixer carefully. Grapefruit does not sit easily on the stomach.
2. Always, always, be kind and respectful to your clients. Even when they vomit on your windows. Until death do you part.
It was my final fitting for my bridal gown, and I needed to pick a suitably-glamorous-but-not-too-beauty-queen tiara and veil. My friend Kate was coming with me, to restrain any extreme diamanté impulses I might have.
Unfortunately, we had both been Out the night before. Out, as in a dozen or so greyhounds apiece (the fashionable drink du jour), which left us on fairly shaky feet that Saturday morning, as we shambled towards the Bridal Galleria.
As we came within view of their dark, mirrored windows, I realized that there was no way on god's earth I could keep down the egg sandwich I had optimistically forced myself to ingest an hour earlier. Sure enough, most of the egg sandwich, a whole lot of vodka, and more grapefruit juice than I ever hope to see again in my life made their sudden reappearance. Kate, bless her heart, gamely held my hair back, and encouraged me to aim forward towards the windows, rather than downward towards my open-toed shoes.
After this bilious ordeal, we brushed ourselves off and headed into the store. We were shown into its hushed recesses, and my gown was brought out, reverently wrapped in crisp layers of white tissue. I was forced to make a quick detour to the bathroom at this point (the egg sandwich was not coming quietly), but Kate was able to zip me in, and the attendant then began to attach a variety of headpieces for me to choose from. I chose rather more quickly than I am led to believe brides usually do ("That one will do. Get. it. off. my. head. NOW.")
The staff were very understanding and unfailingly polite, even though I must have smelt like a sewer. I put it down to the fact that they were used to dealing with fainting, tizzicky brides, albeit caused by high emotions rather than high jinks.
However, as we were leaving the store, Kate nudged me urgently in the ribs.
"Look at the windows."
"Can't. look. at. anything."
"Look at the bloody windows."
I looked up, and realized with horror that they were not made of dark, mirrored glass. They were made of one-way glass. I hadn't been able to see the store's inhabitants, but they had sure as hell been able to see me, depositing the remnants of my night out all over their nice, shiny windows.
So, what's the moral?
I can think of two:
1. Choose your mixer carefully. Grapefruit does not sit easily on the stomach.
2. Always, always, be kind and respectful to your clients. Even when they vomit on your windows. Until death do you part.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Longevity granola
I just discovered that The California Health and Longevity Institute is located in my hotel.
They offer an alluring array of health and wellness services, and claim they can restore my life balance.
Ironic, given that we have been working 15-hour days since our arrival. And 'balanced' is the last word I would use to describe myself.
Since I am unlikely to have the time to dip so much as a toe into their mineral-salted waters, I opted instead for the Longevity Granola at breakfast this morning. Not sure toasted flax seeds can fix all that ails me, but decided to give it a whirl.
I don't know if it's the granola, but I'm certainly feeling old.
Wonder if they do 'life balance' to go?
They offer an alluring array of health and wellness services, and claim they can restore my life balance.
Ironic, given that we have been working 15-hour days since our arrival. And 'balanced' is the last word I would use to describe myself.
Since I am unlikely to have the time to dip so much as a toe into their mineral-salted waters, I opted instead for the Longevity Granola at breakfast this morning. Not sure toasted flax seeds can fix all that ails me, but decided to give it a whirl.
I don't know if it's the granola, but I'm certainly feeling old.
Wonder if they do 'life balance' to go?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Early flight
Any day that starts at 4:30 am is sure to be a bad one.
I am now at the airport, busy delaying my 6:30 am flight to LA. After standing on line for 30 minutes, I am told I have missed baggage check by 5.
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
This exchange continues for some time, until the check-in agent breaks the impasse by disappearing through a door into the bowels of the airport for 10 minutes. Upon her return, she announces that she will check my bag, but can't guarantee anything. If this is intended to be reassuring, it doesn't work. My bag is on its way to Los Cabos, and I am facing the prospect of 4 days in LA with the clothes I am wearing and a floor-length padded down coat. I look like a walking comforter. This is a common sight on the streets of NY in February; in LA, not so much.
Decide that breakfast may improve my outlook, but my options are limited. Fried offal masquerading as a breakfast patty, or a donut sweet enough to trigger instant-onset diabetes. This is not the breakfast of champions. No wonder the nation's a mess. Eventually locate a yogurt, also over-sugared. My teeth melt. Mentally compose furious letter of complaint to Danon ("Dear Sirs, Yogurt is supposed to be sour. Health haters. I look forward to your timely reply...") but know I won't have time to send it until I retire.
Cannot find anything that deserves to be called tea. Settle for Liptons. I discover the lid is leaking when it pours scalding liquid down the sleeve of my coat. Hurl it into the nearest waste bin in a fit of temper.
But thank god -- thank god -- duty free is open. I may not be able to find healthful sustenance, but I can buy as much liquor and tobacco as I can carry. Shelve my sarcasm when I realize that a liter of brandy would come in pretty bloody handy right now. Decide instead to buy face cream (mine is, as I mentioned, on its way to Los Cabos). Pick up my usual over-priced brand, and read the box in horror: Multi-Activ Night Creme counteracts early signs of aging in one's thirties. I didn't know it, but my skin is now beyond redemption. Ladies of my advanced years, it turns out, are better served by the Extra-Firming Night Creme. Crushed, but buy it anyway. Lard would likely be just as much use at this point, but not ready to go there yet.
So now, I am loitering behind a magazine stand near Gate 2, waiting until they call my name over the loudspeaker. I am gaming the system -- on account of my checking a bag, they cannot leave without me, or without opening the baggage hold and unloading my property. I calculate that this delay will give my bag just enough time to make the flight. When they call my name a third time, I will sprint to the gate, whip out my accent, and look apologetic.
Getting chest pains. I'm not cut out for subterfuge. Face cream no help in this situation. Wish I'd bought the brandy. I just want the world to sod off.
I am now at the airport, busy delaying my 6:30 am flight to LA. After standing on line for 30 minutes, I am told I have missed baggage check by 5.
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
This exchange continues for some time, until the check-in agent breaks the impasse by disappearing through a door into the bowels of the airport for 10 minutes. Upon her return, she announces that she will check my bag, but can't guarantee anything. If this is intended to be reassuring, it doesn't work. My bag is on its way to Los Cabos, and I am facing the prospect of 4 days in LA with the clothes I am wearing and a floor-length padded down coat. I look like a walking comforter. This is a common sight on the streets of NY in February; in LA, not so much.
Decide that breakfast may improve my outlook, but my options are limited. Fried offal masquerading as a breakfast patty, or a donut sweet enough to trigger instant-onset diabetes. This is not the breakfast of champions. No wonder the nation's a mess. Eventually locate a yogurt, also over-sugared. My teeth melt. Mentally compose furious letter of complaint to Danon ("Dear Sirs, Yogurt is supposed to be sour. Health haters. I look forward to your timely reply...") but know I won't have time to send it until I retire.
Cannot find anything that deserves to be called tea. Settle for Liptons. I discover the lid is leaking when it pours scalding liquid down the sleeve of my coat. Hurl it into the nearest waste bin in a fit of temper.
But thank god -- thank god -- duty free is open. I may not be able to find healthful sustenance, but I can buy as much liquor and tobacco as I can carry. Shelve my sarcasm when I realize that a liter of brandy would come in pretty bloody handy right now. Decide instead to buy face cream (mine is, as I mentioned, on its way to Los Cabos). Pick up my usual over-priced brand, and read the box in horror: Multi-Activ Night Creme counteracts early signs of aging in one's thirties. I didn't know it, but my skin is now beyond redemption. Ladies of my advanced years, it turns out, are better served by the Extra-Firming Night Creme. Crushed, but buy it anyway. Lard would likely be just as much use at this point, but not ready to go there yet.
So now, I am loitering behind a magazine stand near Gate 2, waiting until they call my name over the loudspeaker. I am gaming the system -- on account of my checking a bag, they cannot leave without me, or without opening the baggage hold and unloading my property. I calculate that this delay will give my bag just enough time to make the flight. When they call my name a third time, I will sprint to the gate, whip out my accent, and look apologetic.
Getting chest pains. I'm not cut out for subterfuge. Face cream no help in this situation. Wish I'd bought the brandy. I just want the world to sod off.
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