That Sugar Film

May 24, 2015May 25, 2015 raphaela994 Comments

Sugar… The issue is close to my heart. I watched my beloved Grandmother endure the horror diabetes inflicted on her. Her legs were eventually amputated. I was a healthy vegetarian when I fell pregnant, and I was then diagnosed with gestational diabetes. My endocrinologist and dietician looked at my food and exercise diary and could find nothing amiss, nothing that needed changing. I wanted to do the right thing for my baby so dutifully injected insulin and walked several kilometres after each meal. Diabetes runs in my family, so genetically, the gun was loaded. I have a little girl in love with sugar (as most kids are), and I was excited at showing her this movie. She had to see it for herself, rather than through a series of lectures. I am aware that if I become too much of a sugar-free officer, she will rebel, and gorge when I am not around. Everything in moderation.

Damon Gameau is the hero of That Sugar Film. He ate only (supposedly), healthier choices throughout his experiment. His weight shot up, he was well on his way to cirhoisis of the liver, heart disease and type 2 diabetes. Interestingly, his calorie intake remained the same, as did his level of exercise. The only point of difference was his sugar intake. We saw a young American man with all his teeth rotted from drinking ‘pop.’ Images that remain. My daughter ate an apple as a snack today and has not asked for anything sugary. I resent sugar’s inclusion in almost all processed foods. How can you have control over how much you are ingesting?

When I had gestational diabetes, I had to stop eating out. I would select the healthiest option on the menu, such as steamed veggies, only to have my sugar levels go through the roof. The dressings and seasonings they coated the meal in were often to blame. I make most meals from scratch in our place, and we have a big box of seasonal locally -grown produce delivered each week. My supermarket bills have gone down as a result. The film was an eye-opener as is the accompanying book. My daughter will still ask for fairy bread and donuts, but she knows she can’t live on them. The movie inspires critical thinking, and as a result, I owe Damon a debt of gratitude.

Party Plans

May 24, 2015 raphaela994 Comments

I had never attended a soiree/party-plan before I had a child. It might have had something to do with my being a hermit, but still… When my daughter was a baby, I received my first invitation, to a Tupperware demonstration. I grumbled and was cynical and quite frankly, a bit afraid. The demonstrator and I clicked, and she has become one of my dearest friends. She wasn’t pushy, and treated it as a bit of fun. I had no spare funds, so her benevolence was appreciated! Over the years, I have attended underwear, candle, jewellery, linen,makeup, body care, craft and many other parties. The invitations keep on coming. This past month, I have been invited to six candle parties. I can’t keep up, and therein lies the problem.

“You don’t have to buy anything.” You hear this when you say you are short of funds. However, I have heard women criticizing other ladies for having the nerve to attend their party without forking out cash. “You can browse through the catalogue online if you can’t attend.” The reason I am not attending is that I have no spare cash! It can be a minefield. I am cautious if I haven’t seen a person for a very long time and an invitation comes with an agenda. If I wanted a product, I would save for it and go out and get it without a party. Home schooling my child, these products now come with a debate in my head. ‘I could get a candle, or my child could attend a science workshop for a day with money left over….’ ‘I could get mascara or she could attend a term’s art sessions at the gallery.’ When I shop, I look for value above all else. I think most of us do. In my heart of hearts, I think giving girlfriends food and wine and giggles, then expecting them to make decisions on a whim is a little exploitative.

Then there is the ‘what did you order?’ question when you are looking through the catalogue. I usually try to find the cheapest thing in there. I am the proud owner of a useless potato masher (sold by a demonstrator who shrilly told me to ‘shoosh’ as I was trying to talk to a friend and she was eager to start her demo), useless kitchen items and dodgy products.

I wanted to be liked, approved of, and so I ordered more than I could comfortably afford in the past. I have put my hand up to host a party to help out my hostess. I received a round of applause and felt adored. Then reality hit. It is bloody hard work to host one of these parties. A thorough house clean, the buying of food and plonk, the catering… People would cancel at the last moment or simply not respond (I didn’t blame them). I have a tiny house, and am not confrontational so people knew I would understand. Awkward doesn’t cut it when describing a demo with less than six people in attendance. I have been quizzed by the demonstrator as to when the rest of the people would arrive. So, I spent more than I should at my own party- to make up for it out of guilt- on things I hadn’t needed a day ago. Often the people who I had helped out by hosting my own party were no-shows.

There are so many of them these days, it is dizzying. People only have so much time and money. I will go to something I am curious about or believe in, but I wont go to them all, not anymore. That is not real. I have only hosted three parties and I felt uncomfortable each time. I didn’t want my friends to feel that they needed to buy anything in order to see me. I didn’t want them to spend more than they had. I have a ‘no party plan’ policy now, and refuse to host. Please don’t be offended if your friend doesn’t want to attend your party. She is probably struggling with her budget as it is. She is being sensible. She is being honest and she would love to catch up with you without being sold anything. It is another expense, that some families can’t afford. Please be mindful. I think party plans have their merit, but when one is being hit each day with an invite, one has to politely decline.

Sydney Opera Centre

May 20, 2015May 20, 2015 raphaela992 Comments

A group of home schoolers met up at The Opera Centre in Surry Hills this past week. I admired opera, though my knowledge was pretty basic. I have learnt that it isn’t really an elite art, as previously thought. It is a complex mix of drama and music, and expensive to stage. I was excited about taking my daughter to her first opera, Cinderella. Based on a score by Rossini, it had been condensed to suit children. The audience was enthralled throughout. We went to a nearby park for lunch, and I was welcomed into my new school family. Each parent had a back story as to why they started home schooling, and all were inspiring.

Afterward, we went on a tour of the Opera Centre. It brought to life the passion and dedication of everyone from the seamstresses to the design team. I can see why it’s expensive to bring to life!

Each wig takes a week to make, every hair is hand-stitched. — Each wig takes a week to make. Every hair is hand-stitched.

The books for the shelves are ultra-light!

11225831_962976427069536_946335677_n — Okay, not just children!

The children were allowed to try on some of the magnificent costumes, which was a real treat!

I am in awe of the opera singers. Their dedication to their craft is amazing. It takes vision to bring a production to life, much like individual dreams. An idea becomes a sketch, becomes a model and then a set. My daughter loves singing, and has uncovered a new way of trilling. I love that she was introduced to the many ways you can be involved in theatre. The world is yours, kid.

Grief and Homecoming (Part 2)

May 18, 2015May 18, 2015 raphaela99Leave a comment

A woman with auburn hair was walking in front of me. She was holding the hand of a little boy. For a moment, I thought it was you… I kept seeing you everywhere. In the shops, in the park. You can’t be gone! The horrible realization struck me afresh.

You should be living in Balmain with your boys, your heart condition carefully monitored. I should be preparing to meet up with you, to share a meal for your birthday. The tears came as I sat in the park. Grief absolutely flattens you, like a tidal wave. It was a physical pain, so much so that I felt winded. What sets it off on any given day is a mystery. I went from weeping to laughter when I recalled you telling me about a party your eldest had attended. He was going to a religious preschool at five, and upon seeing the procession of fairies alighting from cars outside the venue, he hollered, “oh no! Not another #$%^&*# fairy party!” You were aghast, as all the mums heard him, though laughed uncontrollably on the retelling. Wiping my eyes, I went to get my daughter.

I was bemused to receive her worksheets. She had felt sorry for Dr Karl, as he didn’t have much hair, so she thought she would style him. She asked a lot of questions about guinea pigs which he answered concisely. When I asked why she had focused on guinea’s, she replied huffily, “they are a biology topic!” I took her for lemon gelato, and then she climbed trees in the main street.

We went home, and I received a message from Serena’s mum. She had sourced a Japanese Cherry tree. It became extinct in Japan and one specimen was found in an English garden in West Sussex. It was propagated from that tree (many more are now back in Japan due to this one specimen). Serena’s family were going to plant it tonight, and scatter her ashes around it. Serena was a world citizen and ardent traveller. She would have loved this. I looked through old photos, and lit a candle for my friend.

You said in your school yearbook that you wanted to be remembered for as long as possible. Oh darling, you shall be. Until we meet again, happy birthday Serena. I hope you can hear me sing to you.

Grief and Homecoming

May 16, 2015May 17, 2015 raphaela994 Comments

11225864_963162780384234_420360280_n — Today was your birthday

The 15th May was your birthday, Serena. You would have turned 41. This time last year, I was wrapping your gift, and my daughter was writing in your 40th birthday card. Tonight, we were getting ready to take you out for dinner with the kids. There was no indication that you were sick at all. Six months later, you were gone. I wish I had told you how much I loved you, how valued you were. I hope you knew. What would we do differently if we had known? I was grateful that my daughter had a science workshop. It meant getting up early, and taking a train and bus to Balmain. It meant escaping.

We had breakfast in a dear little café.

I had wilted spinach and mushrooms on sourdough bread. It was spectacular. Serena, you loved Balmain. You loved the city. I took my daughter to her workshop, run by a wondrous educator called Luisa. Dr Karl Kruszelnicki was going to answer the kid’s pressing questions. My daughter gave me this look, as she ushered me out.

I was left to wander the streets of Rozelle and Balmain. It is such a happy place, filled with beloved dogs, families, musicians and art. When I was eighteen, I lived here, in an old stable. I lived close to the wharf, and remembered my first home fondly. There I was, living in a stable, and my landlord was named Moses. I wondered what it was like now? I walked down Darling St, until I came to the series of stables.

11253828_963042190396293_403813207_n — A beautiful idea for the base of a tree in Rozelle.

I moved one cold winter night into Balmain, and our neighbours greeted me the next morning with coffee and toast. They leant me furniture, and were so very thoughtful. I shuddered when I thought of the neighbour who had died after I moved out. She had been sitting up in bed, playing a computer game, when a person unknown had shot her through the window. I was devastated when I learnt of her passing. She had loved Balmain, been there all her life. She was her husband’s sweetheart, and he unabashedly told everyone he met. Grief, there it was again. Sorrow as I looked at the home in front of the stables, where she had lived for twenty years in a quiet street in a leafy suburb. She left a lasting impression with her kindness and warmth. I have told my daughter about you. Another neighbour, Sid, had hidden about ten wild cats in his stable, despite the fact we weren’t allowed pets. He gave me a television set he had fixed up because I was kind to his felines.

I wondered why I had ever left this gorgeous place. It still feels like home. I was uncovering parts of myself when I lived here, my fingernails cracked and dirty after digging through shattered fragments of my psyche. I remembered when I sat in the park, elated, after having gone to the shops by myself. It was a very big deal. Living in this little village had made me brave. I walked for hours, up and down Darling St, and through laneways groaning with greenery and flowers. I was trying to escape the heaviness in my chest. I knew it was only a matter of time before the heavy clouds released their burden.

Joy

May 16, 2015May 21, 2015 raphaela99Leave a comment

We went on a tour of our town’s annual art show. It was a thrill to see the names of friend’s amongst the talented artists. My little girl was buoyant. She has settled into the new regime of home schooling superbly, and her confidence has been lifted. To be able to do things in her own time means so much for a dyslexic kid. The pressure has lifted. She ran in to find me that morning, squealing that we had new baby guinea pigs. We certainly did! Five in all.

They are a bit cute!

Snowball is the father. Here he is munching on a corn cob. He broke into the girl's hutch, hence the surprise conception! — Snowball is the father. Here he is munching on a corn cob. He broke into the girl’s hutch, hence the surprise conception!

My little girl, I love hearing you read. I love feeling your joy when you “get” a word. I look forward to seeing what you are going to do in this world. I know guinea pigs, music and art will feature throughout your life, as well as birds and trees! I am delighted that you are coming into your own. You aren’t dyslexic. Rather, you have dyslexia. It is extraordinary how much music and art, compassion and strength can be found in one little girl. I am sad about the times you felt alone, frustrated and exhausted from the dyslexia. I will do everything in my power to make sure that is never the case again. We are able to sound out words, and spell them in a song. If you go to a workshop and are struggling, the teacher lets you use symbols rather than words. It is working.

The Old Guard

May 13, 2015 raphaela991 Comment

The Old Guard is going down. The paradigm is finally shifting. I remember a time when harassment was put down to “having a joke.” I recall a time when domestic abuse was laughed off. It was not that long ago. I recall a friend’s uncle making lurid suggestions to me at a sleepover at her home when I was eleven. I recall the grown men thinking that certain commentary was okay.

Years ago, I had a neighbour who was in his sixties. He didn’t give me a good feeling upon meeting him. By meeting him, I mean he peered over the fence at me, and always seemed to be loitering. He studied my visitors, and a conversation outside was never private. He had a weather-beaten face, loved a drink, and chain-smoked. I invited he and his wife in for a meal to break the ice. He drank beer and mumbled. When he went outside to smoke, his wife confided that their marriage hadn’t been a barrel of laughs. She talked of his violence, of his erratic behaviour with money, his unpredictability. He was what one could call a larrikin in the Australian vernacular. He never called his wife by her name, rather she was “the missus.” She was a bundle of frayed nerves.

The thing I have noted about these men are that they take up space. They want more than their share. He introduced a dog to their small yard. This breed of dog is designed to work on farms. It grew insane prowling their small yard and barked day and night. We tried talking to him, suggesting he may walk the dog, get him some exercise. He couldn’t have cared less. He used his power tools day and night, taking up every inch of space he was entitled to. He tinkered right on the fence line. Other men in the neighbourhood visited him, smoking and drinking out the front. “A good bloke.” A good bloke alright.

John Singleton has been in the news this week. He threatened a friend over lunch with the stem of a wine glass. He then joked about domestic violence. The next day, he said they were just mucking around. Yes, it is hysterically funny. It is wondrous to witness the woman next door with her anxious voice continually wringing her hands due to anxiety. It is wondrous to hear him bellowing at her, and prowling around like he is a grand old General. The old guard is leaving the building, and fellows who respect women and children are coming in. “Flirting” with children is out, as is mocking domestic violence. Sexual innuendos and commentary aren’t laughed off. To my mind larrikins are good men with a cheerful spirit and sense of adventure. They are not the above. Not any more. Thank God.

Controversy

May 13, 2015May 15, 2015 raphaela992 Comments

You want to know what the most controversial post I put on Facebook was? It may surprise you to know that it wasn’t about religion, politics nor mothering. It was about…Punch bowls! I will give you a moment to digest that.

I found a marvellous photo on Pinterest about how to repurpose your old punch bowls, seeing as they rarely get used these days. Turn ’em into birdbaths! Brilliant! I excitedly shared this idea, only to be shouted down. “I would never do such a thing to a family heirloom! How dare you!” I was astonished by the replies. When I scrolled back to my post, there was a vigorous debate going on. I was fascinated, and thought about the storm whirring above my head. I came to the conclusion that the reaction wasn’t really about punch bowls. That would be silly. It was about stress and pressure and exhaustion. Misplaced cries carried in the wind.

Remember the grief after Princess Diana died? There were people weeping in the streets, inconsolable. The grief was certainly for her and her boys, but also for the individual person. The tears that they hadn’t been able to spill prior over the loss of loved ones… It gave people permission to console, reach out and sob. Now we have the internet, we have thousands of tunnels into the deep recesses of our minds. Anger, fear, grief and sorrow are syphoned out into the light. It isn’t just about punch bowls. When somebody becomes outraged at a seemingly innocuous post, remind yourself of that. Tread gently, with compassion.

I became a model

May 12, 2015May 13, 2015 raphaela995 Comments

I was asked to model at a Pink Lipstick function to benefit the excellent Mater Dei School. The clothes were exquisite, from a darling little shop called Sarita’s, A Collective Emporium. I immediately said “yes!” I then freaked out for about five minutes. The usual suspects of intruding thoughts rapped on my head. “Oi you! How very dare you think you can be a model! You are a short old boiler with a limp and cane! Sure, you eat your veggies (we know you are a vegetarian, duh), but you also drink wine, eat chocolate and have a penchant for salt and vinegar chips! How very dare you!” I told the usual suspects to bugger off. I was doing it.

11216328_958944317472747_1157159951_n — Salt and vinegar chips

My daughter cheered at the rehearsal, enthralled and proud of her mum. If I want to set a good example for her, I have to live it, and not let silly thoughts dampen my life. The day came, and I went to the function centre with a fellow model.

11245167_960511850649327_1163865281_n — Sharon’s Photography

The Green Room was filled with women of all shapes and ages. They all looked glorious. They were all celebrated. I felt myself tearing up when they walked onto the stage to rapturous applause. I was on three times. I tripped over at first, then got confused and instead of scooting around to the back of the stage, I ended up in the kitchen! Flustered, I eventually found my way. I had my own fan club in the audience, and was met with hollers of “go Raphie!” I didn’t know where to look, so did the model thing of gazing into the distance intently.

It was nerve-wracking, and a great deal of fun combined. I had to get over myself; celebrate who I am and the gorgeous hats, vests and cardigans I had been clothed in. It’s as easy and as hard as that. Nobody was commenting that I had a cheek, being on the stage. The critics weren’t shouting ‘how very dare she!’ So what if they were? It shouldn’t affect me, nor alter my world in the slightest. If I want my daughter to walk with her shoulders back and head raised, I need to lead the way. Even if it means leaving a trail of chips.

A Food Tour

May 12, 2015May 12, 2015 raphaela993 Comments

My friend Nicci organized a Foodie Road Trip. I climbed aboard the bus with eighteen other ladies and our very patient driver. Our first stop was Eveleigh Markets at Carriage Works. It was sensory overload! You have to do a circuit of the market before honing in on individual stalls. There was a party atmosphere with music and puppies with woollen jackets. Great value and the variety was wondrous. Tables and chairs are assembled in the centre, so you can stop for breakfast.

Our next stop was Salt Meats Cheese at Alexandria. We were to take part in a three course Italian Cucina Regionale class and lunch. We explored the foods of Calabria. My being vegetarian posed no problem for our instructors, Manuela and Sarah. We were regaled as Manuela told us stories of raising her own family, and the feasts she would create. Making pasta from scratch is indeed therapeutic and I was delighted that the Maltagliati (badly cut pasta), was meant to be badly-shaped! We devoured the antipasto before beginning on the pasta, mine flavoured with chicory and cherry tomatoes. It was as good as it looks.

The sound of laughter on a drizzling Saturday afternoon was magical, as we imbibed in rich red wine and light white’s. It reinforced that this is how weekends were meant to be spent. Enjoyed with people you love, making food from scratch and lingering around the dining table. We shared dreams and fears, lives and bread. Nobody was in a hurry. Manuela and Sarah were lovely, even gifting us recipe sheets so we could attempt to recreate this wondrous meal.

Afterward, we went down the street to Vicinity Bar and Dining. Nicci and I had an English Garden cocktail, the taste subtle and delicious. A delightful end to a beautiful day.