Mr Husband bakes

Yesterday I wrote about how I bake to survive. But, I’m not the only one who bakes in this house. On the contrary! Not long ago I did the best thing EVER! I gave Mr Husband not only one, but two cooking books. Or rather cake/desert books. Both of them are by French superstar chef Michel Roux who loves his deserts.

Mr Husband is now on a quest to see if he can copy the star of all things sweet and he is doing very well. Unfortunately I haven’t got pictures of most of the things he has made, but trust me, it has been fantastic. First up it was the how-to-make-the-perfect-pastry-phase so we had lemon tarts, berry tarts and apple tarts. I only have one picture of the apple tarts but it was taken before they were glazed with berry jelly, so they look a bit boring. The other picture though is from the last experiment: kiwi and passion fruit soufflé. Dear oh dear oh dear that was good.

All I can say is that if you have a competitive chef in your house, I recommend you give him/her these books. They are worth their weight in gold!



Italian romance

The first gift Mr Husband ever gave me was a pendant made of gold. It was in the shape of a leaf, which had little flowers engraved on it. It was such a beautiful gift and he almost destroyed it by saying something vomiting (as a pragmatic Scandinavian girl, I found the Italian romance quite a test). But he was sincere, had put a lot of thought into the pendant and spent days mounting the courage to present it. It had to do with the tree of life from the Nordic mythology (Yggdrasil), that I represented this tree of life for him when I walked into his life and he wanted to be a leaf on this tree. Oh yes.

I wore that pendant all the time. I loved it. For our wedding, I had the flowers engraved on the pendant, embroidered into the top part of the wedding gown and along the hem.

Then the terrible thing happened. I lost it. Three years ago I got on the bus from work in Brisbane wearing it and when I arrived home it was gone. It must have slipped off. It is the only time I can remember crying over a material thing. I was heartbroken. I called the bus-line at least 5 times, went to their lost and found at the library 3 times and walked the streets home with miniature steps a 100 more to search the road for my lost leaf.

Now he has done it again. Presented me with a gold leaf which he has designed. It is very different to the old one. The goldsmith still has the design he drew for the old one, but we are different now he says. There is only one flower on that leaf, because there is only one flower for him. It is still a viola, a flower that has heart-shaped leaves and I quote: “violets are often seen as representative of marriage. In wedding bouquets they represent a promise and faithfulness. In dreams they are said to represent marriage or commitment“.

BEAT THAT FOR ROMANCE!!! I am totally swept off my feet. Which is probably a good thing as the first thing he did after returning home was the ritual marking of territory: a random drop of undies in the hallway.

My farther’s enemy

This is my father

This is his enemy

It’s a marten and it moved in underneath the roof a couple of months ago. At that stage it was the cutest thing ever and we naaarwww’ed and weeee’ed our hearts out (look at those cute round ears – how can you not love that little creature?). Then it brought along a wife and they had three little ones.

It’s not that they do any damage.  Not at all. It’s the noise.

The Marten family wake up at 10pm and then they party. For hours. And hours. And hours. There is no sleeping while the Marten family run their hoopla, so now they are up for eviction. They did try to charm themselves out of the removal by sitting in the gutters and looking through the windows. Kids included.

Cuteness overload – unless you haven’t slept and they were the reason.

According to a website my dad consulted, the Weapons of Marten Eviction are the following: light, stink bombs and loud music. He has installed the light, the stink bombs and has set a radio with a timer. He is bombarding the little creatures with his most hated music: 1 hit wonders.

Is he winning?

We think so. Last night was total silence.


**pictures 2 and 4 are courtesy of the internet…

Planning ahead

Mr Husband doesn’t like plans. He lives in the moment and likes to go with what happens. It can be annoying, it can be great. All of a sudden you are in Florence (with no clean knickers). Or sleeping in the car, watching the stars (with no clean knickers) or baking pizza in an octagonal house he helped build 20 years ago. On the top of a mountain. With no clean… yes.

But things are changing. Today, Friday, we have no plans.
He asked this morning: have we got any plans today?
Me: No we don’t. Do you have any plans?
Him: Well, we did all the shopping yesterday. But we need to put petrol on the car!
Me: For what?
Him: There is no petrol on the car
Me: ????
Him: well, I don’t want to do it tomorrow!

Mr Husband is planning ahead. With things as minute as petrol on the car. That is my job! I’m wondering if that means I have to start being the renegade, spontaneous one. That won’t get us very far…


My arms are too short

I speak three languages every day – Danish, English and Italian. I’ve sort of gotten use to it, though the hard disk breaks down every now and then. Most days I don’t even think about it. I’ve written about how frustrating it can be, but sometimes it can be equally funny. The most fun comes from metaphors and general sayings.

I don’t know many non-English speakers that didn’t giggle over the phrase “when the shit hits the fan” the first time they heard it; the visual is amazing. Some phrases just do not make sense. Like “he’s sweating like a pig” – we discussed that one quite a bit in our household; pigs don’t sweat. We’ve changed it into “sweating like a running pig”.

By now, I am also quite adventured in the Italian sayings (one of my favorite is “He shat outside of the bucket” when someone does/says something stupid). But not always. Like this morning:

Me: I’m making porridge, do you want some?
Mr Husband: hmmrrrgghmm OK
Me (out of sympathy because he hates porridge): would you like a cafe latte with it?
Mr Husband: I don’t want to drink milky coffee with a milky breakfast
Me: but I make the porridge with water
Mr Husband: that’s because your arms are too short!

I will leave it to you, to guess what that is all about!

When you know you are alive…

We are driving home from Port Douglas. We’ve spent a lovely afternoon doodling around town, stopping to fish at a river on the way home. As the sun set and the mosquitoes came out, we made our way home. What a lovely day.

We are driving on the winding road from Port Douglas to Cairns. Around a corner comes a camper van. It’s on the wrong side of the road and grows massive as its headlights are heading straight for us. Panic hits us, Mr Husband flashes the headlights, beeps the horn and heads for the bushes while I start to scream. At the very last second the monster camper flies to the side of us, blaring, and we are safe in the gutter.

It has been a long time since I felt this alive.


Wrong dream

Yesterday was a loooong day at archery. We shot a full fita, which makes no sense to anyone outside of the archery community, but all you need to know is that it is the longest round we have. We started at 9am and finished at 4pm. When I arrived home at 5.30, I was a shadow of my normal self. It is hard to shoot the full fita; it is close to torture to do it in our weather conditions.

I tried to function for a few hours, but failed miserably. I attempted to check my email, which wouldn’t open because I wrote I tried to cook dinner, but couldn’t find the sour cream in the fridge… then Mr Husband took over. I tried to crochet but used the wrong colour…. wwwuuuaaaaa.

Needless to say, I went to bed early. Very early. And have slept for almost 14 hours. It’s amazing how our bodies can mend themselves while lying still. But with all that lying still comes a side-effect: the dreams. I suppose the brain gets tired of lying still, while the body is being mended, so it starts entertaining itself. The most freaky thing about last nights/this morning’s dreams were that I am sure I took over Mr Husbands dreams.

Maybe we have been sharing sleeping space for too long or maybe my brain was too exhausted to come up with something decent on its own; for sure, there is no way last nights dreams were ment for me. All I did was go fishing. First on a beach, then on a boat, then on a large boat at night, then scuba diving under water. The fridge on the boat was full of hot dogs and apple juice. It was scary!

When I told Mr Husband about it this morning his face lit up and he said “How wonderful, now you start to get it. That is great honey”. Well… I don’t. He can keep his dreams about fishing, hot dogs and apple juice. Dreams like that are wasted on me!

Have you ever tried that? Dreaming something that you are sure was not meant for you?