Whitterer on Autism

To celebrate my new found ability to sign up for this blinking linking thing, I had another brilliant idea, you know, one of those ideas that strikes in the wee small hours of the night. As often as not, the next day dawns and the idea dies like a damp squid, not to say squib.

So here’s the plan. Consider sharing a recipe that your family, a family member or you, enjoy that doesn’t seem to be appreciated by many other bodies on the planet.

Guidelines:-

Ideally this should be something that you really prepare and eat. If you prepare and eat chocolate covered scorpions, all well and good, but attempt truthfulness.

Have you given it a name? If so, what is it and why?

Please offer enough detail to allow others to follow it easily. I favour piccies, but not everyone as is reliant on visual cues.

Try not to assume that everyone else is on the same page as you are. E.g a pnb sandwich may be obvious to you, but to me it refers to post nuptial bliss, which is difficult to squish between two slices of bread. I don’t want to even consider the possibility of jelly.

It doesn’t need to be outrageous nor inedible. It may be that you just have a twist on the communal garden variety of recipe that reflects your personal preferences. Here are a few tantalizing examples:-
• A grilled cheese sandwich with a smear of Marmite
• A freshly sliced tomato sandwich with ground black pepper and a generous dollop of Pesto
• Cheddar, Spring Onion, [Green Onion] and cucumber sandwich
• Tuna, Wholegrain mustard, onions and Tomatoes
• Any typically traditional sandwich where you routinely omit a main ingredient [I know who you are!]
• Butter and crisp [chips] sandwich.
• Cereal without the milk but with yoghourt instead [especially if each has to be a certain brand]
• A jam [jelly] sandwich with dill pickle slices
• Sandwiches with no filling

And people wonder why I make my own bread?

• Snacking on dried cat food doesn’t count, you didn’t make it.
• Raw cookie dough in a sandwich [please provide Salmonella warnings]
• A Big Mac:- hold the lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, pickle, cheese, run to the bathroom to rinse the patty under the hot tap, dry with care, return to table to eat and leave the bun on the side. Yes, that wouldn’t count either because you didn’t really ‘make’ it yourself!
N.B. if you put your dried cat food in a sandwich it counts.

A category would be helpful. E.g. side dish, in-between dish or main dish, but ‘accompaniment,’ ‘snack’ or ‘splurge’ would do just as nicely.

Please try to use useful terminology that is easily comprehensible. Terms such as ‘smidge,’ ‘dab’ and ‘pinch’ should be limited, as cookery should not be a contact sport.

Use any measurement system you like but aim for consistency throughout, as a combination of cups, stones and millimetres is likely to be messy.

A note about how many it is supposed to serve would also be useful. E.g. rabbit sized, human sized or supersized. Alternatively reveal your nationality and we can all adjust accordingly.

If you’re an American type with access to all the clever stuff nutritional stuff like good for diabetics, people with high cholesterol or high blood pressures and the like, then all to the good.

If you use uncommon ingredients, please provide a link to the product as we would like to muddle our Harissa with our Halva.

The only ‘label’ required to participate, nay, politely ‘requested,’ if you would be so kind, is a name for your recipe. If you could possibly avoid using ‘putrid’ or ‘poison’ in the title, that would be a delight, as we have someone to provide that insertion service for us already.

These are ruthless rules people.

Here’s mine.

Beetroot Salad for the Brave [A sidling or mainette dish]
One fist sized beet per person
One ounce of crumbly blue cheese, Stilton, Roquefort or Feta per person
One tin [can] of whole anchovies in oil
One teaspoonful of garlic puree
One splashette of Balsamic Vinegar
2 tablespoons of Extra Virgin Oil
One teaspoonful of roughly ground red and white peppers combined

• Bake the beets or microwave until tender.

• Leave to cool.

• Combine all the other ingredients.

• Add cooled, peeled and diced beets.

• Chill covered in the fridge for at least one hour.

• Serve on a generous bed of salad greens with hot, fresh bread, assuming you’ve not used it all up on sandwiches.

This should make your ears steam, your nose run and your eyes bleed. If not ……
then yur doin it wrong.

Coz Neophobia comes in many forms my friends.

Cheers dears

If you’d like to join in maybe this little icon can help us forge a new route for those with oral fixations.

I collect the children from school.  As usual my eldest son is disheveled.  I sometimes wonder what he believes the purpose of a backpack is in his life?  Something extra to carry along with his jacket, homework, lunch pack and other assorted paraphanalia, armfuls of it, together with the backpack.  We pause, as we always do, to stuff the backpack with his belongings, zip it up and persuade the backpack to attach itself to his spine.  It’s a time consuming little exercise, made all the longer by the excitement of the end of the day, when there is sometimes important information to share, if we could but shrug off all the distractions.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear.”
“My friend.”
“Yes dear.”
“He…….says I’m gonna go to hell.”
“Hell?  Who said you were going to hell?  Was he swearing…….was he…….saying bad words?”
“No hell is a place …….where there is no Jesus.”
“Is it by golly!  Is that what he told you?”
“Yes……and it’s real small…..with no power……and Jesus always wins.”
“Wins…….sounds a bit like the superhero version of Christian belief.”
“Wot?”
“Nothing…….why did he say you were going to hell?”
“I don know.  Am I gonna go to hell?  Am I gonna die?  When am I gonna die?  Is hell bad?  Is it gonna hurt?   I don wanna die, I wanna stay here wiv you.”
“Well different people believe different things.”  I watch his body contract, stiffen and diminish into a small hard lump.
I don’t know about him, but I’m ready to die right now.   I’m sure there was no evil intent behind what appears to be an innocent exchange between him and his pal.  How was his pal supposed to know that certain nuggets of information trigger all kinds of unexpected bombs. It’s an all pervasive virus without a salve. I refuse to allow another bout of OCD to explode on our lives, infest every cranny and bespoil a perfectly dandy holiday season.  He watches bemused as I stuff everything into the backpack, with far too much vigour.  Punch it into submission.  This one will not escape, “well, you’re in luck my fine fellow!”
“I am?”
“Yes, because I know everything there is to know about hell.”
“You’re an……expert….a trainer expert?”  His eyes are wide in genuine mid startle mode.  I’m sure it is the most delightful facial expression in his ever growing repetoire.
“I am.  And when we get home I’ll tell you all about it and you can ask me anything you want.”

Who needs a light saber to defend? I knew 13 years in a Catholic Convent would come in handy sometime.

I stomp downstairs with the last box of tatty old Christmas decorations. The whole house is strewn with pine needles, bits of fir cones and general sparkly detritus of moulting baubles. The children entertain themselves with popping bubble wrap amid much chortling. Layers of tissue paper later I have cause to be considerably miffed:-
“Look at that! It’s ruined.”
“Hmm looks like it’s melted.”
“Of course it’s melted. Look at it!”
“Must be been jolly hot in the attic this summer.”
“Now there’s an understatement. What are we going to do with it now?”
“What do you want to do with it?”
“!”
“I wonder what temperature it has to be to melt and fuse candles?”
“Frankly I couldn’t give a monkeys.” I blow my nose and take a breath in-between hacking coughs.
“Maybe you should have wrapped them up a bit more carefully last year?”
“!”
“I don’t get it? Do you want to buy new ones or something?”
“No…..not really………it’s just everything is so………tired looking.” I have a head full of fog and a chest full of mucus, “all I know is that I have a zillion things to do and I have no time to fiddle about with wonky candles!”
My son glances across from his fine motor, pincher grip occupation, which he appears to have thoroughly mastered, judging by the continuous popping sounds, “I am love.”
“Yes I can hear that you are very good at popping.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I am love dah wonky candles.” Sadly I do not share his enthusiasm. I assume that I am just pooped after hauling so many boxes down from the attic. I surge off with a hint of huff for a coffee break, with a flu remedy chaser and a pause in the proceedings. Barely has the first drip of espresso dropped when I am summoned, again, “Mom!”
“What is it now?”
“I am being fixing it. It is perfick.”

I plop onto the sofa with my knitting for entertainment and distraction from my latest current dose of flu. A tired little pathetic pile of self misery mopped up with a box of tissues. Oh for a few minutes of peace and quiet.

Ours has long been a volatile household where upsets jump out to bite us at every turn. Over the years we have learned about a great number of triggers, hot spots and areas that need special attention but the overall effect can sometimes feel as if we walk on eggshells. On the majority of occasions we are able to manage these periods but when our own levels of energy are low, we adopt the line of least resistance.

He leaps onto my lap cat style, but less agile and with far too many rigid bones. For the umpteenth time I have a Ninendo DS screen shoved two inches from my nose to view his latest captured Pokemon with slightly less than enthusiastic zeal, “yes, very nice dear.” My daughter mutters, “she’s bored of your darned Pokemon,” but to no avail. I glare her into silence.
“You don wanna see my Pokemon?”
“Oh I do indeed, it’s just that I’m not feeling very well at the moment.”
“She doesn’t like you jumpin on her like that.”
“You don like me to be a cat on yur lap?”
“Oh I do indeed, it’s just that you’re quite a big boy now.”
“Yur too darned heavy man!”
“I am heavy?”
“Well heavier than you once were dear…..when you were smaller than you are now.”
“Lighter. Yur a great big lump a bones.”
“I am bones?”
“Well……your bones are …….bigger too…..than they once were……when you were smaller.”
“Yur bones are all pokey, don’t you get it? It hurts when a big lumpy, pokey boned boy jumps on yah!”
He blinks at his sister, as he kneels on my lap, all 76 pounds of him. He turns to face me, “is wot she is says……..true?”
“Well…..I suppose……sort of……” I wince and wait.
“Well why didnaya tell me?”
“!”

Super Mario Bros Nintendo DS!

Done and dusted.

He didn’t want it to get ‘dirty’ by putting it ON the cake! Since when did pure Belgium Chocolate Ganache equate to dirt may I ask?

Any takers?

Pin pricks of panic tweak my brain stem as the minutes pass, more birthday party guests arrive and there is no sign of his dad. Two hours of merriment seems more and more unlikely as friends gather to celebrate his 8th birthday at a local venue.

Parents depart one by one leaving me with an assortment of 14 children, three of my own, nine special needs children and two extra siblings, just to make it that little bit more fun. I am the only adult person present and not particularly responsible.

I make a dash for the back door to check it is locked and then to the front entrance where there is a youthful chap behind the till, “don’t let any of them leave!” I squeak and skuttle back to the smalls. I know for a fact that I have at least three bolters in my charge and two of them are mine!

I spend one hundred and twenty minutes in a state of high alert, encouraging climbers to remain earthbound, persuading picky eaters to shrug it off, negotiating disputes and opening those tricky juice pouches.

There are no meltdowns, no escapes and very little ill will.

As the last child is collected, I am ready with my sigh of relief. I am about to give myself a hearty pat on the back for my outstanding service to a successful social scene when light dawns. The success has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with the children. Each and every one of them is bigger, brighter and possibly happier than a few years ago.

Congratulations not so little people!

How long? Wordless Wednesday

How long does it take the average 8 year old to open four birthday presents do you suppose? I suspect that a thoughtful careful interested child may take some while to open and examine each one. I more impulsive child may rip them all open in seconds. I’m sure there are infinite variations on a theme to suit each little individual.

Around here, we set a new record, all over and done with within a half hour. The gifts were less than perfect but that turned out to be o.k. His presents were wrapped in paper which proved a challenge for the tactile defensive digits which are always super sensitive first thing in the morning. With lots of help, kitchen scissors in someone else’s hands, he managed to achieve unwrapped. Not so long back, his brother and sister had to help. He would stand at a safe three foot distance, within view but with ears protected from the outrageous ripping sounds.

I appreciate the credibility gap here. Can it be true that a child would refuse to open a present? Indeed it can and I have proof, since I am prone to exaggeration. Each and every year parcels would arrive from abroad from relatives. Each one had a little customs label to describe the contents:- plastic dinosaur, child’s toy, Thomas the Tank engine. How I loved those labels, they were my salvation. When the telephone calls came to check whether the gift had arrived, whether it was appreciated I was able to lie through my teeth, ‘yes it was perfect, how thoughtful, how delightful, so much fun.’ Meanwhile the package would remain unopened for days, weeks or a month after the event. I would cart those packages all over the house to where he sat, where he ate, on his bed, as a constant reminder and temptation. After a few weeks I would cut open the top so that he could see the wrapped present inside but nothing would induce him to insert a hand into the lion’s jaws. Even the taunt of Thomas, that most beloved, would fail to motivate contact with paper.

Sometimes a change of approach becomes inevitable. It takes time. It takes patience. It takes growth. But surely that’s just one of the many reasons why we celebrate that date, the birthday, the day that something new was born.

If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to“DJ Kirkby” over at “Chez Aspie” and test your brain power.

This decorative tissue box cover provides an inexpensive, attractive, yet all too seasonal gift. It is also ready wrapped to save paper.

Sniff.

I’m told by those who know about such things that ‘gold’ is THE colour of choice but this could easily be adapted to anyone’s personal preferences.

The choice of fabrics in America is quite daunting, everything from golfing prints to stamp samples, so don’t rule out the unisex option. Fortunately there are also many cheaper remnants available for the thrifty.

Here’s how to put it together.

For your base colour, duplicate for contracting top colour. Don’t forget to cut out a square for the bottom.

French seam the base colour strip and top colour strip together. French seam the side until you have the equivalent of a cylinder. Add the base. Hem the top. Insert the tissue box and add a decorative cord or ribbon. Pull a tissue up through the top to illustrate the purpose [otherwise some nitwit will try and unwrap it!] and Bob’s your Uncle, or rather, you are done.

Other colour choices.

I’m working hard to get up to scratch with embellishments. American’s are big on embellishments, everything from tassels, glitter and sequins to buttons, stick on gems and ribbons. These make any item ‘fancy,’ so my daughter tells me. If it’s not ‘fancy’ then it doesn’t cut the mustard, or rather, pass the test of acceptability. Plain, simple and serviceable doesn’t rate at all apparently.

I can only guess how many gifts you need to assemble for your crowd such as the maid, chaffeur, manicurist, personal trainer and masseur, but around here, we have collected a great number of people who are involved with our children’s lives and development. I distinctly remember counting 28 people whose sterling work needed acknowledgment at this time of the year. So many expert therapists, teachers and aides all of whom were personally responsible for helping my children move forward. It’s difficult to think of just the right gift for someone who helps your child pronounce ‘th,’ someone who assists mid-meltdown in a caring and positive manner, someone who deals with the fall-out thereafter to say nothing of the one who helps reluctant digits gain the strength and dexterity to pincher grip a zip fastening. Surely this would be the time to crack open the vault and pass out the crown jewels, but who would get what? How can any of us evaluate and reward such treasures?

As yet I have no answers, so all we can do is give tokens, with sincere thanks.

“Single Sentence Movie Review.”

“Eddie Murphy, the icon for social skills training, what not to do, how and why, with too many giggles to count.”

I mean to write a movie review for the film with Rowan Atkinson, as Mr. Bean, a while back, because that’s when it first happened. In fact I would go so far as to suggest that Mr. Bean has a blanket effect, regardless of the movie title, regardless of the number of words, the nature of the plot, the complexity of the language. His body language, gestures and facial expressions ping directly into the psyche.

Whilst my daughter squirms in excruciating embarrassment, the kind where you have to squint your eyes and peer out from behind a pillow, the boys, my boys, are rolling on the floor squealing with delight, spurting tears of unadulterated laughter. They’re so loud and raucous that the script is buried.

Hence last night, those same noises shook my home as they watched “Meet Dave.”

Don’t quote me here, but there is some combination of ‘boy,’ ‘social skills’ and developmental age that induces mass funny. I can’t tell you what that developmental age is, but it’s certainly worth experimentation.

First warning – some Tom and Jerry style violence that may cause consternation in some.
Second warning – the concept of a body being invading by small beings may provoke endless existential questions.
Third warning – guaranteed to invoke scripting.
One final word of advice. Do you remember visiting the zoo and trolling over to the monkey house? On one occasion there was a disturbance, feeding time perhaps, and the monkeys went wild leaping, gamboling and calling in a frenzied party animal style? Well that’s what it was like in our house, the best aerobic workout you could ask for which ensures a solid night’s sleep. Remove all breakables from the room in advance.

Flu Season –just a lot of hot air
The birthday date approaches with only two of us sporting coughs, colds and possibly flu.  The sniffles snuffle through the  family as I keep a close eye upon who may or may not be the next victim. I watch for sniffers and  snufflers.  I’m close at hand with the thermometer for any potential hot heads.  I’m stuffed full of tissues ready to plug any leaks.  When I hear a different one splutter I pounce, “ooo dear, it sounds as if you’ve caught his cold.”
“I am not be cold.”
“No I meant that you’ve caught his bugs, you’re ill, contaminated.”
“No!  Not ill.  I am need my birthday.”
“I know dear but you do seem to have a bit of a cough.”
“It not be cough, it be surplus extra borrowed airy  in my mouth parts.”
“!”
“Yeah, he don bin borrow my air,” chimes in his older defender.
“Yeah,…….and now it done bin jump back out agin, it’s a jump air not a cough.”
“!”