Something sweet (in exchange for something neat)

Sometimes when my mother visits...well, it can be slightly stressful. She does have a bit of a surprise inspection 'white glove test' thing, and usually the day before she comes I have a frenzied cleaning session in a rather desperate attempt to prove my domestic prowess.


Unbelievable, yet true, over the years the cleaning sessions have become less frequent...possibly because the daily/weekly sessions are more frequent, or possibly because I've realised she probably just doesnt care. I realised that she never genuinely feared for our hygeine (although there was that time with the mouldy, fermenting tomato at the bottom of the fridge *shudder*). Its that she wants my husband to have a bride that reflects all the homemakerish qualities that were no doubt passed onto her by..her mother.


The truth of the matter is I was WAY too busy growing up to pay much attention to the best methods of cleaning, or the delicate details of gourmet cooking. I'll include my horrible first encounters with sewing at the bottom of this blog but lets just say it wasnt pretty. My mother spent a good deal of her life in Africa...you know, back in the days of apartheid with servants that helped raise the kids and run the household...after an exotic African fly laid eggs in my fathers underpants (resulting in maggot-filled boils I might add), my mum has an obsessive compulsive attitude to ironing. I iron only when necessary. And only when I think about the maggots. I see crumbs, she sees an inevitable plague of rat-sized cockroaches. We're different.


And while I succeeded and excelled in many areas of my adolsecent life, I dont think anyone expected me to be married and with child at the ripe old age of 20. And I realised that all the time I'd devoted to accumulating a resume that evidenced my supposed genius, my community spirit, my athletic skill and my (limited) musical talents....had left me very inept and unqualified to be a mother or a wife...or at least, the kind of mother & wife I want to be. I think my mother realised this a long time before I did. But I am so glad to have a mother that really can cook up a storm, that is meticulously neat, that is motivated in the home....that will field endless phonecalls of 'how much paprika?' or 'vinegar will clean it did you say?'....that accepts me despite my domestic flaws.



Tomorrow my mum comes home from a trip to England. My uncle died a couple of weeks ago and my mum travelled over to see the family. Since Im her taxi ride from the airport before she rushes home, I wanted to do something a bit sweet for her. She's never been a fan of conventional flowers, she's far too practical for those (and they prolly wouldnt handle the long drive to her house either). But she does like her sweets. Particularly ferrero rochers. Previously I helped make mini rocher bouquets for a Greek wedding, but having no foam balls or doilies, I settled for a remake of the fruit bouquet I made a while ago.



First I took the leftover green skewers. I found some fabric (tissue paper would have been better but I was out of this as well) and cut it up into squares. I then threaded the fabric squares onto the skewers.

I then placed a ferrero rocher chocolate onto each skewer.

Using floral wire I placed the fabric around the chocolate...like a flower sort of. If I had any, I would've used green floral tape over the wire so it wasnt visible.

I had a little bit of floral foam in the cupboard, and shoved it into a vase (this was actually a new vase) with some pwetty lil rocks to weigh it down. I then shoved in the skewers in what I pretended was a delighful flower arrangement. I then put a couple of little paper flowers in the gaps (you know, because Im really exaggerating the artifical nature of what Im doing). I tied a completely incompetent bow around the vase and voila...

One ferrero rocher chocolate bouquet. Kinda. And much more exciting than a box. It didnt take long, it wasnt hard, but I felt crafty at least (just let me have one moment in the sun).

Its the thought that counts.

And it will hopefully divert her from the miniscule crumbs accumulating behind the fridge.

And oh yes, my first sewing experiences. Year 7. Sewing class. Goal- design and sew a pair of boxer shorts. While ALL the other kids in the class brought in beautiful silk and satin fabrics...my mother grabbed a harsh, tartan-checkered cotton from the bargain bin at the craft store. Nice. Mortified, I refused to take the fabric into class. I'd secretly sneak in and try to finish the shorts at lunch time when no one was looking. But my sly efforts were soon exposed because part of the assessment was to model the shorts, in front of the whole school, at a fashion parade. And while all the other girls shimmied down the catwalk in their silky glamour, I clomped down the catwalk like a freaky scottish reject. Lets just say I hated sewing from then on. Although I wish, wish, wish I could sew now...I'd really learn to love how to do it properly one day.