Come Join Dee...

The Long Haul

A few months ago my darling Mr. Thirty-Three Percent graduated to Mr. Fifty-Seven Percent. Being the recipient of this new title, he is true to his word. Needless to say, we are still next door. It is still winter. And we are still going.

Toiling away and trying to balance work and renovations with Dad and Hubby duties, it can’t be fun for my long suffering man. The warmish, longish Indian summer finally moved out, making way for what will probably be the longest winter on record. And I would be extremely surprised if we didn’t get snow.

Every evening I continue to make the trek back to the house to feed the girls, check on progress and use the gym, and every day night time appears to descend earlier and earlier. Very soon night will have arrived by wine o’clock, and even the mere thought of hanging washing on the line will simply be a distant memory. Everything is damp and slippery, and the constant croaking of frogs in the garden beds and dams are a stark reminder that I need to drag out my thermals.

After dinner this night as I race back to the place formally known as home, I am conscious of another huge band of rain that is about to descend and make a mental note that the ability to build an ark would probably be a marvelous skill right about now. I also decide that locating my scarves has become a priority. You see, when we packed up and moved out back in November, some seven months ago, according to Mr. Then-Thirty-Three Percent, we might have been finished by now.  I knew it was an optimistic estimate even with the added thirty-three percent leeway, but I wanted to give Hubby the benefit of the doubt.

So I packed those scarves, along with most of my woolen jumpers, thick tights, gloves and winter coats, only taking the things that I deemed necessary for spring, summer and autumn. Surely we would be back in time to unearth all my warm and wonderful winter-woolies, and life would continue on as normal. Clearly this is not the case.

Subconsciously I must have known this scenario would play out because it doesn’t take long to locate a handful of my favourite winter scarves and their multi-hole hanging thing Mum and I discovered at Ikea last winter when I was sick.  I only have to open two boxes before I find what I’m looking for, seal them up and make the mad dash home again. Laying my hands on the box with my coats proves to be slightly more difficult, and eventually I relent and buy a new one because I’m tired of looking. I just figure the expense is all part of the fifty-seven percent equation.

As Hubby has been spending every spare waking minute planning and purchasing for, researching or working on, all things house, I have been working six, sometimes seven, days a week. As it turns out we are short staffed at work with my counterpart recently relocating up north, and it’s the only way I feel I can constructively contribute at both work and home simultaneously. Other than that, I am pretty much useless.

One Sunday the plastering is just about complete and Hubby is standing in  the bathroom. Alone. That in itself is not a good thing. You can hear his mind ticking over. Reaching up to scratch his head, a look of relief washes over his face and as he turns to me, I dread what is about to come out. You guessed it. He wants to take out a wall. Actually, it’s a framed cupboard and a door.  Ahh man, it just went up.

But I can see why he feels compelled to rearrange things. The layout of the room will be much better with the door flipped over, and those of you into feng shui would definitely approve. I just hate to see all his hard work ripped apart. Yet again. Needless to say, the walls are removed, frames are resurrected, plaster and cupboards are reinstated. It takes a few extra days but finally Hubby is much happier with the final layout. And I am very pleased that he has it sorted.            

With things starting to come together, and basic furniture and appliances sought and bought, I am beginning to muster up the confidence to buy a few bits and pieces that may or may not work in our home. I’ve come across a couple of pictures for the walls, a retro mincer like the one my Gran had back in the day and even a set of Salter scales, minus the copper bowl, for the kitchen.

Who knows, sooner or later I might even get the hang of this redecorating thing. Which is lucky because it will probably take me forty years to find the matching bowl.

MUSICAL CHAIRS

For months now Hubby and I have done the rounds of multitudes of furniture stores trying to locate pieces that will not only fit the physical spaces of our yet-to-be completed reno, but more importantly ones that are comfortable, affordable and don’t look like they came from Franco Cozzo.  Not that the Il Modernissimo suites found at Mr Cozzo’s Brunswick and Footscray stores aren’t made with love and sure to last a lifetime. I’m just not confident they would suit our home. And mirrored ceilings are really not my thing.                        

Whenever we have been out and about for one thing or another, we’ve taken the time to seek out, select and sit in the many sofas and couches, dining chairs and stools that are on offer to today’s consumer. I am yet to decide whether it is more difficult to choose a sofa or a kitchen cupboard doorknob. But this I know for sure. If, in twelve months time, I change my mind about the door knobs,  replacing them will be a less expensive exercise.

Ever since we threw the kitchen chairs over the precipice at the tip, knowing we needed to find a replacement has been weighing heavily on my mind. You see, the problem is twofold. Firstly. I don’t like change. Even though I know that the old chairs were both hideously outdated and somewhat mildly dangerous, they were comfortably familiar and homey. They held memories, and possibly crumbs, and letting go was really hard. Secondly. The space that has been created for the new dining table is long and rectangular rather than square so finding something we both agreed on to seat a cast of thousands was always going to be trickey. The last thing we wanted was something that resembled a corporate boardroom table or one you would find in a school cafeteria. That, and I really have a problem with confrontation.

After months of searching, seeking and sitting we finally found the perfect setting for ten around a long timber table that we both really loved. In the showroom we sat chatting, making notes and testing out the sitability of the suite. We were both extremely impressed and didn’t hesitate to place the order, silently rejoicing that we could finally tick that one off the To Do List.  The lounge has been a totally different kettle of fish.

From day one replacing the lounge has been a real point of contention. Hubby and I have had a long term Mexican Stand Off as to what type of design would be best. Currently we have a hand-me-down three piece number which is both functional and comfortable, standing the test of time without any great drama. With seating for four, five at a stretch, this offers every bum a place to sit with the flexibility to move the chairs around on a whim. It a word, it’s great.

Hubby has a different take on things. He likes to stretch out on the couch each night, ‘assuming the position’ as I call it. Inevitably he falls asleep snoring, clutching the Wand of Power before being woken up and relocated to the bedroom. It’s a nightly ritual. On the other hand, I like my own space. I prefer to curl up on a single chair with a magazine, book or my laptop and sit beside the fire in my own little world of words and pictures. For me, this is bliss. So when Hubby expressed his desire to purchase a modular sectional sofa with a chaise, I was not looking forward to the fight. I recall friends in the eighties who saved for two years to buy one of these in brown velour, and since then I just can’t look at one without visualizing the film clip of “Whip It”. It’s not ideal.

So one Sunday morning when we stopped for coffee on the way to The Boy’s weekly footy match, finding our perfect sofa was the last thing on our mind. We happened to park the car in front of the only furniture store within a thirty kilometre radius of our house, and low and behold, in the front window was exactly what we had been looking for. Who would have thought that our neighbouring town would hold the elusive sofa. We glanced at each other and without another word we just knew.  Entering the store we sat down, tried it out, and agreed it was perfect. Deep and wide, firm but not hard, this one felt like home. I knew we had found The One.

BRICK BY BRICK

Things are still coming along, albeit slow and steady. It is now winter. This would mean that Mr. Thirty-Three Percent’s initial calculation is a little out of whack and Mr. Fifty-Seven Percent is looking more realistic. But we knew that was always going to be the case. I am freezing, going just a little stir crazy, and at times I wonder whether we will make it our before our children marry and have children themselves. And frequently I tell myself to relax and just breathe because I know eventually it will be ok.

Our current progress report looks something like this. The all-important insulation has been shoved into every nook and cranny that could ever be located. If there was a small gap, a large gap or something that looked remotely like a gap, it has been filled. And in the middle of July when it’s minus three degrees in the morning, this is one thing we will all be very glad Hubby remembered. Spasmodic items of a random nature that reflect the here and now, such as newspapers and an assortment of junk mail, have been placed into wall cavities in the hope that those who dissect our home in the years to come will be able to gain a deeper appreciation of the life we live today. Kind of like a renovation time capsule. Only less organised.

The fireplace has already had it’s maiden lighting as the weather is quite chilly. We also figured it would be best to give it a trial run before the house was finished, that way if things went pear-shaped at least the furniture and appliances would be spared from the inferno. Internal sliding doors have been hung, windows sorted, door frames planed and adjusted, and I know there has been so much more work completed by Hubby and his mates that I honestly have no idea about. My head hurts to even think about it.

Every night when I wander across to the gym Hubby gives me the number of all the items completed that I need to look for, which is our game of Spot The Difference. Some days the changes are blatantly obvious. Other days I am clueless, and pray that his sweeping the floor will constitute a tick.

The Boy recruited a few of his mates over the past few weeks, and between them, Hubby and I we finally managed to save enough of the old internal bricks to use for the external windows and doors. The arrival of the Brickie was a moment of sheer excitement. To me, this signalled the beginning of the homeward stretch. It was not meant to be. After a lengthy discussion between said Brickie and Hubby it was decided that one of the windows needed to be relocated. This would ensure the bricks were laid in an aesthetically pleasing manner, and would quite possibly expedite the laying process. So… Move the window.  Check.

Take two. Said Brickie was to come back a week later and commence the brick installation. Fail. Hubby had left the bricks uncovered and with the rainthat Jane promised finally arriving, the bricks were deemed too wet and needed to dry out before going in. So…  Bricks re-stacked in an airy herringbone formation, covered and left to dry.  Check.

TURNING THE CORNER

I can’t quite believe it. We have entered the six month mark, and if I am completely honest I think everything is going well. Lets face it, I’m not the one on the front line dealing with drop saws, belt sanders and a mobile scaffold platform thingy that looks like an industrial hospital bed. It’s Hubby that coordinates the delivery of building materials and organises the various tradies and volunteers needed to make things happen. His point of view may be a little different to mine. But lets go with mine for now.

When I last reported in we seemed to be marking time. Yes, things were getting done but there really wasn’t much to show for it. However I am extremely pleased to report that much has been completed and exciting things are beginning to happen. Internal walls are happening, water and gas lines have been plumbed, wiring underway and plastering ready to commence. The windows and external doors are all in, ceiling beams and timber work sanded, and what once was mission brown and salmon pink is now a blank canvass ready for Hubby to work his magic.

It may sound strange but I have come to realise that a lot of the time you know what you want, but you may not know exactly what that is until you see it. If that makes sense. Between (mostly) Hubby, (often) The Boy and (occasionally) me, we have spent I don’t know how many hours searching for tiles, tapware and the perfect kitchen sink. Decisions have been made on basins and towel rails, and who would have known so much thought would go into choosing just the right toilet, taking into consideration those who are extra tall or have issues with deteriorating hips and knees. All things considered, I think I did quite well in that department alone. Not a single meltdown.

I never thought I would ever say it but I have quite enjoyed the process of selecting kitchen appliances. It was so much better than trying to choose flooring or a paint colour. After multiple visits to the store with the stuff, then gradually narrowing down the billions of choices on offer, we managed to pick out the dishwasher, fridge, rangehood and ovens with very little disagreement. That in itself is a true wonder. The lighting store, however, was a very different kettle of fish.

The moment I set foot in that shop my heart began to race, my palms started to sweat, and I felt like I was back in that dreaded flooring showroom. Where was my selfie buddy when I needed him. And why are there so many lights to choose from. How am I supposed to know what is going to match my house when I don’t even have a house to imagine the light in. The only thing I spotted that looked remotely enticing was a tin thing that hung quite low, and looked like it was enjoying a second coming as a light fitting after spending years as a hat in a Balinese rice paddy. It wasn’t long after that Hubby generously offered to take care of the lighting, and we found a brilliant shoe shop across the road with a seventy percent off all joggers sale. Finally, my kind of shopping.

When we moved out the decision was made to abandon our kitchen chairs. They were extremely dated, we’d had them for about sixteen years, and were second hand before they were new to us, so Lord only knows how old they really were. Years of breakfasts, lunches and dinners, parties and coffees, baby spew and mothers group get togethers had taken it’s toll, and the only way to force ourselves to invest in new ones was to say goodbye. Which we did. Over the edge of a precipice at the tip. It was a strange feeling. Liberating, yet sad at the same time. When your undertake a project like this, the last thing you want to do is spend money replacing something you already have. And we are not keen on getting rid of stuff just because it’s old or daggy. Possibly why Hubby still keeps me around. But sometimes you just have to let go of the past so you can embrace the future.

Of all the things that have happened recently, and of all the items we have chosen, purchased and installed, it was the arrival of the two toilets that really had me celebrating. Although they are still in their boxes waiting for their homes to be completed so their new lives can commence, each and every night when I go back to the gym in our old house I proudly admire the boxes.

Marking Time

We are now about four months into it. Going by Mr. Thirty-Three Percent’s calculations that should mean we are just over half way there.

Living so close has been a God send, and Hubby has been toiling away diligently after work and on weekends so progress is consistent. Although it may not seem like a lot takes place from one week to another, there is so much that needs to happen behind the scenes first, he is really happy with his accomplishment. And I am pleasantly surprised.

The home we are staying in is a fraction smaller than our place, and I have to admit that as the weeks pass I find that sometimes things get a bit tight. The oven and stove top are positioned next to a walk way and opposite the fridge so I have to be mindful to close the door if I’m cooking, ensuring that pot handles are angled safely in order to avoid a catastrophe. Four adults roaming around the kitchen and meals area can be frustrating at the best of times, and we are a family that allow dogs inside as a general rule but even they have been banished to the yard until dinner is over. With one living room and still only one toilet, some days it’s tricky.

We have made a few changes to the Kitchen of the Amish, introducing some new wooden spoons and purchasing a StickMaster to eliminate lumps from my burnt offerings. Hubby has adjusted the doors on the fridge and freezer so they now close properly, and all the washers on the taps have been replaced so we can drift off to sleep without The Symphony of Drips playing in the background.

On the reno front quotes and purchases, for and of, various items including fixtures and fittings, tiles, flooring, windows and doors are underway. The replacement chimney has been built and fireplace installed, timber and construction materials delivered, labour and rubbish removal organised. And Hubby has moved up a rung. He shall now be known as Mr. Fifty-Seven Percent. And the appliances and furniture are yet to be accounted for.

The constant sound of banging, sanding and machinery has resonated from the house almost seven days a week, and I sometimes wonder when the neighbours are going to finally spit the dummy. To date there have only been two casualties of war. The clothesline, which apparently snapped in half during the relocation process, and the lemon tree.  Although not completely dead, the lemon tree came off second best when confronted with a moving bobcat, so only time will tell how bad the damage is with that one.

Hubby has written lots of notes and numbers on the remaining timber beams and slab, and to me, that looks like he knows what he is doing. And we have some exciting development on the plumbing front. After ten years and eight months, we now have plumbing for a second toilet. Although the actual toilet is still absent, if you were to hover over the waste outlet and use extreme accuracy, you would effectively be using the second toilet. And that in itself is pretty good going.

                 Let’s be realistic though, not everything has gone according to plan. I have heard many stories from others about their own renovation successes and dramas, so I understand this is par for the course when undertaking a project like this. There have been a number of changes along the way that have come about from simply standing in the middle of an empty room and seeing something that hadn’t been an option before. Other changes have arisen out of necessity or functionality. And one has been, well, an oversight.

The kitchen area is the one I am most excited about, and it’s ready for a complete overhaul. Enlisting in the help of his Chippy mate and a few others who are happy to get down and dirty, it was out with the old and in with the new. Doors and windows, that is. Things are beginning to take shape. Plumbing, wiring and comms are yet to be finalised, plastering will eventually happen and the cabinetry hasn’t been measured or ordered, but for the moment everything is coming along nicely.

Hubby has built many a house from scratch, demolishing existing homes and finally handing the keys to the new owners when everything is spick and span. He has revamped, reconditioned and renovated homes, offices and commercial buildings. This is not new to him. But until now, beyond the simple update of our first home and the new build of our second, I had no idea what we were in for.

I must have been an octopus in a previous life. I have spent many years mastering the art of carrying twenty shopping bags at once without assistance. Most of the time I can complete the task quite well, especially at Christmas when I'm shopping solo and believe I haven't enough purchases to warrant a trolley. For hours on end I wander aimlessly around KnifePoint until the bags begin to dig into my skin cutting off the circulation, then I have no choice but to spit the dummy and leave.

You see, I have worked out that you can use your arm like an extender-pole, sliding the bags up to increase carrying capacity. As long as the contents are relatively light and don't cause too much pressure, you should be right. Tips and Tricks #17: Remember to mix up the bags to keep the balance just right so your goods don't crash against each other causing breakage, or worse still, bust through the bottom and end up in a zillion pieces on the footpath.

In our house, I am known as the One Trip Wonder. The distance from the garage to our front door is a measly twenty-seven paces, which in reality is nothing. Except if gale force winds persist or there is torrential rain, hail, sleet or snow. Then it's not pleasant. But I still don't like multiple trips.

I know you blokes out there don't get it because you always ask us why we don't just make a second trip. But what is there to not understand. It's simple. Why make two or three trips when we only have to make one.

My motto has become this... I will carry 17 grocery bags or die trying before making two trips.  Please feel free to etch that one my headstone.

Just Pick One...

Once the decision to renovate was made and plans were finalised, the process of picking stuff out began. Now, I know there are many of you reading this that would rejoice in the process of selecting tiles and bench tops, cupboards and colours, and if you are a man undertaking a similar journey with your bride then I presume many of you just run with what she wants. Right? I think my husband would envy you right about now.

You see, I’m not too fussed about all that hoo-ha. Yes, I like things to look good and I’m not a huge fan of mission brown, but as far as the details go I’m more than happy to let the professionals do their stuff. It’s their job. And they are good at it.

Pouring over designs and pictures in magazines and on the line, Hubby has spent somewhere in the vicinity of three million hours making sure we don’t lose the essence of the original house. Built in the seventies by the parents of a dear friend, it really does feel like home and we want to keep it’s heart and soul. It just needs new organs. So when Joe our cabinet maker arrived one Friday night to discuss some of the cabinetry options, I was optimistic. We agreed on a basic style and the colour was simple. White.

Joe’s eyes lit up as he pulled a sample board from his bag of tricks, and as he spread it across the kitchen table he asked me which shade of white I’d like. Huh? My heart sank. White. Just white. But apparently that wasn’t the correct answer. It appears there are approximately 127 billion shades of white. Arctic White, Bridal White, Antique White, Frost, Snow, Linen, Ivory, Chiffon, Porcelain, Pearl. The list is endless. I took my glass and left the boys to it. Sorted.

There were two other essential elements that Hubby wanted to source before we moved out and demolition began. The flooring and the fireplace. Excellent. Now, just so you know, my working knowledge of these two things is this. One is made of wood. The other burns it. On the upside I did have some idea about the type of fireplace I wanted, so that was the easy part. The difficult part was the flooring, so off we trekked to a specialist hardware and flooring store on the other side of town to check out our options.

If I thought colours were confusing, I was now living my worst nightmare. Walking into the showroom I began to feel my pulse quicken and my skin become hot and clammy. I presume this is what it’s like for a recovering alcoholic to walk through a Dan Murphy store. Everywhere I looked there was wood. It was on the walls, on the floors, doors and benches. It came in ten widths, twenty lengths and fifty shades of brown. Dark, light, thick and thin, with or without knots or nails. But at the end of the day it was all wood.

While Hubby and The Boy pondered and perused hundreds of samples, I wandered around and tried to make sense of what I saw. The installation diagram was interesting but that was about it. I did, however, meet a young boy who was with his Dad. We got chatting and I learned that not only was he eleven, he was about as excited to be there as I was. We had a laugh, took some selfies, and rejoined our respective parties. At this point my boys had narrowed it down to three options and turned to me for a decision. Looking at the names, colours and patterns in the wood it all looked Greek to me. Until one piece took my eye.

It was multi-coloured with knots and imperfections throughout, just like the essence of our house. It actually looked like it had lived a thousand lives before being processed and turned into flooring. Perfect. Wormy Chestnut it was to be. So with that done, it was off to Masters to pick up a few items for the big move and then the best part of the morning. Coffee.

I have to admit we procrastinated a bit. Knowing you have to move out and actually doing it are two very different things. As it happened we woke up one Sunday morning and decided to just do it. Again, Mum was a God-send and came up to wrap, pack and try in vain to get me to throw out a whole lot of crap I never really needed. She succeeded a little. So over the next two weeks we made the big transition to next door. Yep. Next door. Which is brilliant when you have chickens that need caring for and your gym equipment is still in the one remaining room of the house.

I knew this day would eventually arrive but still, nothing can really prepare you for the morning you no longer wake up in familiar surroundings and you have no idea where all the light switches are. But we are finally here. So let the fun begin.

CHANGE OF SCENERY...

Have you ever considered what it would be like to live the life of someone else? I mean, not necessarily live their exact life, work their job or raise their children, but live in their home. Cook in their kitchen, sit at their dining table and be surrounded by their belongings. It’s not something that ever crossed my mind but right now, it is exactly what we are doing.

As we head toward the completion of the “out with the old” phase, and enter the “in with the new” phase, I realise we’ve been living next door for two months. When we made the move it was our intention to do so as simply as possible, not only for us but for our neighbours. Although they don’t live in this home permanently it is still fully furnished complete with their family photos, home library, travel memories and Christmas decorations. Everything we have at our place is duplicated here which is why we bought over only the bare essentials. You see, I didn’t want our gorgeous neighbours to go to all the trouble of packing everything away into storage as it was bad enough we were about to invade their home. That would have made it worse.

So over came our clothes and linen, personal effects and two dogs. I didn’t even want to bring our art work or pictures but it got the better of Hubby on the last day we moved and he did sneak over a few photos, but I kind of like having someones else’s stuff around. Some of our friends and family have called in and commented on the new photos around the place, asking who the people are in the pictures they don’t recognise. The look on their face is priceless when I tell them I simply don’t know. They must think we are mad.

Mum raised a few eyebrows when she was helping me pack up the kitchen and couldn’t quite understand why I wasn’t keen to take anything over. I explained that everything I would need was already there and it seemed silly to double up on things like crockery and cutlery. And understanding our neighbours are European and really know their way around the kitchen, there was a high probability their kitchen was going to be far better equipped than mine was anyway. So the only things we ended up taking were the Nespresso machine, basic pantry dry goods, the sandwich press and my favourite knife and fork. And that was it.

It’s not until you actually walk in someone else’s shoes, or live in their house, that you realise just how similar everybody is. In Australia most of us prepare meals, eat with family and friends, do laundry and spend time outside. It’s just that we do these things slightly different from our neighbours. We have little idiosyncrasies that are uniquely our own, and that’s where it has really made us laugh.

We have everything we need here. Roof. Check. Walls. Check. Furniture. Check. Mixing bowl… Nope. There are glass bowls, serving bowls, cereal bowls and salad bowls but no mixing bowl. A small pudding basin was located a few weeks into our stay but thinking outside the square, I have taken to using a large pot instead. Sorted. I decided to make chocolate truffles a few days ago but in the absence of a food processor I found myself standing at the kitchen bench pounding biscuits with the end of a rolling pin. I did it, but it was like living in the land of the Amish.

Another thing I thought was a kitchen staple is a wooden spoon. Wrong. No wooden spoon to be found here. After a quick phone call it turns out she only ever uses a spatula. Who would have thought. The one thing we do have plenty of is tongs. At the last count there were ten pairs of tongs in varying shapes, sizes and materials. Yep. Ten. So if it can be served up, picked up , turned over or delivered by a tong, we have it covered.

Two months into our stay the only thing I really do wish I had bought over is a couple of cookbooks. As we have already ascertained I am no Nigella, but I do have a small repertoire of tried and trusted recipes, mainly desserts, that Hubby and the children enjoy and are fail-safe when we have guests. Yes, I could Google stuff but it’s not the same. I have decided that the cookbooks shall remain packed, so fruit salad, yoghurt and pancakes it will be for the next however long it takes – plus thirty three percent – until we return to our place of abode.

It will be like Christmas when we unpack.  Then again, it probably will be Christmas.

Demolition took place swiftly. I knew Hubby had a schedule to keep but quite frankly I didn’t expect to have no house this soon. Standing in what used to be our kitchen, memories of birthday parties and cooking failures, breakfasts with girlfriends and oven element deaths mid-way through attempting to burn a roast came to mind. My very own Whelan the Wrecker & Co didn’t take long to strip the house naked, and it’s amazing how men come together over destruction and rejoice in tearing apart a chimney brick by brick. Heavy machinery and sledge hammers bring out the best in some people.

When I was growing up we lived in a very old circa 1920’s weatherboard house in Melbourne’s west and over the years as Mum and Dad renovated, I vividly recall the joys of ripping up linoleum only to expose sheets of newspaper laid when previous works were completed. Some dated back to the 40’s and 50’s. With time came the concrete slab which meant that newspaper was no longer used as an underlay, and as a result eliminated the joy of discovery for future generations.

We did, however, discover that everything built in the 70’s was constructed to last. And if we had ever found ourselves in the midst of Armageddon we would have been fine. The base of the walls in the bathroom were filled with concrete and the bathtub was securely anchored with another fifty metres of the stuff. We need not have ever worried about the slate in the kitchen shifting as that too was cemented down so well that only a week’s worth of jack hammering was going to get that lot up. And although there were no papers to be found, we did manage to uncover two gems from the past that were certainly worth the wait.

Hubby and I had always wondered why the toilet in the house was blue. Yes, we have only ever had one loo. Early on we nicknamed it the Electric Blue Booga-Loo, and as The Boy removed the timber panels from the walls the reason became clear. I dare not explain as a simple picture speaks a thousand words. I’m sure it was very trendy back in the day.

I was out shopping when Hubby sent me a photo of the second discovery. As more timber panels came off the lounge room wall, behind them written onto the plaster were these words… “This house was constructed by G.W. Evans. Started in 1976 it was completed some 18 months later . These boards were fitted to this wall in June 1981. G.W. Evans.”

Graham Evans built our house and it was his family home for twenty one years. Graham is also the father of our dear friend Carey, and he passed away about four years ago. Discovering these two moments from history was wonderful and really gave us an insight into the house we were about to reconstruct. It reminded us that others not only lived here before, they decorated according to the style of the time and left their mark for others to find in the future. Which is exactly what we needed to do.

The entire kitchen, both bathrooms, the dining room and lounge room, the toilet and laundry were all gutted. Holes and plaster were attended to, the skeletal remains of a few very large rats were discovered, and the bare slab floor was confirmed to be as lumpy and sad as first suspected. This was certainly going to be a bumpy ride.

It’s difficult to describe what takes place when a renovation is underway. Hubby knows exactly what needs to happen and when, but for a novice like me sometimes it looks like there is a whole lot of nothing going on for a very long time. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not completely daft. I realise there is a plethora of crappy little jobs like nail removal, hole filling and sanding that have to be done before the big things eventually start. These small tasks take time and often the finished result can’t even be seen, but are important none the less.

So, not even half way into our quest for restoration and you may ask what in fact it is that I have learned. Well, it’s this. Hubby knows exactly what is going on. And the best way for me to contribute is to stay out of the way. That, and have a crack at playing Colleen the Lunch Lady. Even though I am no Nigella in the kitchen, I can assemble a salad roll or two when push comes to shove. So when Whelan The Wrecker & Co. are in session the least I can do is deliver sustenance and hydration. School canteen style.

The month of May brings cooler weather, winter coats and pumpkin soup, Sunday roasts, chrysanthemums and lily of the valley. And, of course, Mother's Day.  I was blessed to have my maternal grandmother until I was almost forty and although Mother's Day is traditionally centered around our mums, I want to take this opportunity to honour those in the wings. Grandmothers.

My Gran was a dear soul. Quietly spoken and well groomed with a genuine love of Pringles, she was my hero. Smelling of Tea Rose soap, she kept her teeth in a glass at night and snored like a freight train, but Gran was also the maker of all things good.  She cooked a mean corned beef, baked incredible cornflake biscuits and whenever she had to bring a plate, cream-filled sponge was definitely her jam.

Gran was not designed to drive a car or ride a bike, but she had endless patience and a kind heart. She spent the best part of my childhood and adolescence trying to teach me the basics of cooking, sewing, gardening and knitting with moderate success in some areas, and dismal failure in others. But at the end of the day she always had time for her grandchildren.

Grandmothers play an enormous role in many people's lives. They are often chauffeurs, tutors and mentors, not to mention a mother's major helper, and sometimes even a child's primary carer. They nurture and educate, coach, guide and supervise with their firm but fair ways. And they always have lollies. The time they spend with their grandchildren, no matter where or for how long, will always be remembered by the child as special. So this Mother's Day remember the grandmother in your life, and make it a special day for her too xx

Dee Simpson

Mr. Thirty Three Percent...

Whoever coined the term Renovators Delight ought to be locked up. I am a firm believer that for some people there is very little delight in renovating. Ever. I mean, the outcome is wonderful, it’s the process that leaves a lot to be desired. The very first home we bought when we were just twenty-one was an old weatherboard number that needed a little TLC. We painted architraves and polished floorboards, installed gates, changed light fittings and put up a picket fence. We replaced windows and landscaped, making the place ours without the need for total restoration. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the type of person who shies away from hard work but for me, that was renovation enough.

Our second home was a new build. And thinking about both scenarios I am never quite sure which was better, re-doing the old or creating the new. Both have their challenges and delights, and neither of them are any more appealing to me than the other. I think I would much rather buy a home that I am relatively happy with and make do with whatever I find within. I’m pretty easy going and flexible when it comes to things like that, so when we purchased our third home with the intention to renovate “in a few years” I was never really in a hurry.

Suddenly, it seems that “in a few years” has arrived. As a matter of fact it’s been well over ten years, so if I am completely honest Hubby has been more than patient with the delay. For a long while now we have thrown around ideas, measured up rooms, had various designs sketched out on scrap paper at the kitchen table and then drawn up by professionals. We even contemplated moving, attending Open For Inspections and debating the pros and cons of relocating versus staying. But ultimately we really do love where we live, so the most logical decision was to renovate. Properly. Oh dear.

Our house was built in the early seventies and has remained relatively untouched since then. I suppose you could call it authentically vintage. Yes, it’s had a few minor changes such as the addition of timber paneling in the toilet, a new pale pink kitchen bench top in the eighties and a coat of paint but that’s about as good as it gets. The house is mostly brown and white, tiles and slate with wooden louvre doors fronting the pantry and bathroom cupboards. It boasts a retro combination of exposed brick and cedar beams, with strong accents of timber veneer, laminate and brown velvet curtains.

The ensuite has delightful glossy black tiles embossed with white Arum lilies which I am certain was highly desirable back in the day, but every time I use the shower all I can think of is funerals. I have to admit that this is one part of the renovation I am definitely looking forward to. We knew when we bought the place that it was somewhat old and tired, and has decoratively seen better days, but it’s bones are good and the frame is solid. It’s simply time for a makeover.

Hubby is a brilliant tradesman and visionary, willing to try his hand at just about anything. And generally the outcome is excellent. Except perhaps plumbing. That’s not always great. But where it is impossible for me to imagine the rainbow through the rain when it comes to making physical changes and improvements to things, he has always been able to see the end result.

Hubby is my Mr. Fix-It. He is also my Mr.Thirty-Three Percent. And I mean this in the most endearing way possible. You see, history shows that whenever a project is pending and quotes are required – whether it be time or money – whatever the estimate is I just need to add 33% to get a more realistic figure. I don’t know why. That’s just how it is. Please make a mental note of this, as it may come in handy down the track.

I have always believed what goes around comes around. No matter how big or small, the things we do and say always matter, and it doesn’t take much to make a difference to somebody else’s day. Sometimes I find myself unloading a trolley full of groceries, only to glance over my shoulder and see someone with a bag of potatoes and a tub of ice cream, waiting patiently in line. In fact, I’m always at the supermarket. Or the chemist. So this happens quite a bit.

My first instinct is to usher them through, and I get quite annoyed with myself if I haven’t caught them before the checkout person has commenced scanning my myriad of purchases. I don’t see the point of someone having to wait for me forever and a day while their ice cream melts, resulting in their arrival home colliding with sobbing children, all because their four litre Hokey Pokey has turned into a container of sticky, running Melty Shmelty. Any opportunity to avoid scenes like this should be taken wherever possible.

It’s not just checkout scenarios that present frequent opportunities for goodwill gestures. They can arise at any time, often when you least expect it. More than once I’ve handed over a coin-secured trolley to an older person trying in vain to fumble through their hand luggage trying to locate a dollar coin. Those things can be as elusive as Willy Wonker’s Golden Ticket the moment you need one urgently.

I have also been known to leave the remainder of my lunch to flag down a panic stricken mother searching the food court for a table. Mum will generally have three children under four, two are screaming because it’s past their lunchtime, sleep time and whatever other time toddlers need these days, and she will always look like she has been dragged through a hedge backwards. Nobody should have to endure that sort of public humiliation, and I have to stop myself from suggesting that she really needs to subscribe to Coles Online. Pronto.

Occasionally I find myself looking for my car in the vast sea of multi-storey car parks at Knifepoint. I rarely remember where I park. If I’m on my own without my bloodhound children, locating the vehicle can take quite some time and I frequently resort to wandering around, periodically pressing the unlock button on the remote to assist in my quest for vehicle location. Sometimes I notice Mr&MrsSilverHairedDrivingTheAncientToyotaCrownWithA HatStrategicallyPlacedAtTheRear also doing laps of the car park. Only they are looking for a park, not trying to locate their car.

At this point I put myself in their shoes. If Hubby and I were in their situation we would probably be about the strangle each other by now. Finding a car park can be brutal, unless you are my mother who I have always dubbed The Park Ass. She can magically ass a spot within ten spaces of the front door of any shopping centre entry. At any time of the year. Christmas included. Thatwoman is incredible.

So when I see Mr & Mrs Crown on their fifth lap, I realise they are truly blessed with endless patience, and may not mind following me until I locate my car. Patience is probably why they look like they’ve been married for sixty years. So I word them up and we roam together until my vehicle is located. It’s a win-win. I am comforted knowing a heavy-rigid vehicle has got my back, and they are happy to secure the highly coveted park that will help maintain wedded bliss for yet another excursion.

I recently posted a blog highlighting the delights of confectionery, and there was some discussion about the topic on my Facebook page. Now, I know there are many of you who adore chocolate as much as me, but one girl went above and beyond the call.

After reading my ramblings, Sophie marched down to her local and loaded up on some Kiwi constitutional, mailing the good old Perky Nana all the way from Alexandra in NZ to country Victoria, Australia. That goodwill gesture not only made my day, but it warmed the hearts of many of my followers. It bought back memories for a friend I used to work with who adores the Kiwi Chocolate Fish. So I decided to pay it forward.

I was never a coffee drinker. In all of my forty-plus years I was the one who only drank tea. It’s weird because my parents have been partial to coffee for as long as I can remember, so it’s not like I spent my childhood in the Morman community where coffee, tea and alcohol were stuff that myths are made of. I had tried copious varieties on a number of occasions but it simply didn’t sit well in my belly. I would usually end up feeling rotten and squeamish, or worse still, find myself in the bathroom for an extended period of time wishing I had executed better judgement yet again. And then something happened.

It is only in recent times that I’ve made the transition from tea to coffee, and the purchase of a brilliantly simple espresso machine for Hubby one Father’s Day was probably the catalyst for the change. Hubby has been a coffee drinker for years. Now, when I go out for coffee with the girls I can actually order one. Finally I feel like a real grown up.

But as we all know, being an adult means you often have to make some serious choices. I just wasn’t expecting so many choices when it came down to a single beverage. I quickly came to learn that when you order, you don’t simply order a coffee. I clearly need to be more specific because the annoyed look on the shop assistant’s face before launching into an avalanche of varieties is not something I wish to experience on a regular basis.

Flat white, latte, cappuccino and macchiato, ristretto, hazelnut or mochaccino. Long black, short black, French press or cold press, drip, percolated and organic. Full fat, low fat, almond, skim, soy and chai. Still awake.

Do you ever have one of those days where everything is going wrong, and you wish you were sitting in that tiny cafe you and Hubby stumbled upon whilst travelling? You know the one. It served the most amazing coffee and cake you’d had since the one the day before, and if you close your eyes you can smell the aroma and hear the clink of the cups behind the counter. There is even a coffee for that. Vienna, Irish and Turkish, Americano or espresso Romano. Not quite the same but let’s face it, beggars can’t be choosers.

Ice shot, frappe and palazzo, mazagran or a traditional iced coffee in a tall, oldfashioned glass. Even in summer the choices are endless and my head spins at the thought of the options. I’m eternally grateful I shelved the idea of completing a barista course a few years ago as I would never be able to remember how to make even half of these. I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast some days.

I have previously tabled my deep appreciation for cacao, so it should come as no surprise I adore a good hot chocolate. And I’m not sure whether it’s my age or because I entered the coffee scene a little long in the tooth, but some days it’s just too late for coffee. Literally. This is where hot chocolate comes in. Now, I’ve had a few of these in my time and honestly, it’s getting harder and harder to find a satisfying brew. I don’t want one that’s the consistency of lukewarm dish water, without any flavour or substance. What I need is a mug of steaming, creamy, chocolatey milk, complete with froth on the top and a dusting of cocoa. It’s not much to ask for. Is it.        

Many people swear that the coffee in Australia is second to none, and the beverage served up in America ought to be made illegal. I cannot comment. I’ve never sample it. I can however highly recommend a hot chocolate in France. The French do a great many things well, and their chocolat chaud is the most wickedly decadent guilty pleasure I have ever indulged in. You can keep your hazelnut, peanut butter and nutella varieties because once you’ve opened this Pandora’s Box, there really is no turning back.

Ordering a cup of tea when you are out really does seem pointless. After all, it’s just boiling water and some leaves. Seems a little silly to spend five bucks on something so barren. And let’s face it, it’s going to send me to the bathroom five minutes after consumption anyway, so it hardly seems worth the effort. But some days when I’m home, and it’s cold and miserable outside, there is nothing I like better than to curl up on the couch with a good old fashioned cuppa. Like coffee, I know there are ninety different varieties. But I’ll take mine black, no sugar. In a cup.

Sometimes I wonder how many others have found themselves in jobs that are a little, well, strange. Often it's not the actual job, more so

the people you work with. I have a number of girlfriends who wholeheartedly agree. One in particular. One of her first jobs was in a growing business that manufactured and sold sequins, beads and the like. For all the Dancing Mothers out there, you will no doubt be intimately familiar with the business I am talking about. Nowadays it's more a multinational company. Yep. Maria George.

Upon commencing, a single pair of fold up scissors was issued to utilise during the term of her employment. She had to provide her own mug and apron.  At the end of each day when the Flinders Lane store closed, staff were instructed to sweep the floor and sift, separating the dust from the sequins and beads. They were colour-matched and returned to their individual containers for re-sale. This was predominately her job as the junior, and those further up the chain were allowed to serve customers. Juniors couldn't handle money until they'd earned her trust. Cash only Darlink.

The timer was set at morning tea to ensure staff didn't go over their allocated ten minute break, and she still shudders when recalling those heady naive days. I laughed when she wondered how on earth she stuck it out for two whole months. No matter how bizarre you think this is, it's clearly the reason Ms. George is bathing in bank notes.

I had a similar experience in my first real job whilst still at University. There were three businesses operating from a single office, run by two men. The first was a savvy entrepreneur with his finger in many pies, willing to give anything a go. Some of them shady. Most of them successful. The other was a lovely Italian man who was handy with conveyancing and property transfer. He adored a bargain.

Our Italian boss was the Bargain Master, and once bought one hundred and six jars of coffee for our kitchenette. It was cheap. It didn't matter that the Best Before date had a month on it. He was stoked. When it came to saving cash, this guy was a man on a mission.

We were issued with a single litre of milk on Monday mornings, deemed as rations enough for our weekly tea and coffee. We had to play the game, thinking three steps ahead. If we didn't remember to throw out the unused milk on Friday night, he would arrive very early on a Monday and make his mandatory cuppa using whatever was left from the week before. God forbid it was a long weekend. If it was past it's prime and turned sour, it didn't matter. I still feel ill thinking of those lumpy chunks floating in his white with two sugars.

There was only two of us handling all the paperwork. Conveyancing and property transfers, shipping Bills of Lading and cigarette vending machine operations from Queenscliffe to Bendigo. It was a busy little office with plenty to do, the only trouble was the office equipment was so old it took us three times longer than it should to complete a task.

Believe it or not, there was no PC in sight. We had a million paper files and an ancient typewriter for letters, transfer documents and invoicing. There was a photocopier that was possibly for decoration. In the two years I was there I reckon we only ever had two reams of paper, used to make copies for paying customers who came in off the street. If we needed copies for files we had to source paper from other avenues. Both of us would collect junk mail and flyers to recycle, mostly to use with carbon paper in the typewriter.

When we were lucky enough to generate a few dollars from the photocopying service we would hide it under a pot and buy fresh milk as required. Either that or stamps. Because new stamps were unheard of.

Bargain Master paid an annual subscription to access the DX mail service to all the major banks and legal firms we needed, so any mail sent outside the DX clearly needed stamps. Every Monday he would bring in his personal incoming mail and spend an hour at his desk with his lumpy cuppa, rubbing the postage marks off with his special magic eraser.

Once the post mark was removed he would boil the kettle and steam them off the envelopes, flattening them out while still damp, gluing them onto our envelopes ready to be re-mailed to clients. I still shake my head in amazement at his tightwad techniques and wonder why I, too, lasted as long as I did.

Now, I'm not really what you'd call a foodie. I'm the first to admit I don't cook like a chef, I'm not that adventurous when it comes to trying new things, and honestly, if our slow cooker was to give up the ghost I'm pretty sure our family may just starve to death. Because between Maggi's Slow Cooker Recipe Bases and 90 second rice, I reckon I have all the food groups covered. I can poach a mean egg but that’s as exciting as it gets.

A while back I tried watching those cooking shows on television for inspiration but it just ended in confusion. And guilt. I realised that to be a "home cook" no longer means you just have to cook stuff in your own home, apparently it means you need to get creative and actually cook stuff that's fancy. Gone are the Women’s Weekly Cookbooks. Now Curtis Stone has it covered in the Coles Food Magazine. And YouTube.

For instance, it took me ages to work out what exactly quinoa is and how you even pronounce it. I couldn't even spell the word to Google it, which drove me completely bonkers. I have never cooked it although I did taste it once. In a salad. And quite frankly I'm not a fan. It seems to be a cross between rice and grapes, with a slightly irregular texture that’s not too palatable with my testy gag reflex.

I enjoy rice. I don't mind couscous, but you can keep quinoa. I don't care whether the recipe says to put it with pumpkin, pine nuts or kale. None of those things are going to make any difference. Kale tastes like lawn clippings anyway. Surely we can do better than that.

My verdict? This Christmas stick to what you know. Because quinoa is hard enough to spell, and even worse to eat xx

Dee Simpson

I think by now we have established I will never be Mother of the Year. Nor will my attempts at cooking ever qualify me as a contestant on Master Chef. And Fun Fact #23: Nobody who knows me well would ever volunteer to be my partner on My Kitchen Rules. The rules in my kitchen are simple. It’s survival of the fittest.

I am by no means Nigella Lawson but I’m happy to give things a go. My Gran took me under her wing from a very early age and showed me how to make many family recipes that have stayed with me to this day, from the good old Anzac biscuit to the sultana loaf, where there was always room for one more splash of sherry than the recipe actually called for.  I have also been known to have a crack at her Elyse Pascoe Christmas pudding recipe with moderate success, even corned beef with mustard sauce. Although the slow cooker really deserves all the credit for that one.

I vividly remember standing at Gran’s lime green kitchen table helping her measure and pour the various ingredients, and I try so hard to visualise and replicate her generally meticulous actions. But often things don’t go to plan.

Unfortunately the one thing I never got the hang of was her sponge. I have tried many times using her handwritten recipe, the old tarnished tablespoons she always used, and even the cake tins she owned. Before Gran passed away I spent two afternoons with her so she could watch me having a go, trying to nut out why my sponges always ended up looking more like high rise pizza bases than the fluffy, delicate sponge cakes that she had always churned out with ease. The only thing she could put it down to was this. They simply weren’t made with enough love.

And there you have it. My Gran’s verdict on my sponges. At first I was devastated but then I came to realise that perhaps sponges simply weren’t my thing. And that was OK. So as the years went by I decided to move away from trying to perfect the unperfectable, and tried to find things that were more me. I wanted to embrace the philosophy You Do You.

I am happy to report that, although I’m not brilliant, I have on occasions successfully created bread, focaccia and pasta. From scratch. Once I worked out that creaming butter and sugar didn’t actually include cream as an ingredient, cakes have become possible. Sometimes even edible.

But try as I may, disaster in the kitchen is often inevitable. My attempt to boil eggs in the microwave failed miserably when I set the timer for the same length as you would on the stove top. After seventeen minutes the exploding eggs killed the microwave light, blew the door off and delivered protein to every available kitchen crack and crevice. It was gross.

A few years ago I made my “fail safe”  Blueberry Lindt Cheesecake for my brother’s birthday, only to forget that it was a baked cheesecake. Needless to say the glad wrap lining between the tin and the cake didn’t smell to good during the cooking process. It was back to square one with that little number.

Hubby has spent twenty years of marriage moaning that I never put sugar in the cream. Apparently his mother always did, and it seems cream just isn’t the same without it. One day I’d had enough of the whinging and decided to add icing sugar in an effort to score some points. All I can say is this. The addition of cornflour in the cream was definitely accidental, but it’s one way to curb the moaning.

The only thing I know for sure in the kitchen is this. The slow cooker was invented for people like me because anything you can make casserole style is pretty much idiot proof. You just throw everything into the pot and let nature and electricity do it’s thing. I have also worked out that if you make twice as much, you only have to cook half the nights. 

I love YMCA. Yesterdays Muck Cooked Again.

Some people hate leftovers but they are a staple in our home. If it weren’t for leftovers we probably wouldn’t eat three nights out of seven. I could do a recipe book for YMCA, like one of those Kindergarten Fundraiser thingys.                

YMCA #1: Get out the pastry, add mushrooms and put it in a pie.                   YMCA #2: Mash some potatoes, add mushrooms and you’ve got a cottage pie. YMCA #3: Boil pasta, add mushrooms, melt some cheese and it’s a pasta bake. 

Ok. I admit it. I’m a chocolate lover from way back. Not quite a chocoholic but I certainly have a deep fondness for the stuff. I have so many vivid memories of my Gran and her special tin on the coffee table that housed delicious treats only for consumption late at night after the evening meal was over, dishes were done and everything was in it’s place.

Gran and Pa would take up residence in the lounge room where an open fire would roar like an inferno during winter, turning the tiny room into an oven. Actually, it was more like the lounge room of Lucifer if he had a house. Gran would knit as Pa fell asleep while the footy was on, and being children we were relegated to the not-so-hot dining room with the small telly and blankets over our laps, watching Young Talent Time and Magnum PI.

During the ads we would sneak in and Gran would offer us a pick from the tin. Cadbury Roses and chocolate bullets, Darrell Lea’s licorice allsorts and Newmans chocolate covered ginger. The ginger was my favourite.

I’m not alone in my inability to explain my love of cacao but I also know that everyone has their own take on what is good and what is not. Like wine, it  comes down to personal preference. You may not believe me but I simply can’t endure Tim Tams. It’s a texture thing which extends to Maltesers, Violet Crumbles and the humble Crunchie. Just thinking about them gives me goose bumps and the beginnings of a gag reflex. As for Hershey, Whittakers and Ernest Hillier, I politely decline.

What I do love is Lindt, Guylian and anything Swiss. Haigh’s have some terrific truffles, the Cote d’Or chocolate that takes the shape of a huge mouse is a delectable blast from the past, and if you have ever had Cadbury chocolate in New Zealand you would agree it’s full of surprises. Not only do they have a kiwi fruit variety, you would think their chocolate is the same as ours but it’s not. It is so much better. Must be the cows.

Terry’s Chocolate Orange makes it into my Top 10 every time and I wonder whether it’s because I love the taste, or that it brings back memories of my Aunty Lynne having it in her fridge when we were children. Or is it the simple concept of peeling off each segment just like a real orange. At least that way you kind of feel like it’s fruit.

Soft centres like a Caramello Koala or a Cadbury Crème Egg are devine. Crispy chocolates like KitKat also have their place but it’s certain flavours that really draw me in. You see, a block of Snack is great in a share scenario because there is always someone who likes strawberry but doesn’t like turkish delight. Then there’s the person who will devour turkish delight and stay well away from the caramello. Then there is me. I just want the pineapple. A few years ago some clever pony in the Cadbury stable put forward the idea of releasing for a limited time an entire block of pineapple chocolate. It was a double edged sword, and although all of my Christmases had come at once, the entire block of perfect pineapple morsels did make it very hard to execute portion control.

Fruit flavours and chocolate seem to be a match made in heaven but dried fruit has no place in the world of cacao. I have been known on one occasion in sheer desperation to suck the chocolate off a block of fruit and nut, spitting out the fruit and nuts as I went. I acknowledge it was not my finest moment.

Some people can never fully grasp the fondness others have for chocolate, and given the choice between sweet and savoury there are many who choose savoury. I appreciate freedom of choice, but cannot comprehend their decision.  On the other hand, when given the choice between cake and chocolate I get it.  Both are sweet, both are good, but at the end of the day chocolate wins me every time. Except for Blueberry Lindt Cheesecake. Because I have no idea which category this falls into. Is it cake. Or is it chocolate.

Many years ago I heard of a popular New Zealand chocolate bar that intrigued me. It was called a Perky Nana, and to this day I have never actually seen nor tried one, but the name is fascinating.  I have absolutely no idea what the ingredients were but if it ever arrived on our shores I would be delighted of someone could let me know. I reckon it would be filled with wafer and rice-crispy things, possibly even marshmallow. A bit like a Polly Waffle, only better. I think even Gran would have liked that one. She was my favourite Perky Nana xx