The Muslim Hangover

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Snowstorm

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There’s a snowstorm that appears
in the pauses when an orderly screen
of jewelley squares, mind-temptations
falls blank as though thinking
a shower of sparks that tumbles
the way this screen tumbled
from my hands to hit a Tehran pavement
as my excitement at the sight of an
old-style bakery–its heap of tiny pebbles
just visible through an arched eye,
golden in the flames
streaks of dough sliding gradually down
like hot ice floes–
fuelled my eagerness to capture it
grab a slice to serve back home at
tea parties
the triumphant traveller
returning with pockets stuffed with
nougat and Persian candy floss and
musings on this new foreignness (being
a foreigner everywhere myself)
but here the glass shattered
and the voyage out of the heart’s homeland
into the planes of mind and possession
is now scarred with an exquisite
flurry of cracks
a weeping willow
Japanese etched wave
interrupting the illusion
so I have to read around it
even though the glass is temporarily
held together with sticky tape
the destruction is not undone, only
left hanging in a perpetual crash
delighting in breaking up the sleekness
of my gadget like a Greek wedding guest
Oh the joy of smashing!
Of tearing at the cardboard box we call
normality
and shredding it to papery flakes!
throwing knick-knacks to the rocks
not fearing their demise
but glorying in the glory
drifting through the drifts
as liquid as a seaward current
as light as a seeker’s last breath
and as golden as the inner glow
that no screen could ever frame!

Duff Eid Trauma

It all starts so well: the night before the celebration, everyone is excitedly ringing family members with their Eid Mubaraks, kids are fantasising about presents (if they haven’t persuaded their parents to open them already), mums are making cakes and shampooing kids ready for the next day.
Come morning, we’re in a red alert state of ironing and preparations (the only time I remember curling my hair is as a kid on Eid), putting on fancy frocks and unusual amounts of make-up, even cracking out the special perfume that never sees the light of day. On the way there everyone’s singing the Eid song, feeling a bit naughty for having the day off school/work, watching for others who are similarly garbed for a party.
The mosque slowly packs out; women start fanning their faces; the general buzz of talking and kissing long-unseen friends abates as the adhan goes for the prayer. There’s a brief moment when the build-up reaches its climax…then, two short rak’ahs later, everyone starts filtering out again, to eat (in our case a curious mish-mash of tortilla de patatas, pretzels and cake – ‘Eid tapas’).

Spanish tortilla, that classic Eid dish.

Spanish tortilla, that classic Eid dish.

And then…the togetherness fizzles out. Everyone drifts off to who knows where, confused by the too-early party preparations, strange mixtures of food and the mad rush of salaams. Some men disappear to slaughter sheep; a few conscientious vegetarians go to distribute cheese sandwiches to the homeless, and others go back to work in this dazed, showered-with-holy-water state.
Those who don’t have huge extended families to celebrate with, i.e. converts, exiles, parents whose children live elsewhere, find themselves adrift, either tagging along like the high school gooseberry to other people’s family gatherings (where they are of course welcomed as brethren, although that might mean they have to peel some potatoes), or clump together in twos and threes and go to cafés where they feel slightly giddy and unnecessarily sequinned. (I’m talking about being in the west, of course, where life goes on as usual around these islands of Islamic celebration.) Then they go home. And then there’s some meat.
This year, living among a vibrant, eclectic, if at times a little bonkers-around-the-edges Sufi community, Eid was eventually a blast. Someone had set up a tent and a generator making ‘Potato Tornadoes’ (fried potato cut into a spiral, on a stick. Yes these things exist.) There were also pony rides for the kids and a Ka’aba making craft workshop and I showed a few kids how to make origami animals, which was also fun, especially as Cavebaby mercifully slept the whole way through. Ali Keeler of Firdaus Ensemble also came down and sang some songs, which some of us managed to join in with, qasida jam style, while Cavebaby sat happily on a friend’s lap. So it was overall a fine time had by all.

Jumping frogs, cranes, and foxes...those classic Eid icons

Jumping frogs, cranes, and foxes…those classic Eid icons.

But that initial blip brought back many of these alienating moments from my youth, coined as ‘Duff Eid Trauma’ by a friend. The scenario reminded her of many a duff Christmas, where too many people got too drunk and argued, and the kids’ presents weren’t quite was they wanted, and the turkey got burnt, and the tree shed needles into the sofa, and the dog ate the Christmas pudding and was sick on the pantry floor, and you ended up watching Mary Poppins for the fiftieth time in an atmosphere of tense obligatory cohabitation. It’s the same feeling of anti-climax, only you’re smelling of ‘oud and have too much kohl on for 10 o’clock in the morning. I don’t think anyone’s been quite so depressed from it as after a Duff Christmas, but there’s still this feeling that a wonderful time is being had by someone, in a family home with a halo of warmth and authenticity: the real Eid celebration.
It’s probably poppycock (I’m sure their kids were whining too), but living in a non-Muslim country certainly dims the glow of an Eid celebration. It feels like such an effort to raise an Islamic culture from where there is none that at times I wonder if we’re letting the meaning of it slip through our fingers. Even as a lifelong Muslim I still sometimes get a lingering sense that we’re in fancy dress, doing this ‘Islamic’ thing, that someone will sniff out our secret (that we’re culturally pretty European, actually) and the edifice of our outward religion will turn to mouse droppings.
Thankfully, these are also those times when we have the opportunity to wonder what our inward religion is about. If it’s not in the silver lurex jelabiyahs, or the prominently hanging tasbihs, the frankincense and bukhur or the miswaks, the scarves and turbans and embroidered hats, the prayer mats and the prayer domes and even the Arabic of the prayers we recite, what is it in?

Pomegranate season

Pomegranates: fruits of Paradise, symbols of multiplicity

When we look for the centre of this faith it reveals itself to be a fractal, spiralling in ever more fascinating ways the deeper it pulls us, but with ever fewer details. Cultural forms, interesting as they might be, fall off the edges. This country does this; that country does that. But it’s all peripheral, like the cupboards in the walls of the rabbit hole that Alice falls down on her way to Wonderland.
Before the words had shapes and sounds there were meanings that called them out of the darkness; before the meanings, a primordial call, a homing signal, a desire to work our way back to our source. Each time we rest our wandering feet on things and call them Islam they take us further away, not closer, from the end of this path, the heart of the spiral: Home.

The Cure for War: Sheep

Synchronised Sheep Judging. Not to be confused with synchronised swimming.

My new man (what shall I call him? Cavepainter?) and I were recently offered a housesit, with a small piece of land, three German milking ewes and five lambs to look after. The prospect of milking sheep every morning brought visions of pigtails, clogs and frilly aprons to my mind, so of course, like any sane person, I jumped at the idea. Who wouldn’t want to make their own yogurt?

Little did it matter that nobody in my family can tolerate dairy products. Hey, so what? We’ll adapt! Like cows whose milk changes flavour when they switch to hay in winter, we would likewise develop new, more resilient, farm-type moral fibre! These campesinos are made of tough stuff! And isn’t there meant to be all sorts of goodness in raw milk?

There was a small catch to this equation, which I didn’t think through very well. The principle issue here is that sheep are notoriously difficult to milk – and these ewes in particular are known for being quite feisty.

The trick to milking, so they all said, was to open your thumb and forefinger over the top of the teat, then – once the udder is massaged and the milk is dropping – close your thumb and forefinger, then each successive finger, a little like a slow flamenco hand movement. There is, however, another, rather peculiar aspect to the technique , which I shall detail below.

First: Offer the sheep some oat grains in a bucket to keep her occupied.

Second: Straddle the ewe, back to front.

Third: Tie one of her back legs firmly to a post.

Fourth: Place bucket under udders.

Fifth: Still straddling the sheep, lie down on her, head to tail. Yes, that’s right. You lie on top of a moving animal (which is thankfully padded with about four inches of wool) whilst blindly squirting the milk into a bucket hidden out of sight beneath. It would be quite hilarious were it not for the fact that your face is effectively buried in a raggedy sheep’s bottom. (Stop laughing!)

Sixth: Remove small bits of straw, flies, and occasional bits of poo from the milk using a strainer. Repeat frequently as your sheep will begin to buck when oats run out and may knock over all your hard-squirted milk.

It sounds pretty yucky, and I have to say that the smell of a sheep shed (or, more specifically, a sheep’s bum) is not especially alluring, and perhaps might even be described as, in the language of today’s youth, ‘gross’, but you know what? I’m down with the peasants. They might be bow-legged and dwarfish and lacking in numerous very useful teeth but good Golly, they work harder than any city slicker I’ve ever known, and those perpetually brown faces are just as wrinkled from the sun as from smiling.

What do they get out of it? The work is repetitive. The hours are long. It’s not glamorous, or well-paid. There are numerous shepherds and goatherds living in my neck of the woods; apparently, to supplement the little they earn selling milk (1 euro a litre), they actually earn a wage from the government (Note to self: check facts before publishing online).

Drivers in the Alpujarras are eternally at the mercy of the herds of goats and sheep that routinely plug up the one-lane tracks, slowly scrambling up either side of the path, nibbling at grass as you inch through their hordes until it seems as if you are forging a very goaty-smelling, hairy river.

However, when Cavepainter (no, still not quite there…let’s just call him Love-Man) and I first went to this house to learn how to milk the sheep, we found ourselves almost stupefied with a sense of peace. Later, my mother told me that when a person is on a farm a hormone is supposedly excreted in their brain that makes them feel peaceful.

Well, there you have it, folks. That is why the shepherds are so happy. They smell of lanolin and manure, they are eternally scruffy, they are on the bottom rung of the economic ladder, but they know what peace is. Even if it does mean having to lie head to tail on a vigorously oat-snuffling beast for an hour every morning.

Ah, the countryside. At least we’ll have plenty of cheese…

The Cure for War: Sheep

Synchronised Sheep Judging. Not to be confused with synchronised swimming.

My new man (what shall I call him? Cavepainter?) and I were recently offered a housesit, with a small piece of land, three German milking ewes and five lambs to look after. The prospect of milking sheep every morning brought visions of pigtails, clogs and frilly aprons to my mind, so of course, like any sane person, I jumped at the idea. Who wouldn’t want to make their own yogurt?

Little did it matter that nobody in my family can tolerate dairy products. Hey, so what? We’ll adapt! Like cows whose milk changes flavour when they switch to hay in winter, we would likewise develop new, more resilient, farm-type moral fibre! These campesinos are made of tough stuff! And isn’t there meant to be all sorts of goodness in raw milk?

There was a small catch to this equation, which I didn’t think through very well. The principle issue here is that sheep are notoriously difficult to milk – and these ewes in particular are known for being quite feisty.

The trick to milking, so they all said, was to open your thumb and forefinger over the top of the teat, then – once the udder is massaged and the milk is dropping – close your thumb and forefinger, then each successive finger, a little like a slow flamenco hand movement. There is, however, another, rather peculiar aspect to the technique , which I shall detail below.

First: Offer the sheep some oat grains in a bucket to keep her occupied.

Second: Straddle the ewe, back to front.

Third: Tie one of her back legs firmly to a post.

Fourth: Place bucket under udders.

Fifth: Still straddling the sheep, lie down on her, head to tail. Yes, that’s right. You lie on top of a moving animal (which is thankfully padded with about four inches of wool) whilst blindly squirting the milk into a bucket hidden out of sight beneath. It would be quite hilarious were it not for the fact that your face is effectively buried in a raggedy sheep’s bottom. (Stop laughing!)

Sixth: Remove small bits of straw, flies, and occasional bits of poo from the milk using a strainer. Repeat frequently as your sheep will begin to buck when oats run out and may knock over all your hard-squirted milk.

It sounds pretty yucky, and I have to say that the smell of a sheep shed (or, more specifically, a sheep’s bum) is not especially alluring, and perhaps might even be described as, in the language of today’s youth, ‘gross’, but you know what? I’m down with the peasants. They might be bow-legged and dwarfish and lacking in numerous very useful teeth but good Golly, they work harder than any city slicker I’ve ever known, and those perpetually brown faces are just as wrinkled from the sun as from smiling.

What do they get out of it? The work is repetitive. The hours are long. It’s not glamorous, or well-paid. There are numerous shepherds and goatherds living in my neck of the woods; apparently, to supplement the little they earn selling milk (1 euro a litre), they actually earn a wage from the government (Note to self: check facts before publishing online).

Drivers in the Alpujarras are eternally at the mercy of the herds of goats and sheep that routinely plug up the one-lane tracks, slowly scrambling up either side of the path, nibbling at grass as you inch through their hordes until it seems as if you are forging a very goaty-smelling, hairy river.

However, when Cavepainter (no, still not quite there…let’s just call him Love-Man) and I first went to this house to learn how to milk the sheep, we found ourselves almost stupefied with a sense of peace. Later, my mother told me that when a person is on a farm a hormone is supposedly excreted in their brain that makes them feel peaceful.

Well, there you have it, folks. That is why the shepherds are so happy. They smell of lanolin and manure, they are eternally scruffy, they are on the bottom rung of the economic ladder, but they know what peace is. Even if it does mean having to lie head to tail on a vigorously oat-snuffling beast for an hour every morning.

Ah, the countryside. At least we’ll have plenty of cheese…

The Cure for War: Sheep

Synchronised Sheep Judging. Not to be confused with synchronised swimming.

My new man (what shall I call him? Cavepainter?) and I were recently offered a housesit, with a small piece of land, three German milking ewes and five lambs to look after. The prospect of milking sheep every morning brought visions of pigtails, clogs and frilly aprons to my mind, so of course, like any sane person, I jumped at the idea. Who wouldn’t want to make their own yogurt?

Little did it matter that nobody in my family can tolerate dairy products. Hey, so what? We’ll adapt! Like cows whose milk changes flavour when they switch to hay in winter, we would likewise develop new, more resilient, farm-type moral fibre! These campesinos are made of tough stuff! And isn’t there meant to be all sorts of goodness in raw milk?

There was a small catch to this equation, which I didn’t think through very well. The principle issue here is that sheep are notoriously difficult to milk – and these ewes in particular are known for being quite feisty.

The trick to milking, so they all said, was to open your thumb and forefinger over the top of the teat, then – once the udder is massaged and the milk is dropping – close your thumb and forefinger, then each successive finger, a little like a slow flamenco hand movement. There is, however, another, rather peculiar aspect to the technique , which I shall detail below.

First: Offer the sheep some oat grains in a bucket to keep her occupied.

Second: Straddle the ewe, back to front.

Third: Tie one of her back legs firmly to a post.

Fourth: Place bucket under udders.

Fifth: Still straddling the sheep, lie down on her, head to tail. Yes, that’s right. You lie on top of a moving animal (which is thankfully padded with about four inches of wool) whilst blindly squirting the milk into a bucket hidden out of sight beneath. It would be quite hilarious were it not for the fact that your face is effectively buried in a raggedy sheep’s bottom. (Stop laughing!)

Sixth: Remove small bits of straw, flies, and occasional bits of poo from the milk using a strainer. Repeat frequently as your sheep will begin to buck when oats run out and may knock over all your hard-squirted milk.

It sounds pretty yucky, and I have to say that the smell of a sheep shed (or, more specifically, a sheep’s bum) is not especially alluring, and perhaps might even be described as, in the language of today’s youth, ‘gross’, but you know what? I’m down with the peasants. They might be bow-legged and dwarfish and lacking in numerous very useful teeth but good Golly, they work harder than any city slicker I’ve ever known, and those perpetually brown faces are just as wrinkled from the sun as from smiling.

What do they get out of it? The work is repetitive. The hours are long. It’s not glamorous, or well-paid. There are numerous shepherds and goatherds living in my neck of the woods; apparently, to supplement the little they earn selling milk (1 euro a litre), they actually earn a wage from the government (Note to self: check facts before publishing online).

Drivers in the Alpujarras are eternally at the mercy of the herds of goats and sheep that routinely plug up the one-lane tracks, slowly scrambling up either side of the path, nibbling at grass as you inch through their hordes until it seems as if you are forging a very goaty-smelling, hairy river.

However, when Cavepainter (no, still not quite there…let’s just call him Love-Man) and I first went to this house to learn how to milk the sheep, we found ourselves almost stupefied with a sense of peace. Later, my mother told me that when a person is on a farm a hormone is supposedly excreted in their brain that makes them feel peaceful.

Well, there you have it, folks. That is why the shepherds are so happy. They smell of lanolin and manure, they are eternally scruffy, they are on the bottom rung of the economic ladder, but they know what peace is. Even if it does mean having to lie head to tail on a vigorously oat-snuffling beast for an hour every morning.

Ah, the countryside. At least we’ll have plenty of cheese…

Mamma Mia!

Bundesarchiv Bild 135-KB-12-087, Tibetexpedition, Tibeterin in Tracht mit Kind

I was recently asked by my midwife to feed a friend’s newborn baby who didn’t seem interested in the breast.

(A male of the species, not interested in the breast?! Unbelievable, but true.)

I remembered the first time I fed Shamsie, the surreal experience of having a food product (correction: a dynamite liquid gold superfood) coming out of a body part that had previously not enjoyed so many public appearances. I didn’t realise how lucky I’d been, with two babies who latched on like pros and were little squidge monsters within a couple of months.

This baby, on the other hand, was a tiny little thing, only a week old and weak from hardly drinking any of the milk his mother had been pumping.

(An electric breastpump, for those of you who haven’t been initiated, is a weird sort of proboscis that attaches to your nipple and slurps away at a slow, rhythmic pace with a faint whirr, sucking like some sort of sleepy, extraterrestrial hoover. Enough to make any new mother feel like a commercial dairy farm.)

The baby’s mother was doing admirably, not remotely stung at the thought of another woman breastfeeding her baby, even with that tsunami of hormones that usually makes first-time mothers a bawling wreck merely watching an advert of golden retriever puppies chasing toilet rolls down stairs.

Was it weird, breastfeeding another woman’s baby? Not in the slightest. I was surprised; it happened so seamlessly, him nestling into the crook of my arm like he’d always been there, before I even thought about the strangeness of it.

He latched on fine, opened his sleepy eyes in a concentrated, slightly frowning stare directed at a freckle on my collarbone, fed for ten minutes solidly, then lapsed back into that glorious doze that newborns do so well. Still floating in the miniature ocean in their mothers, coccooned in an absolute peace not yet broken by car horns and sirens and snappy voices.

Job done, I headed home; I had absorbed some of his bliss. The rough track seemed wide and sunlit, I glid over the cracks etched by acequia overflow, now filled with concrete rubble, as if they were a clover lawn. A donkey and her fluffy, doe-eyed foal watched me passively from the next field. Rosa bobbed happily in her sling, not knowing – or not minding – that her food source was being shared.

According to Islam, babies who are breastfed by the same mother are considered ‘milk siblings’ and aren’t supposed to marry. Now, I don’t know if just one feed counts, or if – as was the case in medieval Arabia, where cities were so riddled with diseases that babies were sent to be fed by Berber women in the countryside until they were two – this law only referred to children who were raised and fed along with a wet nurse’s own children.

In either case, what it means is that Islam considers breastmilk to be as important as genes. Something of your body has entered the bloodstream of another person (wow, doesn’t that sound intense!) and gone to build their bones and muscles and brain tissue.

The whole experience gave me a flicker of inspiration towards becoming a breastfeeding counseller. That bliss, the two-way bond that mother and newborn experience that is so out of this world – as well as replete with health benefits – is the most incredible gift I could imagine giving to a new mother.

However, the length of the training involved (and the 4,400 pounds NCT course fee!) are slightly off-putting. On top of that, it seems that some women have had such difficulties with breastfeeding – sore, cracked and even bleeding nipples, mastitis) that any advice from breastfeeding counsellers came across as unsympathetic, impractical or just plain wrong.

Poor bedside manner might account for much of it, but the truth of the matter is that we are only coming back to breastfeeding as a society in the West after quite a prolonged period when it was deemed immodest, unhygienic, perverse or even (as my cousin’s wife put it) ‘disgusting’.

In the UK, despite a huge NHS-backed push to encourage breastfeeding to at least 6 months, there still prevails a bit of a ‘Wahey! Tits out for the lads’ attitude towards it. Under the 1975 Sex Discrimination Act, breastfeeding mothers in the UK have always been able to breastfeed in public (despite concerns in 2008 that babies older than 6 months wouldn’t be protected by an amendment to this law). Nevertheless, our shrinking violet genes dictate a bit of a stuffy, corseted, Victorian approach to feeding our cubs.

I’d like to conduct a bit of research. What have been your experiences of breastfeeding? Did you love it, suffer for it, get weirded out at the idea? Have you ever been asked to leave restaurant for it? Amusing anecdotes about accidentally squirting long-range milk into an unsuspecting waiter’s eye are also much appreciated. Do you get ’em out while buying broccoli on the market, or shy away in quiet corners? Partners, what did you think of your lady’s new food-producing boobs?

Just think if it as keeping abreast of the issue…(sorry, had to be done.)

Madre de Cueva, part 1

We looked at the lobsters, bobbing silently in their strip-lit tank, awaiting a quick boiling while their future eaters sat comfortably at neatly-linened tables, red carnations standing in elegant little vases. There are two kinds, I point out to him, noticing it for the first time myself; one has claws, the other is just like a big shrimp. Langostas y langostinos.

He was a little too grubby for such a chi-chi restaurant, I realised, my little 2-year-old boy with the grey gritty sand of Salobreña’s beach in his hair, dusted over his clothes, caked onto his sandals. Tom was holding Rosa Nour for a minute, watching the football – Brasil v. Argentina – ignoring the crashing waves on the rocks outside the window behind him. He exchanged knowing remarks with the manager, sitting at the till beside him, about this and that player’s season, who might win the World Cup.

The sun was beginning to set over the water. Waiters flitted about offering things to drink, the evening’s special, ever more complicated and expensive. The English couple at the next table cooed admiringly at our baby – 2 months old today, I say proudly – while Tom races about after Shamsie.

It is about now that I realise how peculiar and wonderful it is to be out at a fancy restaurant (something we do extremely rarely) with a rambunctious toddler and a tiny baby. Nobody bats an eyelid, even when Rosa starts crying and I end up squashed into a corner not designed for breastfeeding in, getting her to sleep before snuggling her up in the sling.

I wonder what the scene would look like if this were happening in England. Frosty waiters kindly requesting that we strap the child into a high chair while he eats the kiddie menu of chicken wings, peas and chips. Diners bristling at the sound of the baby’s tired mew. Quiet comments being made about my responsibility as a mother to have her kids in bed before 9 pm.

Imagined. Not real. I wouldn’t even try this scene if I were back home, if England is indeed home any more. People would be nice, cordial, polite. Maybe even relish the sight of parents so haphazard in their lifestyle.

But part of me is certain that I would be creeping about, apologising at every squeak, ordering little hands out of shelves and cupboards right now, lonely in my task – whether or not the world offered me such a cool reception.

So the flip side of that invasive Spanish bolshiness is the way in which they ruffle a cute kid’s hair, or warn him about running into the road, or berate him for knocking over a chair before giving him a lollipop and telling his mother how their own sons had had so much energy when they were that age. The weight is distributed over other people’s shoulders, most of whom you have never met.

They are a fabric of hands holding wrists, interlocking, making a mesh to catch the wild and the wayward, keep in touch with the touch organ of their neighbours, sometimes without ever saying a word to them directly. Not because it is a principle of theirs, a high-minded theory they found in a book, a movement growing online.

It is just the way we are held together, holding each other up.

Dinner at the Cave: A Recipe For Disaster

1) Put 1 cup pre-soaked mung beans on to boil. Scrub a carrot.

2) Mop up toddler pee on kitchen floor.

3) Peel carrot.

4) Embark on lengthy exegesis of why it is not morally acceptable to eat woodlice. Realise futility of the exercise. Peel half an onion.

5) Wash hands. Hang out three items of laundry.

6) Peel other half of onion.

7) Change baby’s nappy.

8 ) Chop onion.

9) Turn off everything and sit on sofa to breastfeed crying baby. Recite story of The Very Hungry Caterpillar from memory to distract toddler.

10) Hang out three more items of laundry.

11) Make crackers and cheese to tide oneself and toddler over. Put mung beans back on the boil.

12) Measure out 1 cup basmati rice. Rinse thoroughly, and put on to boil with salt and a bay leaf. Meanwhile, sing The Wheels on the Bus until toddler gets bored or you forget what verse comes next.

13) Start frying onion in a little olive oil and 1 tbsp. each of ground cumin and ground turmeric. Simultaneously keep toddler away from hot pan with one foot.

14) Explain basic principles of thermodynamics, why hot oil causes ‘ow’ and therefore the benefits of staying out of the kitchen.

15) Change baby’s nappy again. Wash hands again.

16) Get fed up and put Bob the Builder on. Realise DVD is scratched. Get out basket of building blocks. Build half a tower.

17) Chop carrot and add to onion. Boil kettle and pour over bowl of tomatoes.

18) Hang out six items of laundry. Sweep up expensive spelt flour from floor which toddler has spilt. Build rest of tower.

19) Turn boiling rice down. Realise mung beans will take another twenty minutes to boil. Take rice and onions off heat.

20) Write half a paragraph of novel while toddler looks at Google images of concrete mixers on other side of screen.

21) When mung beans are done, add them to the onions and carrots. Add coconut cream and water, or can of coconut milk. Skin tomatoes and chop, adding to the mung beans.

22) Regret not having made fish fingers instead.

23) When mung beans are at an ideal level of mushiness, take off the heat and serve with rice.

Calories: not enough if you’re breastfeeding. Serves: you right for trying to feed your kids curry.