Desperate wifecake

Nostalgic for the days when I used to just wander the neighbourhood with no time restraints and no 9kg baby destroying my shoulders, I strapped bambino on and went for an amble this afternoon.

At the bakery, my eye was caught by something called a "wife cake". I had no idea what was in it, and the lady selling it used words that I couldn't understand to explain it, but I bought some anyway, thinking that now that I am a housewife, perhaps I should start enjoying cakes named just for me.

Apparently the name comes from a poor couple living in imperial China; when a mysterious disease spread in their village and the husband's father fell ill, the couple spent all of their money to treat him, the wife even selling herself as a slave to buy medicine. The husband, full of grief and admiration, decided that the best course of action was to bake a cake out of winter melon, almond paste, sesame and five spice. As you do. But this cake became so popular that he was able to earn enough money to buy his wife back.

Nice story.

The cake, on the other hand, is DIS.GUST.ING.

War games

My military uncle once told me that in times of war, prisoners are sometimes locked in a room into which is pumped the sound of a crying baby for hours on end.

Well, Oscar, whatever you need to know, you can stop crying - I can't take it anymore, I am ready to talk!

And another one...

Yeah, because this is what new mums look like. Or is that pram for her cat?!

Precious

My radar is back on full alert for controversial and ridiculous signs at the moment, and Hong Kong seems to be on top form!

Today's magic: the Precious Blood Kindergarden.

Really? That's where I should send my kid?!

Screwing magic!

I was going to let the picture speak for itself, but the resolution might make you miss the marketing genius of this flyer that came through our door. Behold the beauty of:

"Screwing Magic - mix and match your ring endlessly... Masterpiece by king fook"

Priceless.

La tomatina

Super Typhoon Megi was billed in Hong Kong as the storm of the century. The newspapers were comparing its predicted strength to Hurricane Katrina, and officials were debating whether to evacuate the seafront or not. As for the rest of Hong Kong, we crossed our fingers for Megi to continue on her path, as it would probably mean at least a Typhoon signal no 8, which would mean that people could stay at home instead of going to the office.

Typhoon watching is a national sport for office workers in Hong Kong. As soon as the slightest whiff of a storm in felt, everyone's logged on to the Observatory's website, tracking the progress of what could be their "stay-at-home free" card. We all turn in to armchair meteorologists, with a "no, it's too late in the season for a typhoon" here and a "it's rather sunny for a typhoon signal 3, must mean that it's going to hit hard" there. In the case of Megi, we were all fooled. But no-one could say that Krusty and I were not ready...

Krusty, ever since I met him, has had a weird need to have a stash of provisions in the house, "just in case of catastrophe" - if the world is to come to an end, Krusty wants to make sure we have enough cans of soup and packets of hula hoops to see us through the dark times.

So of course, when we heard that Hong Kong was about to be attacked by the biggest typhoon it had seen in 20 years, Krusty asked me to stock up. I obliged, marvelling at how easy online shopping had made my life with bub. I could fill the shelter's shelves without lifting much more than a few fingers.

But then the shopping arrived. Krusty was excitedly unpacking, anxious to see what I had ordered.

From the first box, he extracted three boxes of dishwasher tablets. Even in times of crisis, I am not washing those dishes myself. He dipped his hand in again, coming out this time with three boxes of washing powder, and some washing up liquid. "Were you scared that dirt would be our biggest problem?" he asked. Hey, you can't neglect hygiene just because civilisation has come to an end.

He opened the second box, excited to hear the clanking of conserves. He pulled out three cans of diced tomatoes and three cans of tomato soup. "We're going to be OK for tomatoes then!" he joked, laughing as he found another tin of tomato paste to go with the shopping so far.

And in the third box, he discovered why online shopping is only efficient if you are not trying to entertain a small child while you do it - in there Krusty found, for some reason, 18 bell peppers and... SIX packets of tomatoes.

And that was it. That was the entirety of my crisis shelter shop.

I'll concentrate next time. Although the chilli-tomato jam that has come of this typhoon weekend has been more than a little successful. In fact I've finished the tomatoes. Maybe I need to order some more...

Medical meltdown no 3

Today's lunch gave us another huge dose of pre-requisite Intense Parental Emotion, but it will unfortunately be filed in the "bad mother" category forever...

We had taken Krusty's colleague out for lunch at Peking Garden, so that he could get a taste of yummy Chinese food. All was going well, for some reason the super typhoon we had been promised for the weekend had brought beautiful sunshine instead, and we happily chatted about said colleagues own children as Oscar sat quietly on my lap, chewing away on my necklace and proving why he is the world's cutest baby. I was on my best wifey behaviour, trying desperately to show that Krusty had good judgment and good taste, since he had chosen me. This fragile house of cards that I was building was soon to come tumbling down.

Mr colleague explained why, as he has a four-year-old and a fifteen-month old child, he has to be extra vigilant about which toys the youngest picks up. I went on to pretentiously boast about my own vigilance with Oscar while the food arrived, until karma had had enough of hearing me extolling my own virtues and decided to bite back. It went something like this:

Colleague - "Wow, this soup is really hot"
Me - "Yeah, sharp corners, bla bla bla, hand gel, bla bla bla"
Oscar - "Shrrriiiieeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkk"

In the millisecond that I had turned to pick up Oscar's toy from where he had thrown it, he had stuck his hand straight into the steaming hot chicken and sweetcorn soup, flipping the bowl over and spraying his face at the same time.

Nothing could calm him down. I was covered from shoulder to knee in scalding soup as I rushed my screaming baby through the restaurant with a hundred pairs of eyes on me, and soon I was running cool water all over his hand and patting his forehead.
Of course, one stranger in the bathroom couldn't help but give me the exact same helpful advice that everyone seems to want to give me these days: "Can't you see? He's hungry!"

Anyway, once the restaurant staff had run down to the pharmacy to get some burn cream, Oscar was covered in a fluorescent yellow paste, cooing and giggling again, while I panted and shivered and thanked karma for just giving me a tiny lesson and not the full disfigurement that this could have been.

I am almost positive that Krusty is waiting for the appropriate time to have passed before he plays the "at least I didn't burn our son" card...