The Hospitality Widow

The Pantry

2008-08-28T08:18:00.002+10:00

In keeping with the theme of my not being a domestic goddess I thought I might gain back some respect by telling you about my pantry.

I adore my pantry & tend to it with such pride that I think even Nigella would approve. It's definitely not as big as I would like but with six shelves on offer, each a good arm's length in depth, it is relatively easy to maintain & can hold enough for our week to week needs.

The top shelf, the most exciting shelf, is home to 'Daddy's snack box', as my children call it, a 20 litre clear box positively brimming with all things little children desire but are seldom allowed to have. There are crisps, crisps, & more crisps, chocolate freckles, the occasional rich biscuit & hubby's all time favourite, chocolate covered raspberry bullets. Also on this shelf are the boys 'naughty' snacks - snacks reserved for creche pick ups where Mummy, who still feels guilty for shunting them off three days a week so she can clear her head, clean her house & possibly do some work (& pays for the experience too) feels the need to treat her poor suffering mites who positively adore their creche days...Wednesday it's crisps (ideally Kangaroo Crisps, Cole's favourite), Thursday it's biscuits (Tiny Teddies, Rumbly Tumblies if Nanna has sent some over from the UK, or Wiggles biscuits - the strawberry & choc chip, never the honey) & Friday is Froggy Friday & the much anticipated dose of chocolate for the week. Please note at this stage my boys are also force fed vegetables, fruit & other healthy necessities - I just believe a little of a not so good thing means they won't be wanting a lot of it as they get older.

The next shelve down is home to the bottles of ketchup, HP Sauce, Dijon & English mustards, a selection of oils, spices, teas, hot chocolate mix, rice (but not risotto rice, something I realised all too late last night as I was set to prepare the promised & much anticipated mushroom & basil risotto for dinner), salt & pepper. A tad boring on paper but all necessities I most certainly could not live without.

Fourth from the top is home to the billions of packets of pastas we posses (OK, so it's probably more along the lines of ten but seriously, how much pasta can one family consume?), mini boxes of sultanas (in easy reach of little arms), mini bags of cranberries (as before), Ikea tubs filled with peanuts, almonds & cashews (separately of course), popcorn kernels, & a variety of different breakfast spreads to accommodate any breakfast request.

The next shelf down, my baking shelf, is much investigated by our two junior chefs in the making, especially the tub that holds the 100s & 1000s. This shelf is home to a variety of flours, baking powder, vanilla essence, nutmeg, cinnamon & friends, patty pans & all the other baking paraphernalia one needs to whip up cup cakes & the like. It is also home to a large biscuits barrel which alas is seldom filled as it is emptied far too quickly.

The next shelf down, & second from the bottom, is the boys' shelf. Like Daddy there is a 20 litre clear plastic tub (with lid) only this one is currently empty. It used to hold all of the boys' snacks for car trips & outings but now remains empty for fear that were it filled our youngest, Cole, would devour the lot & not eat the required meals we insist upon. Also on this shelf are the allowed snacks, ones that the boys may help themselves to should hunger arise. There are saltine crackers, yogurt topped muesli bars, bread sticks & if you pull out the plastic tub & wriggle inside (them, not me), the occasional box of BBQ Shapes or Chicken Drumsticks (assuming Daddy hasn't devoured them the night before). I am aware of the salt content of many of these products but rest assured fresh fruit & cheese is regularly served as an accompaniment.

Finally the bottom shelf which is mere inches from ground level & home to box upon box of breakfast cereal (think Seinfeld only child friendly). There's Nutri-Grain, Cornflakes, Rice Bubbles, Cheerios, Mini Wheats, Weet-Bix & Porridge. Hidden behind these boxes (out of sight but not out of mind), is a box of Coco Pops, a special treat for Sunday mornings & Sunday mornings only!

Perhaps every household is privy to a pantry like this but it's mine & I'm proud of it (dare I admit it...I have been known to open my pantry simply to gaze at it with a sense of satisfaction). Yes, sometimes things are past their used by date & have gone unnoticed, or stocks have not been replenished & are required but unavailable (see risotto rice) but on the whole, if I fail in every other part of the domestic goddessticity at least my pantry is full of things to eat & cook with. My freezer aint too shabby either but that's a whole different story...

Weetbix Toast

2008-08-20T19:42:00.004+10:00

I am not a domestic goddess, nor have I ever implied or hinted at such a thing. And don't think for a second that because my husband is such a talented chef I'm good in the kitchen. I'm not. Quite average if we're being honest, though I do love a good pudding... I dabble but with two under five I don't really get much of a chance to cook. Proper cook. I pour through my Nigella and Gordon cookbooks, occasionally choosing a simple recipe, but 9 times out of 10 it's rejected by my little angels so sausages & pasta prevail.

I'm rubbish at cleaning too. In all fairness I find it incredibly dull & therefore don't put my all into it, something I am now regretting as I look at my walls & violently shudder with revolt. Surface cleaning aside if I were to remove the entire contents of our house it would take me at least a week (at least) to get it clean. It's disgusting. Let's put that down to the children too (I mean, Riley was born four weeks after we moved in...). We had a cleaner for a while, lovely woman, but I fear we sent her into early retirement.

So now you know I'm not a great cook or cleaner & I have to admit it I'm not so good at the upkeep either. The washing is always done (&, as our dryer recently died, now hung over every available space) & there's always food of some sort to be consumed, but we regularly run out of bread & sometimes even milk (I'm lactose intolerant so I often don't even notice). Unfortunately both my boys are also lactose intolerant so I have to have lactose free & soy milk on hand (ALWAYS) but when we do run out of bread, at least once a week (& yes, that includes the 'back up' frozen loaf in the freezer) I resort to weetbix toast for a breakfast staple. This was a favourite of mine as a child that my mother would make me as a snack - a weetbix, gently halved, then spread with butter & vegemite (NB: it has to be vegemite. Trust me on this). It's only recently that I've realised that this is not as well known as I'd first thought & several of my friends have been appalled at the idea. I say don't knock it 'til you try it!

And as I pop to the corner shop to buy that loaf of bread I can't help but wonder what back ups other people resort to in their times of need...

That Time Of The Month

2008-08-01T19:58:00.003+10:00

Snappy, tender, teary, spotty and fat. Once again that wonderful time is upon me where my mood leans towards the less sane and my appetite towards destruction. Meat is my meal of choice with a chocolate chaser a must. And what better an excuse than that time of the month for a good old vent! Readers be ware because this PMS sufferer is set to blow her top...

Cyclists. You ride on the road therefore you must obey the road rules. A red light means stop for you too and mobiles are a definite no no, especially texting...

Drivers. That intersection near the end of my street on Brunswick Street is an actual intersection. It's not a movie set or there for show. The red light means you need to give way to pedestrians. Get it?

Pedestrians. Don't push the button in peak hour traffic on a pedestrian crossing unless you truly mean to cross. We're already running late so your indecisiveness does not bode well.

Passengers. Give up your seats to the elderly. Don't bury your face in a book. It's embarrassing. Mothers-to-be and those with small children should also receive preferential treatment. It's just the right thing to do.

Children. When I say it's bed time, I mean it's bed time. I don't mean it's time to fart ass around, fuss and then demand another trip to the downstairs potty where you plan to sit and chatterbox for the next thirty minutes. This is not up for negotiation.

Robin. If you want to turn left get into the left lane. Don't leave it 'til the last minute then go on about how bad the other drivers are in front of you because they're not immediately letting you in.

Humph. I actually feel a little better now. Oh, hang on, I have one more...

Nurofen Period Pain Caplets. What a croc. For the price of a pack of 20 you can buy a box regular Nurofen three times the size which will do exactly the same thing to relieve your PMS/PMT - NOTHING!

Much better.

Meat & chocolate await...

Age Is Just A Number

2008-07-23T19:12:00.002+10:00

Bollocks. Age is the number & anyone who has ever stated such a thing obviously isn't as old as I am. Not that I'm that old. But old enough...

Age is something that's just kind of crept up on me. Hitting 30 was a bit of a downer, but that aside, I've not minded aging that much. Until now. All of a sudden I'm very aware that the roll I acquired around my midriff after the extraction of my second child is still yet to deflate and instead houses unwanted goods left over from dinners in fancy restaurants and the like.

Formerly the skinny girl (I was named Anna to my then best friend's Rexia - a school yard taunt that used to make me beyond miserable but one that I would now gladly have back) I now have to frequent the gym if I am to lose weight or, despair of all despairs, tone up. Tone up???? I've never had to tone up before. Before now that is.

Age is affecting me in others ways too of course. There's the smile lines that are forever embedded (& isn't it lovely how everyone can see what a happy person I am - NOT) or the fact that what I'd originally thought was a temporary haggard/harassed look from sleep deprivation is actually premature aging brought on by said sleep deprivation!

The other day our pastry chef celebrated his 32nd birthday. My 4 year old, who is obsessed with ages at the moment, was quick to point out that his Mummy was a 3 and a 7. Pastry chef nearly fell over with surprise & I thought, finally, that once so common and since forgotten complement where my age is skimmed back a good 5 years and I'm told that I look nowhere near my age - but alas, it was not so. Instead pastry chef lent in closer & said, 'But isn't Daddy a 3 and a 1?'

Yes, I have done well for myself snagging a younger man & I'm certainly no Demi to his Ashton (though if I had their funds I'm certain I'd look as she does) and yes I am fortunate to have a great group of friends ranging in age from their early 20's to mid 40's but when the younger ones act surprised upon hearing my age (and yes pastry chef, they do still sometimes act surprised) & come out with that little gem, 'age is just a number', I really don't know whether to throttle them or hug them...

Band-Aids

2008-07-02T19:23:00.006+10:00

Yep, you read it correctly - Band-Aids. Those Johnson & Johnson brand name adhesive bandages sometimes referred to as plasters that we use to protect wounds from infection. My boys love them. LOVE them. Especially my youngest. He is always covered in them & regularly asked by passers by in a soothing voice if he'd hurt his finger/hand/arm/leg/foot. It's a rare occasion when he's actually using a Band-Aid for its intended purpose.

The history behind Band-Aids is kind of cool. Earle Dickson, a cotton buyer for Johnson & Johnson invented the Band-Aid in 1921 to protect his wife's fingers as she was frequently cutting them whilst preparing food. A head honcho at J&J (enough name dropping, eh) was so impressed he promoted Earle and they started making Band-Aids, initially by hand. They didn't really take off until 1924 when they were machine made and the first decorative Band-Aids didn't come about until 1951 when patriotic stars and stripes and Sesame Street were the rage.

Today Band-Aids come in all sorts of prints with the favourites in our household currently The Wiggles & The Simpsons. Naturally other brands make them too so we have some non Band-Aid brand adhesives with Shrek &, until recently, boxes of Spiderman, Nemo, Pooh Bear & The Incredibles (the latter ones a gift brought back from Canada from some friends whose kids have the same passion for these sticky little numbers).

Thankfully Band-Aids don't seem to have gone up much in price in the last 80 odd years yet Australian's are still managing to spend something like $30 million a year on them - that's a lot of Band-Aid passionate kids, eh?

Vices

2008-06-25T19:35:00.004+10:00

Let's be honest, we all have a vice, a guilty pleasure that we know is wrong & yet we continue to indulge in because we enjoy it so. Whether it be drinking, or smoking (or drinking & smoking) these vices, be they big or small, are what get us through our every day lives.

These vices need not be immoral or evil, as the dictionary suggests, nor a particular form of depravity or even a bad habit. Well, maybe a bad habit...

Take my husband for instance. Now he's no angel (wouldn't have married him if he were) but his two main vices (& I'm being 100% honest here) are those British cooking shows they show on the Food Channel and his beloved Playstation 3. Gone are the nights of pacing the floor wondering what state he'll be in when he gets home as I know he's downstairs in a comatose state in front of the telly.

My vice is even more simplistic. Not the dreaded drink for me (though I do enjoy the occasional tipple - OK, more than occasional) instead my vice is reality television. Love it. Especially the American ones - Survivor, The Amazing Race, America's Next Top Model, The Hills; I cannot get enough of them. At the moment I'm savouring the current season of So You Think You Can Dance which hasn't even hit our shores yet. I'm also enjoying Shipwrecked, a UK reality show where a group of young Brits are stranded on an island (or in this case, three islands) with little rations or luxuries. Not as hard going as Survivor (the Americans make the best reality shows by far) but most enjoyable indeed.

Most evenings find me snug in my PJ's on the couch with a low fat snack (yeah right, who am I kidding), a glass of water (uh huh) & hour upon hour of reality bliss.

Thank goodness I'm a hospitality widow or I'd have to be done with my vice & that wouldn't do at all!

Facebook & The One That Got Away

2008-06-11T14:40:00.003+10:00

For those of you who aren't familiar with this voyeuristic time waster, Wikipedia (the free online encyclopedia) defines facebook as a social networking website that more than 70 million people world wide visit on a regular basis. Despite being created in 2004, facebook didn't really become big on our shores until 2008 (or maybe that's just me not down with the times...). I openly admit that I am a facebook junkie. Every morning, after checking my emails & while the coffee is brewing I open my account to check the news feed, see if I have any new messages (though I'm normally fore warned of this in my email account) & update my status account. The status account is pure indulgence where you can let all of your facebook friends know whatever you'd like them to know - that you're tired, fed up with work, got lucky last night...as I said, pure indulgence. Then it's on to the requests, today's being a traveler iq challenge invitation & a visual bookshelf invitation, the latter of which has been there for over a month but I'm too lazy to invest the time necessary to set up. You can play games, buy people, have shots, throw things at each other, you name it.

But I digress.

Attached to facebook is friend finder, an application where you can track down old friends & acquaintances who can then become your friend & view your account, & you, in turn, theirs. This is how I've got back in contact with a lot of my friends from my partying days that I had lost contact with after my travels. One of these & the most recent "friend" I've found is my first true love (who will remain nameless to protect all those involved). Former first true love, who I shall refer to as FTL henceforth, was my first serious relationship & made even more important because of the fact that he broke my heart (or at least I thought he did but it turns out, years later, that I wasn't in love with him at all & was far too young to have any idea what love was, I was just an over dramatic young thing). I was devastated when he broke up with me (or at least I thought I was - you get the idea) & always thought of him as the one that got away. I held a torch for him for several years (now I'm showing my age, who says 'held a torch' these days, eh) but life goes on & you all know how well mine turned out. So imagine my surprise when I found him on facebook. At this point I must add that I didn't search for him, he came up as a mutual friend of another friend & the picture was so small I wasn't even 100% sure it was him. I sent a brief message saying something flippant along the lines of 'hey, how are you, long time no anything' which also automatically sent him a friend request. He immediately confirmed (though didn't reply) allowing me full access to his profile. Imagine my surprise when I found that the man I had once held such a torch for (sorry, couldn't help myself) was now a heavily tattooed, pot bellied, balding fisherman with several piercings. Now I have nothing against all these qualities and/or attributes, nothing at all, but this is a far cry from the mild mannered English man I remembered whose only tatt was of the British bulldog (which in retrospect was possibly a good indication of what was to come).

I am incredibly relieved that FTL & I went our separate ways & although it is nice to be "friends" with him again, I doubt we have much in common (if indeed we ever did). But still, it is fun seeing what he's been up to for all these years...

Birthday Party Confessions

2008-06-06T13:47:00.008+10:00

Birthday party season is upon us yet again.

Cole turned two on April 7th & big brother, Riley, four on May 30th. Great thought went into each party with Cole opting for a low key Bob the Builder BBQ at a friends beach house we borrow from time to time in Point Leo. Riley chose a more elaborate party with a select few joining him bowling then the rest of his favourites coming back to ours for pizza. Add a SpongeBob SquarePants theme and you have a SpongeBob SquarePants Bowling Pizza Party!

While Cole invited two friends (technically one of them by default), Riley ended up with a figure around the 15 mark (I stopped counting once more than 15 kids arrived & had already made certain I had extra loot bags for such a situation). Stuffing them full of pizza, crisps, fairy bread & honey joys as cake time drew near I felt a certain hush fall upon the room (at least where the parents were concerned).

You see, my children have become known for their wonderful birthday cakes. Every year tops the one before & every year I have the praise poured on. Parties we attend are always accompanied at cake time with comments such as "It's not quite the standard you'll be used to, Veda" or "It pales in comparison to Riley's Spiderman cake from last year I'm afraid." But the truth is, I don't make the cakes. Never have. Aside from Riley's first birthday cake (a Blues Clues one that Robin iced after I botched the icing) & assisting Robin's mum with Cole's first birthday cake (Thomas the Tank Engine) my time at parties is spent instead making sandwiches (the gourmet ones where I use a slice of white & a slice of multigrain so both child & parent alike are pleased), mini pizzas & all the other stuff guests can enjoy.

So where do we get the cakes, I hear you ask. Simple. We ask our pastry chefs to make them. This year we didn't even have to ask as Pierre, our wonderful pastry chef extraordinaire, has a soft spot for the boys & offered well ahead of time.

And do the boys appreciate them? Yes, I think they do. Cole was in awe of his Bob cake & though Riley appeared equally as pleased with his SpongeBob one on the day when it came to thanking Pierre in person he did, however, question Pierre's decision of giving SpongeBob a rounded head instead of the expected square!

Next years parties are already in discussion with Buzz Lightyear looking a strong possibility for Cole & The Hulk, maybe Iron Man, firm contenders for Riley's.

There's also talk of a Halloween party this year which opens up endless cake oppotunities.

I just hope we always have pastry chefs because goodness only knows what I'd knock out.

And for the record, out of the numerous parties I have been fortunate to attend I have always thoroughly enjoyed, appreciated and sometimes even envied the guest of honour's cake!

Butter

2008-04-22T11:32:00.002+10:00

What is it with kids & butter? My two love it, especially my eldest. But not in a melting on crumpets kind of a way, they like it straight from the wrap/tub/dish preferably cold & hard. I've tried it & don't find it at all pleasant. Not the way they like it. When I bake (yes, I bake, & often, but mostly because I have a sweet tooth & love to eat) I have to make sure the butter is well out of reach as it will disappear off the bench sometimes never to return. Same as storing it in the fridge - it's on the highest shelf that cannot even be reached with a 'grown up' chair. It's one of life's little mysteries I suppose. And don't even get me started on the salt - every table I sit down at with my kids I have to move the shaker because sure enough they'll be shaking it out onto their chubby little palms & licking it off with glee. But thankfully never the pepper...

Riley's Dad

2008-03-13T20:06:00.002+11:00

Yesterday during lunch at Riley's creche the under fours had a group discussion about where their parents work. Riley's contribution was:

"My daddy doesn't work, he cooks chippies and sausages and eggs and mummy works at home."

So close and yet so far...

Valentine's Day

2008-03-13T13:39:00.002+11:00

Love it or hate it every year on the 14th of February Valentine's fever takes over where those in a relationship feel the need to acknowledge it & those not in a relationship try their hardest to ignore it. But does anyone really like Valentine's Day and what's it all about anyway?

Traditionally the day on which lovers express their love for each other by sending cards and flowers, the history of Valentine's Day is shrouded in mystery, as is its patron saint, but what I do know from my research is that around a billion cards are sent each year making it the second most recognised day behind Christmas, where something like two and a half billion cards are sent. Around 85% of cards are purchased by women, and the US aside, Valentine's Day is celebrated in countries such as Canada, Mexico, the United Kingdom, France and Australia.

I have been fortunate enough to live in the US, the United Kingdom & Australia and can honestly say that I have been overlooked on Valentine's Day more times than I care to remember. I do recall at a tender age tentatively checking the letterbox every half hour or so in the hope that a card would magically appear from my first crush who lived two streets away (and no, it didn't), but as I grew older I was more prone to check the letterbox only once on the 14th of February & always on the pretense of checking for bills.

Robin and I have been together for 10 years now & in the time we have only celebrated Valentine's Day once, the first year we were together. We were living in London in a rather rundown apartment in Shepherds Bush (we were later evicted so they could fix it up after the bathroom floor fell through to our downstairs neighbours) with only one bedroom, a large lounge area, fair sized kitchen & converted loft area that slept up to 5 travellers at a time. Thankfully Robin & I had the bedroom as I was the only female & we were the only ones in a relationship. He insisted I work that day & when I returned shortly before dinner time there was a large envelope tacked onto the door with my name on it containing a card & a note telling me to go straight to our room. Naturally I did as I was told but not before inhaling the most delightful smells unfamiliar to our shared kitchen and more at home in the finer restaurants Robin had worked in around London.

Entering our room I almost stumbled into the round bistro style table set up in the centre, flanked by two chairs and dressed in a white table cloth. A single candle burnt from a holder placed centrally on the table and fairy lights shone from their position around our mirror where I had placed them some weeks previously. My favourite Air song played on a loop and 11 red roses were strewn over our double bed (on enquiring why only 11 Robin admitted he had given one to the girl at the checkout who had looked so forlorn as she'd packed up his goodies for the romantic evening ahead). A handmade menu announced the evening's courses, and though I'm sure you'd like to know what they were I will refrain from exposing my husband's romantic side (albeit a little scarce) in the hope that it will remain intact ...

The next day he asked me to marry him, I said yes, & Valentine's Day has been overlooked ever since!

Actually, that's not completely true, the last two years he has sent me flowers, not roses mind you, but I daren't say anything for fear I don't get anything at all.

However, in fairness to Robin, it is hard to celebrate Valentine's Day when you're in the industry. Naturally it's one of the restaurant's busiest nights where the dining room is filled with tables of two and romance blossoms. So on February 14 I play the hospitality widow card, order in a take away, down a glass or two of wine and treat myself to a chick flick. Maybe next year I'll have a table of three & let my two little men take me out, the eldest of which was asked this Valentine's Day by his best female friend if he would like to get married (he sensibly answered that yes, he would, but at not yet 4 he wasn't quite ready). I'd like to pretend that either way I'm not fussed but in all honesty the marketing has got to me & though I don't really celebrate Valentine's Day, I sure as hell want to be recognised on the day!

A Quick Note To My Readers

2008-03-10T12:38:00.002+11:00

Apologies for the delay between blogs - I started in October but didn't write again until March for two reasons really.
1/. My second born has been giving me a rather challenging time of it, especially in the evenings...
2/. I was overseas for Christmas & New Year.
However I am back with a vengeance so watch this space for regular updates.
x

The Vineyard, A Not So Romantic Getaway.

2008-03-09T12:29:00.005+11:00

December 29, 2007. A not too distant memory...

Robin and I celebrate our wedding anniversary at the beginning of December. Not ideal in the hospitality industry when Christmas parties are all the go and people are in the mood for festivities, something I had not taken into consideration when planning our wedding some eight years ago. I am also a firm believer (some say martyr) that if you cannot celebrate your anniversary on the exact day there's no point in celebrating it all, which is why it is often overlooked save for a bunch of flowers and a card. This year however Robin decided to treat me while we were away in the UK. He'd chosen The Vineyard at Stockcross in Newbury, Berkshire, and it was my first night ever away from both my children (and no, I'm not one of those overprotective mums with issues about being away from their kids I'd just never had the opportunity). I was over the moon and had planned some serious pampering but it was not to be.

The night before we were due to head to Stockcross, a two or so hour drive from Robin's parent's house, I was at the cinema with his mother and sister when I began to feel extremely unwell. Sparing you the details I ended up spending the next ten or so hours stuck in the bathroom with a gastro style bug, later termed the 'norovirus', which swept through London at an alarming rate infecting people in droves, several of whom were hospitalised. I emerged 5 kilos lighter (I am not joking) and managed a few hours sleep before Robin carefully enquired as to what time I wished to head off. Naturally I didn't but the room had been booked as had a degustation menu for two that evening at The Vineyard's 2 Michelin-starred restaurant under Chef John Campbell. Fighting back tears I attempted a shower before dressing in the most comfortable and warm clothing I could find that wouldn't offend the other guests at the luxurious five star country hotel.

The drive was horrendous as I attempted to not retch (vomiting was out of the question by this point as there was nothing left) but Radio One managed to keep me semi entertained as did the strained mood between Robin and myself - he was trying his hardest not to be cross with me as it was obvious it wasn't my fault I'd gotten sick but at the same time he was furious that our romantic night away was so obviously ruined.

For those of you that haven't been to The Vineyard (and I highly recommend that if you have the chance you go as it is just lovely) it was originally an 18th century hunting lodge for a very wealthy family by the name of Foley. History lesson aside, I saw it as a rather grand building with a top restaurant and boutique spa set in gorgeous lush surroundings (and that's given my poorly state of health so you know it's pretty darn special). We were greeted at check in and told of our room upgrade to a luxurious split-level Atrium Suite which took a good five minutes to walk to down a maze of hallways and upon entering I was far to green to notice the contemporary design, or Christmas tree that sparkled majestically outside our balcony window in the mist grey afternoon.

We were greeted by a plate of petit fours, vintage Dom Perignon on ice and a welcome letter from the Deputy General Manager. Immediately in the mood Robin made to open the bottle of champagne but my urgent pleas to wait until I was in better health won over and the bottle was returned to its ice bucket. The large bed beckoned and within seconds I was fast asleep, still wearing my winter coat and boots. Four hours later I awoke to find a very bored Robin poking me gently. 'Are you coming for dinner?' he asked, which was greeted by a moan and I promptly fell back to sleep. I stirred a while later as Robin placed yet another bottle of water beside me and I noted his suit and disappointed expression before sleep took over again.

Some time later a knocking at the door woke me and I was started when somebody entered the room, but not as much as the poor girl who was entering. 'I'm sorry,' she said, her fluent English carrying a heavy accent. 'Did you want a turn down service?' I shook my head no and ever so slowly sat up. The room was ridiculously hot and my mouth as dry as the driest dessert imaginable, so I started to peel of my layers and downed the water. I padded into the bathroom, not recognising the gaunt person who stared back at me from the mirror, before silently slipping into a pair of PJ's and back under the covers.

At some point Robin returned, a fact I'm certain of because when I eventually awoke he was beside me. I wouldn't say that I woke feeling great but I certainly felt a darn sight better than the day before and juice beckoned so I rummaged around through the bar fridge before deciding on apple. Flipping the lid and slurping it up I made my way back to the bathroom, sighing at the sight of the massive tub and Molton Brown products. I am a huge Molton Brown fan and would never normally let such a treat go to waste but even sitting in a bath seemed like to much effort.

Shortly after Robin woke, begging me to join him for breakfast. We dressed, and walked the five minute maze to the dining room where we were greeted by a buffet style breakfast with a la carte offerings. I decided upon the scrambled eggs and though I only managed about a third of my meal it was easily one of the nicest scrambled eggs I have ever had. Robin insisted I would have loved the evening's meal too, that it was very much my taste, but alas my stomach had had other ideas. Perhaps next time...

We managed a quick spa and sauna before heading back, Robin even ventured into the steam room but opening the door I nearly passed out so chose instead to return to the spa for one last bubble massage. Returning to our room we showered, dressed and pretty much checked out and though I didn't get to take full advantage of The Vineyard's many offerings it was by far the nicest place I've ever been able to recover at and easily the best sleep I've had since having my first child four years ago.

I do hope to return one day under better circumstances but who knows...

A Night To Remember In Grey Paris.

2008-03-06T13:15:00.005+11:00

Borrowing from the likes of Cole Porter and crooner Frank Sinatra, I love Paris in the spring time, I love Paris in the fall, I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles, I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles - except when my hair goes all poufy and doesn't sit flat despite the amount of product I smoothed all over it before heading out. Grr. But Paris, wonderful, beautiful and eternally romantic Paris can certainly make up for whatever the elements may bring...

It's the 7th of January, winter in Paris, and my husband is taking me to one of the world's finest restaurants, Pierre Gagnaire. We've left the boys with their grandparents at our hotel in Disneyland Paris where we are staying and decide to Metro it into central Paris. Wearing our finest covered up by our warmest winter coats we alight finding ourselves almost directly underneath the Arc de Triomphe with a twinkling Tour Eiffel clearly visible. Disneyland Paris this is not and immediately I am taken back to the last time I was in Paris and squeeze Robin's hand with my own mitten covered one in anticipation of what the night might bring.

It's still early, by Australian standards at least, but dark, and blisteringly cold. Upon finding the right direction we make our way easily enough along rue Balzac yet still manage to miss our destination. Two young chefs lean against a wall outside another restaurant hurriedly puffing on cigarettes before service begins and with broken French we manage to ask them for directions. They oblige in fluent French, thankfully with hand signals, and moments later we find ourselves in the foyer of Pierre Gagnaire. It is here that my anticipation turns to a mild anxiety as I am notorious for doing the most embarrassing things when I am in fine restaurants.

Immediately we are welcomed, our jackets removed and led to a table to the rear of the restaurant on a slightly raised level. I notice that we are the first to arrive and am fearful it will be a quiet evening - a flashback to a pre theatre meal at one of Gordon Ramsey's London restaurants springs to mind when a line of waiters jumped to our assistance after every sip, slip or sneeze which I found to be extremely unnerving. Sitting, our table is pushed up against us (not tightly, mind, just securely and so we don't have to move our chairs) and after a moment the person assisting us has determined that we would rather he spoke in English, that we are uncertain as to what menu we would like to choose from and that champagne to start was a definite. There isn't a hint of arrogance and I can feel my nerves slightly unravel as I pull self consciously at my Wonderbra enhanced cleavage wondering if perhaps I should have put the safety pin a little higher and not left so much to show.

Flipping through the menu options it becomes obvious that it is all in French and without prices. This is Robin's night, or rather his treat for us, so I decide I'll let him decide. He sneaks a smile at me before whispering 'How much money do we have on the credit card?' I cringe. 'Enough.' But not quite enough for Pierre Gagnaire's it seems; well at least not the truffle menu. Still recovering from my bout of London gastro I opt for only a main course, saving myself 100 euros in the process. Robin orders the signature langoustines to start and we both appreciate it for its overwhelming beauty before he commences eating. I sample things along the way but my heart just isn't in it, the anticipation of my main course far more appealing. By now the restaurant is filling nicely and though I am aware we are by the far the youngest couple here (and I'm no spring chicken) I feel completely and utterly comfortable. Until I need to go the the toilet that is. Without thinking I push my chair back, banging it into the wall so hard in the process that the couple at the table opposite us glance over. Embarrassing moment number one. Pinned I turn to Robin for assistance. 'What do you do if you need the loo?' I ask. He grins. 'Cross your legs.' As the starter plates (yes plates, there were six offerings) are removed I announce as politely as possible my urgent desire for the facilities and the table is pulled forward and I am freed. Following a waiter out of the restaurant and through the lobby to the downstairs bathrooms I take in the 1950s decor and the wealthy looking clientele. As I sit myself down I am shocked to find that from the waist up the entire toilet cubicle is mirrored, something I fully appreciate as I pull up my tights checking my dress hasn't got itself caught in the process. Then comes embarrassing moment number two when I am found wandering aimlessly by a staff member from the hotel in which Pierre Gagnaire is housed and asked if I need assistance finding my way back to the restaurant. Naturally I do as I was far too busy checking everything out to pay any attention to where I was actually going.

Moments upon returning the table is pushed back into its former position and the manager approaches our table with the most delicious smelling steaming le creuset pot. He removes the lid to reveal my duck, sizzling away in its own juices with fresh thyme and bay leaf. This is not my main course, I mean it is, but not yet, this is just to show me that it has been baking in the oven and is now to return to the kitchen for serving. It's a great selling point too as everyone on the tables around us (remember at this point we were the first to arrive and therefore the first to order) decides to order the duck too, their nostrils filled with its mouthwatering aroma. When it returns a short time later there is still a hint of its former aroma glory but I am disappointed to find the skin isn't as crispy as I would have liked but then the duck meat itself is so tender I couldn't complain. Robin happily tucks into his veal sweetbreads (I'm serious, among other things it comes with a side of curried veal kidneys) and I make a mental note not to kiss him later.

After main courses are cleared it's Robin's turn to relieve himself. He automatically pushes back his chair, knocking into the glass encased wine cellar and rebounding into our table; embarrassing moment number three. Stifling giggles, we both redden as a staff member rushes to our aid, pulling the table forward & freeing Robin. Upon his return (table back in its place) the manager wanders over to enquire about dessert. Believe it or not I am actually full. Pierre Gagnaire is one of those wonderful restaurants that serves you something like a billion little extra courses which not only make you feel special but also stretch your capacity to its limits. It is decided that Robin will order Le Grand Dessert de Pierre Gagnaire, a dessert inspired by French pastries and seasonal fruit and which the manager insists we share. As he sets the table for our impending dessert he asks where we are from. Robin automatically answers, 'Australia. Well, England really, but we live in Australia,' and the manager smiles, nods, and disappears. Robin and I look at each other suddenly unsure if that was what he had asked us at all and if he had been given some random reply to his question. Embarrassing moment number four, and thankfully the last embarrassing moment of the evening (unless you count being given a tour of the kitchen, meeting Pierre himself and having to appear together when you are still recovering from a tummy bug and have had far too much to drink - for me that's more than one glass of wine). Dessert is like nothing on earth, though there isn't enough chocolate to please my sweettooth and Robin manages to squeeze in a coffee before requesting the bill. 491 euros later (that's around $800 Australian dollars) we head back out into Paris's cold evening and towards the Metro where we are to make our way back to Disneyland Paris and reality.

Pierre Gagnaire was easily one of the most expensive meals of my life but certainly one of the most enjoyable. The food was divine, the service bar none, but I honestly think what made the evening so special was being in Paris with Robin.

The Hospitality Widow

2007-10-26T13:07:00.000+10:00

If we're being technical (& let's not) a widow is a woman who has lost her husband by death and has not married again. Thankfully the Concise Oxford Dictionary is up with the times & has a more modern & relevant definition which they claim to be humorous though I beg to differ, as a woman whose husband is often away participating in a specified sport or activity. For me, that activity is Interlude, my husband's two hat restaurant in the heart of Fitzroy which is his home away from home (though it's debatable that perhaps our actual abode is his home away from home as he tends to spend more time at the restaurant...). Either way I am a Hospitality Widow. The life of a chef's wife is an often lonely one. Yes, I have two beautiful boys, Riley & Cole aged 3 1/2 & 1 1/2 respectively, & two cats, Abercrombie & Fitch, but from 8pm onwards I am sans husband, sans company and therefore a non humorous Hospitality Widow!