Costco

Every month, we make an excursion to Costco. There is initially great excitement at the prospect (we don't get out much), and everyone eagerly piles into the car. The kids look forward to the sample tasting. Mr Berman mentally eyes the electronics and prepares to make his case for an extra 50" flatscreen TV. I contemplate which new kitchen appliances I will buy and barely use.

What we always forget is that Saturday afternoon at Costco is hell. Thousands of tortured souls who could not resist temptation, forced to spend an eternity consumed with anguish and futile dreams of escape. We remember this as soon as turn into the parking lot. The conversation is always the same.

"Looks crowded."

"Yup."

"Should have come early, right when it opens."

"Yup."

"Or midweek, after work."

"Yup."

We drive around for 15 minutes, and if we are lucky, eventually find a space without fisticuffs. Parking space sabotage is common. People cut you with steely resolve, and would run over their own children in order to secure a spot. I have a strong moral compass when it comes to parking etiquette, and these outrages have me practically frothing at the mouth. By the time I stagger out of the car, I am exhausted by the strong language and hand signs I have been forced to distribute.

It only gets worse.

The place is impossibly crowded, which enforces a sedate shuffle. I am not sedate, nor do I shuffle. I prize energy, efficiency, speed. But these virtues count for nothing in Costco. So I shuffle around with the crowd, as energetically, efficiently, and speedily as I can, practically grinding my teeth to powder in the process.

Here is our shopping list:

Supersize cheddar

Supersize yogurt

Supersize pretzels
Supersize cheerios

Supersize houmous
Supersize rice

Supersize peas

It continues, in the same vein, for 3 pages.

In addition to food, we also review this month's special offer items. Of particular interest: supersize stretch pants, $11.99. Could come in handy. I place 3 pairs in the cart.

My favorite part is the discount wine store, which we visit after check out. At this point in the proceedings, I am invariably losing the will to live, and it is all I can do to prevent myself from ripping the cork out with my teeth and downing the nearest bottle.

So why do we put ourselves through this?

It's not to save money. Any savings on food are rendered neutral by the ready availability of electronics, kitchen appliances, and supersize stretch pants.

We do it, quite simply, to save time.

A few hours of Costco torture once a month gives us precious extra time with the boys each weekend. We can stroll through the greenmarket without worrying whether we have enough cat litter. Spend a little extra time in the library without dashing off to stock up on loo roll. We could even, god forbid, sit down en famille for a civilized breakfast, thanks to our supersize pack of frozen croissants.

Counterintuitive as it might seem, that precious commodity time is now available at your local Costco store.

See you in the dairy aisle.

Packed lunch

Yesterday was my son's first day at middle school.

Of course, I had forgotten to register for the "My Lunch Money" program online until the night before. I took care of it at 11:47pm, but discovered to my dismay that payments take 24 hours to appear in the school's system.

What the hell would I give him to eat on his first day? We are in the middle of an everlasting kitchen renovation during which we are subsisting on deliveries and take out, and the chances of me finding healthful sustenance amidst the dust and mess were slim.

I rustled around in the laundry hamper (where I am storing comestibles during the renovation), and retrieved a packet of Cheetos and a Capri Sun.

This would not do. While my son would be perfectly happy with this for lunch, his new school offers a very healthful menu with lots of fruits, veggies, and whole grains. I cannot send him into this environment with Cheetos. While I don't think Cheetos, if taken in moderation, would be bad for him, they sure as hell would be bad for me.

I would look like a Bad Parent.

I reviewed the label on the Capri Sun. I was encouraged by the fact that it contains 30% less sugar. Than what? Cotton candy? It didn't say. But it fooled me for a second, so it will fool the Judgers. I popped it into the lunch box.

I located the peanut butter under a pile of bills, alongside a suspicious-looking loaf of bread. I selected the two most promising slices, cut the worst of the mold off, and made a somewhat presentable sandwich.

What the hell could I do for fruit and veg? There was a forgotten green pepper in the fridge, but no amount of fancy knifework would ever make it edible. I grubbed about in the back of the vegetable drawer, and emerged triumphant with a remarkably well-preserved pear. I sliced it lovingly into an environmentally-friendly, non-BPA, reusable plastic container, being careful to leave the little 'organic' sticker on. Chew on that, Judgers!

While I was in the refrigerator, I noticed a lone yogurt, which was a little past its sell-by date. But not by much. I reminded myself that yogurt is meant to go off, sort of. I scratched off the sell-by date with my nail, added it to the lunch box, and zipped it all shut.

It was done. My reputation as a Not-All-That-Bad Parent was safe. My son's stomach, maybe less so. There is always Pepto Bismol.

I wonder if it counts as a vegetable?

To run or not to run?

I recently received the email that tells me I am in the NY marathon this year.

I should be delighted.

It takes 9 races and a volunteer event to qualify -- that's a lot of ghastly Sunday mornings.

But I am conflicted. Am I really going to manage it this year?

I decided to bow out last year -- not exactly gracefully -- in the middle of a 19-mile training run. I was trotting down the boardwalk at Coney Island, and had an unexpected epiphany, in the shape of a taco.

I was passing the stand that does lovely soft corn tortillas with homemade hot sauce, fresh lime, and cotija cheese.

"Screw this." I thought. "Gel packs are the work of Satan. I want a taco."

I sat and munched the taco. I watched the waves. I thought for a bit. I had twisted my ankle and missed the first 4 weeks of training. I had a lot going on at work. I just wasn't ready. Sometimes, quitting is the smart thing to do.

"I'm knackered, I want a bath, and I want to see my boys." 

So I got the bus home. And that was that.

What with one thing and another (work, boys, sleep, life, breathing), it has become harder to keep running marathons of late. I know I need to. Without that big, scary goal, there is no way I will get out of bed at 5:30 am to get 8 miles in. Who the hell would?

So...2011.

To run, or not to run?

That is the question.

Special offer

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Lowering my standards

I love to cook.

The first birthday cake I made for my eldest son was an overachiever's delight. My husband and I labored late into the night, lovingly crafting Spongebob out of homemade madeira (don't skimp on the butter), and fondant icing. So lifelike, it felt wrong to cut him, especially when he bled strawberry jam and a couple of the smaller guests almost passed out.

Over the years, I've made Bob the Builder, Thomas the Tank Engine, various Teletubbies, a soccer field, and the entire cast of Star Wars. And while I loved the result, getting there was always stressful. Particularly because in addition to making a cake for a party at home, I would also deliver 24 beautifully-crafted, home-made cupcakes to school for the class celebration.

My work partner Dave pointed out, every year, that I should just buy the cupcakes.

"I can't. I just can't."
"But you'll be cooking 'til midnight."
"They have to have homemade cakes."
"Why?"
"I always did."

I was desperately hanging on to my childhood notions of "what makes a good mum". My mum was an amazing cook, who created meringue swans afloat on seas of blue jelly (jello, I believe, is the U.S. translation). She scooped out orange halves to make dessert-filled baskets and boats. Her crowning glory was a field of mushrooms, made of green jelly and meringue, with lightly sprinkled chocolate flakes lying in a wispy circle under each fungi, representing the spores that fall through the night. Spores. She remembered the spores.

It's quite clear I get my kitchen overachiever gene from my mum.

You might say times have changed. But my mum worked too. Although, by her own admission, not like I do. And, most critically, my mum is able to get by on 4 hours sleep a night. I most certainly am not.

It came to a head when my son's birthday fell during a particularly busy spell at work. Whisking butter and sugar together at 1:00 am would have sent me over the edge. Something had to give.

I went to the fanciest cupcake shop I could find, and dropped $60 on 2 dozen sunflower-bedecked concoctions. My son's class loved them. Scoffed them down in 5 seconds flat.

The world did not end.

So after years of turning out butterfly cupcakes (the key word is butter, NEVER margarine), I made my peace with the fact that I am not my mum. And I am not a bad mother if I buy cupcakes. I am a sane one. A mother for the 21st century.

I called to confess to my mum that I had bought cupcakes.

"Well, that makes sense," she said.
"I feel like a bad mother. You always made everything."
"You've got more on your plate. I don't know how you do it."

The guilt melted away. I have since lowered my standards even further, and these days buy not only the cupcakes, but the big party cake too. Let's face it, when you're feeding kids something sugary, it barely touches the sides. Why waste the effort?

I also gave up on the fancy cupcake shop. This year, I bought the biggest cake I've ever seen. At Costco. I didn't handwhisk butter into it. But I paid my $17.95 in a really, really loving way.

Wholewheat everything

Every Friday is Bagel Friday at The CementBloc. Eating myself into a carb coma by 10:00 am has become a sacred ritual that marks the end of my week.

This morning, the kitchen at work was overflowing as usual with bagels the size of my ass -- at least, the size of my ass now, after I've been eating these super-size beauties for close on 8 years.

But there was no wholewheat everything.

I was so looking forward to scooping out the doughy inside -- not to save calories, rather to pack in more scallion cream cheese. Nibbling the toasty oniony bits on the outside. Wondering if I really could finish the whole thing, finding I could...and then wondering if a 3rd half would be overdoing it.

There was a bialy in the basket -- that was a novelty. But bialys are what I have on Sunday with the kids.

My distress isn't really about bagels. Or bialys. It's about finding comfort and safety in routine. One little island of the expected in the middle of a life that is anything but.

I used to loathe routine. New, unexpected, spur of the moment is way more appealing. I scoffed at people who vacationed in the same place every year. Balked at the notion of spaghetti every Thursday. But when my boys came along, I realized that we need a little routine. It makes life simpler, and saner.

• Brush your teeth before you come downstairs, otherwise we will be running back up 3 flights to retrieve your toothbrush when we should be at the bus stop
• Study for tests ahead of time. Remembering on Sunday at 7:00 pm that you have a statewide science test the next morning is not going to put mummy in a good mood
• Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday are "hairwash" nights. This gives me time to recover from the ordeal and steel my nerves for the next time

I hate the fact that I have embraced routine. It sounds so...dull.

I prefer ritual. It sounds more considered, foundational, spiritual even.

Hey, that means my weekly carb coma might actually be some kind of spiritual trance. Leave me alone people, I'm busy transcending.

I always knew Bagel Friday served a higher purpose.

The new walk of shame

We were late for school this morning.

It's Ted's birthday. There were gifts to be opened, games to be played, plans to be made. Which left me 7 minutes to get them dressed, fed, and driven to school.

As I pulled up to the entrance, Will announced that I would need to sign them in, as they were more than 10 minutes late.

"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm wearing pyjamas."

Silence.

Then, "What do you have on your feet?"
"Boots."
"That's OK then. You can sign us in. As long as you're not wearing slippers."

Which explains why, at 8:15 am, I was wandering the halls of PS 193 in pyjamas, a ski jacket, gardening gloves, and snow boots. You'll notice that my kids were not alarmed by this -- this is what they expect from me. As long as the slippers stay home. Slippers cross the line.

I still haven't brushed my teeth.