My first recipe post: Steak a la Morning Fresh

I have written many a shame-driven post about my failure at housewifery. At some point though I have to admit it is so bad it's funny, and I'm just grateful I've married a modern male. Not sure he finds it funny but you can't have everything. 

So this one busy weekend I noticed that our grill plate was filthy and somehow this time I decided to take some action against dirt and grime. Reaching for some dishwashing liquid - I did what every time-poor person should do - soak a baked-in grime situation until the hot water and detergent take some of the edge off what would have been a long scrub. 

Problem with this decision is my life is so full, if a reminder of some description, usually in the form of a calendar alarm, doesn't exist then follow up action becomes equally non-existent. So it was in this instant. When my husband sat down to enjoy his $20 eye fillet two nights later, my brain still had no recollection of my mini-foray into housewifery. He had commented on the bubbles he'd seen form as he cooked his steak, even this had not prompted my memory. It was not until the words "this tastes like soap", that the correct neurons fired to trigger a conscious memory of my dismal unfinished effort to clean the grill plate. At this point I started giggling, unfortunately he most certainly did not. 

Here ends the directions of my first recipe post - how to caramelise expensive steak in dishwashing liquid and live to tell the tale. If you are worried, I am still married, just, not sure how or why, maybe I keep his ordered life interesting and somewhere buried deep down he appreciates that... I mean who doesn't love bubbles?! 

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A truly scary soccer mum!

Today I was kicking a football. This is not that normal for me, growing up I wasn't some undiscovered football talent, more a shiny lycra-clad jazz ballet student, the tightness of which once had me banned from liturgical dance (I know... it takes a lot to share that, be kind). 

But the last two weekends I kicked one back and forth between my five and six year olds and my hubby. And each session I kicked at least one of them in the guts. No I am not a psychopath masquerading as a mother of two, I am seemingly just an effing good shot. And I love it. I love the feeling as you look before you kick, it reminds me of playing pool when you get in the zone, but it's more accurate cause you don't have a 4 foot piece of wood between your body and your brain. 

So here I am kicking away, hubby saying "go easy" or "that was too high to count for a goal" as I belt it around a field loving myself silly. Loving it most of all because I married Mr "I played cricket with Brett Lee" and "my golf handicap is 6", while all I can lay claim to is almost injuring our 6 year old by kicking the ball so accurately that I still managed to knock him off his feet while he was mid air. Luckily he landed such that only his knee was slightly hurt, what I can I say...I have a killer right foot, and my hubby is basically jealous that he couldn't hit the target, ie. Me from 20m out. And let's be real, there was some serious intention there and he still missed! I, on the other hand, am mortified at hurting the little people but seem to not be able to control my aim. Although when hubby was the target mortification turned to glee, his hand eye co-ordination was all that saved him, but not every time. Score!

Seriously, for a second though, running around with three boys was so fun and I reckon we'll end up doing it most weekends, even if it's just for me to get a chance to smash hubby in the head with something hard that won't kill him. Beats the iPad, getting out and about with the little people and an inflated piece of leather, kicks the shite out of screen time. Do it peeps, do some rolling around in the grass screaming and holding your shins, or preferably cause someone else to, I highly recommend it. Nx 

Him getting me back... 

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