Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Oven Pride - A Review

This will make my mother fall over in shock. Me reviewing a cleaning product. How ironic.

But I do have to share this one with you, because it is for perfect for lazy housewives like myself. One of my most hated jobs is cleaning the oven - or ovens as we have two. Against the advice of our estate agent, we use both - he said that using just one oven would save on cleaning but I love having two ovens. It makes cooking large meals such as Christmas lunch much easier to coordinate.

So when I read on Mumsnet recently about a product that made cleaning the oven a piece of cake, I knew I had to try it. My husband was recently in Scotland and brought me back a packet of Oven Pride.

According to the manufacturers, "Transforms racks and grills" and can also be used on BBQs.

The box contains a bottle of cleaning fluid, a large sturdy plastic bag and a pair of rubber gloves - latex ones so if you have a latex allergy, you will need your own.

The idea is simple. You put the wire shelves into the bag, fill with half the bottle of Oven Pride, close and seal the bag, give it a bit of a mix and leave at least four hours.




The rest of the fluid - it is a gloopy gel - is spread over the oven. Now I have to admit that I have not properly cleaned the ovens since we moved in. I have given them a quick "wiech" (as my mother would say) but not scrubbed them. So they were in a bit of a state. Stand by for slatternly oven pics.








Yeuch. 

So, a couple of hours later the oven looks like this: 









And this is how easy it was:







The Oven Pride did not get every single bit of grime, but then the baking trays were in a right state so I would have to scrub a bit to get the rest off. Or perhaps reapply another coating of Oven Pride. But the result was very impressive.

The best thing about it was so effortless. No scrubbing, no elbow grease, no stink. It was one of the things that I hated about cleaning the oven, the sharp stench of ammoniac. It did not smell at all, which is amazing considering how well it worked.

So there you have it. A big thumbs up from MmeLindt for Oven Pride - Oven cleaning without even chipping your nail varnish.

Sunday, 1 May 2011

There IS no place like home...

... it is not just a cliche.

We spent a week with my in-laws in Germany (more blog posts to follow with tips and recommendations for holidaying in Bavaria) but are so glad to be back home in Switzerland.





Not only because the weather is better here, but being able to relax in the garden and enjoy the peace and quiet is wonderful. The in-laws have a city apartment with a balcony, but city life is busier than village life. And I never thought that I would ever say this, but I prefer it.

I am a city gal, born and bred in the outskirts of Dundee, lived for almost a decade in the city centre of Wuerzburg but have come to appreciate the life in the country. The quiet leafy garden, being able to hear the birds sing, red kites twirling and diving in the blue sky above me.

When we lived in Germany, I would have to plan ahead if we were due to return from a trip at the weekend. The shops stay closed on Sundays, as they do here in Switzerland. Luckily, we are just a short drive from France so this morning I left the children playing and my husband sleeping to nip to the local market.

Our MGB, awakened from it's winter hibernation, purred and roared its way along the windy French country roads, the sun shining on my head, the wind tousling my hair. I sang along with Adele as she implored her ex to remember.





Pulling my shopping trolley (called HackenPorsche -HeelPorsche in Germany, by the way), through the market, I inhaled the scent of lavender soap, roasting chicken and ham, marinated olives and garlic, not to mention the smelly cheese of Haute Savoie. Before long the trolley was heavy and full with delicious produce from the area. Tonight we will feast on aforementioned chicken with fresh salad, followed by rhubarb crumble. I have a bottle of champagne cooling in the fridge ready to have a couple of succulent raspberries dropped into it.

On leaving the market, I stopped to buy a sprig of Muguet - Lily of the Valley - which is traditionally sold on May 1st in France and given to loved ones as this blogger explains.




I returned home to find the family waiting for breakfast. Freshly baked bread, jambon cru, Fromage de Abondance, miel de lavande, creme de chocolat, cafe au lait, and good old PG Tipps.

Bliss.

Tuesday, 12 April 2011

Banning the Burka

I was reading MuddlingAlongMummy's blog earlier, about the banning of the burka in France.




Like MuddlingAlongMummy, I have been very conflicted about this. There are arguments that women are being forced to cover their faces and hair by men, and that banning the burka means that this can no longer happen.

Sadly, I don't think this will be the case. I suspect that the type of man who will use force to make his wife or daughter wear a burka would not hesitate to deny her the freedom to leave the house if there were a chance she could be arrested. I suspect that the reality will be even more oppression and isolation for these women.

Not all women wear a burka because they are forced to by overbearing, abusive men. Many wear them because of their personal religious beliefs. Is it right to deny a woman to clothe herself as she wants? Catholic nuns cover their bodies and hair, do we deny them the right to do so?

At the end of the day, I would prefer my government to offer the assistance and support for women to get out of abusive relationships rather than dictate what they can and cannot wear.

Should we not be concentrating on educating young women - not just Muslims, but all women - on how to escape men who abuse them? Should we not be making Womens' Refuses available to anyone who needs them? Should we not be prosecuting and jailing men who abuse women?

To say that it is for the womens' protection is ignoring the fact that there are much more effective ways to protect women.



Picture Credit

Thursday, 7 April 2011

Chapter Six - Beth Meets Her Neighbour

The latest installment of the story of Beth, who has moved to Geneva to further her career as a lawyer. Here she moves into her new flat and meets her neighbour.

For earlier chapters look here:


Chapter One - The Decision
Chapter Two - The Farewell
Chapter Three - The Flight
Chapter Four - The Apartment
Chapter Five - The Company


The main character was called Dora in earlier chapters. Due to popular demand her name has been changed to Beth. I will go back and change the earlier chapters tomorrow.








Chapter Six

At 6 am the following morning, Beth was awake and dressed ready for a quick breakfast before going to open the apartment for the arrival of the furniture removal company.

By lunchtime, when she nipped out to pick up pizza for the crew, the furniture in bedroom, office and sitting room was assembled and the boxes in the kitchen were unpacked. The crew was amazingly fast and she realized that she was more of a hindrance than a help as she got in the way of their choreographed act.

She was jogging back up the stairs, several boxes of takeout pizza balanced atop each other when she caught sight of one of her new neighbours, exiting his apartment in cycling gear. Too late she realized that he was listening to his iPod and did not hear her approach as he turned and careered into her, sending the pizzas flying.

" Que pensez-vous que vous faites, se faufiler sur moi comme ça?" he yelled.

"Pardon, monsieur.." she began before he rudely interupted, switching to accented English upon hearing her speak, "Why did you sneak up on me?"

She stooped to pick up the pizza. One of them had tumbled out of the box and was cheese side down on the floor. "Sneak up on you? Hardly. You didn't hear me because of your earphones."

"I suppose you are the new tenant in the upstairs flat. I hope you are less noisy than the last one. You are in Switzerland now, we don't like noisy neighbours here".

Beth huffed, "I haven't even moved in yet. Why don't you wait and see?"

Her new neighbour sneered, "Well, you haven't made a good start. Make sure you clean the pizza off the floor", and with these parting words, he turned on his heel and went down the stairs.

"Oh, of all the rude, insufferable ...", words failed Beth as she watched him leave, trying not to notice how the clinging lycra cycling shorts showed off his legs and frankly fabulous behind.

What a shame that the most attractive man she had met in months was an uptight whinger. It would take more than a pair of stunning blue eyes and a chin dimple to make up for his horrible temperament. Shame, she was partial to a good chin dimple.

She scraped the pizza off the floor; that one was for the bin, the others were eatable even if they did not look pretty. Once she had handed them over to the guys in her apartment, she went back down with a mop and bucket to clean the stairs. Mr Grumpy’s apartment was directly below hers and she hoped he was not going to complain about every little sound. Not that she was planning to throw big parties, but she did not want to have to turn her stereo down to a whisper to keep him happy. It was a solid old house though, so hopefully the soundproofing would be decent.

After putting the mop and bucket away, she had wandered into the dining room to find the workmen finishing their pizza.

They looked a bit shame faced, “Oh, were you hungry? We haven’t saved you any. Sorry”, the foreman admitted.

“Don’t worry, I think there is some stale bread there that I was going to feed to the ducks, I will just have that”, she replied straight-faced.

The foreman pulled some money out of his trousers and held it out to the most junior member of the team, “Here, go and get Miss Wilkins a sandwich”, he instructed.

“No, don’t be daft. I was teasing. Sit back down, I had a bit of cake earlier”, Beth admitted, “with cream”.

She accepted their good-natured ribbing about eating cake at 11am and throwing pizza at new neighbours while she made tea. As they sat around the table, Joe, the foreman told her that they would probably be finished that evening.

Elated that the move was going so well, Beth decided to go back to the hotel and check out. She would sleep in her new apartment that evening.



As she shut and locked the door behind the workmen, she breathed a sigh of relief. At last. She walked slowly through her apartment. There were no curtains on the windows, although she could use the shutters to block light and inquisitive gazes. The walls were bare, aside from the large mirror in the hall and the gilt edged one above the fireplace. Even though it was too warm, and she had no logs, she wished she could light a fire.

Her furniture looked good, she decided. There were a couple of spaces – an armchair would look good next to the fireplace, the hall was a bit bare and she really needed a cabinet in the bathroom. She wondered where the nearest furniture store was, and maybe a DIY shop. What was DIY in French?

No time like the present, she decided and set up her laptop. She would sit out on the balcony – she made a note to look for garden furniture as she dragged a dining chair outside – and do some research. She would make lists. Lists were always good.

Two hours, a block of cheese and half a bottle of wine later she was much further forward. She now knew that DIY store was Bricolage and Furniture Store was Meubles but she was not sure which shop to go to. She had cross referenced shops, shopping centres, and industrial estates and planned a route, including car showrooms and supermarkets. She saved her word document, even as she admonished herself for being totally anal about planning, then opened Facebook.

There were dozens of messages from friends and family. Scrolling through, she smiled and laughed at the silly comments. She answered everyone, and promised to upload some photos the next day. Which reminded her to add “buy mobile phone” to her list.

As she clicked her way through her friends’ lives, a wave of homesickness rolled over her. Alex was arranging to meet with mutual friends the following weekend. She would normally be part of that crowd instead of sitting alone in an echoing apartment so far from home. Beth wiped a tear from her eye and told herself sternly to “Get A Grip”.

Looking up over the top of her laptop, she gazed into the distance. She had to make the most of this assignment. It was an important career step and she could not believe that she had almost turned it down because she was concerned about Finlay.

A ping from her laptop told her that Alex was online and a moment later she heard the familiar bloopbloopbloop-ring of an incoming Skype call. Checking that her makeup was not smeared from her self-pity fest, she clicked to answer the call.

“Alex! How lovely. Can you see where I am sitting?”, she turned the laptop so that the inbuilt webcam showed the narrow balcony.

“That wouldn’t be a bottle of wine on the table there?”, Alex was eagled-eyed and missed nothing.

“Can you believe it was in the fridge? The relocation agent stocked the kitchen with some basics. Bread, cheese, wine, milk and tea bags. Oh, and a frozen pizza which was handy because I threw one at my new neighbour today”.

“What?”, Alex shrieked, “You threw a pizza? Is that some kind of quaint Swiss tradition?

Beth laughed, “Maybe I can start a trend. No, I bumped into him on the stairs. God, he was grumpy about it, shame too because he’s a total.”. She stopped talking abruptly as she heard a faint sound below her. Peering carefully over the balcony, she realized to her horror that MrGrumpy was sitting on his balcony. With a blonde woman.

“What? Hello? Beth, are you still there?”

“Wait”, Beth whispered, “I think he is listening. I have to go inside”.

“Beth? Beth? Helllooooo. I can’t hear you. Bloody Skype. It was just getting interesting”.

“Shhhhhhhh, Alex. He is on the balcony”, Beth hissed as she struggled one handed to open the door, balancing the laptop in the other hand. Once inside the apartment, she slid the laptop onto a table then nipped back outside to rescue the wine.

Collapsing on the couch, she adjusted the laptop so that Alex could see her again. “Alex. He was on the balcony below me, with his girlfriend and I was just about to tell you that he is a total hunk. I bet they heard me. Now I will have both of them giving me the evil eye”.

Her cheeks burning, Beth watched her best friend sourly. Alex screamed with laughter, snorting attractively, Beth thought. Slowly Beth began to see the funny side. Her lips twitched, she struggled to control herself then gave in to the laughter that was bubbling up inside.

Later that evening, as she switched the light off, she realized that her homesickness was gone and she was looking forward to the coming days. Clicking the light back on, she made a note at the bottom of her list, “AVOID the neighbours”.


Do the children of writers have a right to privacy?



This morning on Twitter, the writer Jenny Colgan linked to this story in the Daily Mail.

Supposedly an article on how even young girls suffer from self-doubt and trying to live up to an unreachable beauty ideal, the author tells of finding her six year old daughter's diary and reading it. She finds to her horror that the diary is full of self-critical observations.

She admits that it is wrong to read her daughter's diary, completely missing the much larger betrayal of writing about her daughter's intimate feelings and fears, then publishing it in a nationwide newspaper.

Great way to boost your daughter's self-esteem - write it up for all her friends to read and laugh at. It is an astonishing betrayal of trust.

It got me thinking about how much writers and bloggers share - and we do often overshare - and how much privacy our families have the right to.

When I include pictures of my children in my blog, I use ones in which they are not instantly recognisable. I have been thinking that some of my earlier blog posts should be deleted - when I started blogging it was only for family and friends so this was not a concern.

Some bloggers use names for their children and husbands. I did when I started blogging but - and don't take offence at this, it is just my personal feeling - I found it unbearably twee to write about MademoiselleLindt or PetitMonsieur. So I use the impersonal "my son, my daughter, my husband".

Obviously it depends on the theme of your blog. A typical "mummyblogger" will include more photos of her children and stories of her family life than someone who has a techie blog. I try to put a photo in each post as it makes the blog more attractive, so it can be a challenge finding the right picture to illustrate what I am talking about. If all else fails, there is always google images.

I do wonder though, what becomes of the mummybloggers when their children grow up. Right now they have no objection to the amusing anecdotes that I share on my blog, but I can see that as my daughter moves towards puberty that this will change.

There are very few mothers of teenagers blogging - or have I just not noticed them? Or perhaps when the children are older, the mothers are simply less involved in the details of the childrens' daily lives, so move on to blogging about other interests.

What do you think? How much sharing is good, where is the border to overshare?