Yep, you read that right. Against pasta. 

Because this is the week that M-Little’s nursery lunch menu consists of 90% pasta:

Mon: vegetable risotto
Tue: lasagna alla bolognese = pasta
Wed: lentil soup with mini-pasta
Thu: pasta with pesto
Fri: pasta with olive oil & cheese

That. is a lot of. PASTA.

Although he definitely won’t complain about the pasta-deluge, I do feel the need to remind my British-Belgian-Brazilian child that variety is a good thing. That choosing olives over chocolate may result in his Belgian passport being confiscated, and don’t even get me started on his refusal to eat digestive biscuits. 

Fortunately he is as mango-obsessed as his Brazilian dad, but still (brace yourselves):

There is no pasta in this week’s Pasta & Patchwork’s meal plan.

Erk.

Instead we are having:

savoy cabbage, chicken & provolone involtini + potatoes (this fell off the menu last week to make way for pizza…)
shakshuka
okonomiyaki
yellow courgette soup, with flowers on top
chickpea za’atar salad
Pea, garlic & ham soup

As with last week, I'm not sure how much batch cooking and freezer filling I'm going to be able to do. All the involtini I made for dinner today have been demolished already. Well, in the Bean's case the chicken and cheese got demolished, while the cabbage was flung onto the floor with a look of utter disdain. At least he didn't say, "where's my goddamn pasta?"

So you know I promised myself I'd be all organised, and meal plan and batch cook and stuff? Well we're into week two and guess what? 

1. I'm publishing my Meal Planning Monday post on a Tuesday (again).
2. I'm not going to be doing any batch cooking this week because I've got too much work on. Nope, I'll be flim-flamming things together as fast as possible, with minutes spare before I have to go get the Bean. 

Hahaha! Looks like I'll be handing back that smug-mum badge, then. 

But hey, at least I do have a meal plan, so the flim-flam stands some chance of being tasty and nutritious:

"Beanotto" 
Lasagnette with tuna, tomatoes & courgette
Black bean stew with beef and sweetcorn
Roasted pumpkin soup with 2 toppings: mozzarella & crispy pancetta
Savoy cabbage, chicken & provolone involtini (served with potatoes)
Pasta with chickpeas

And of this lovely-sounding plan, what have I managed to make so far? The beanotto, which we ate before I remembered to take a photo. And I've put my beans in to soak for tomorrow's stew. 

Wow. Maybe I can have one little smug-mum point now?

Is the day I put on a BLUE dress not white.

The day the groom helped his brother (after brother saved groom's ass and remembered the rings)

The day I felt like a film star...

... and a diva.

The day the best man got in trouble for getting his suit mucky.

The day there was some drama in the underground.

The day there was some fretting about I-don't-even-know-what-anymore.

The day (and the night before, and after) there was plenty of beer...

... and chocolate cake.

But most importantly, it's the day we said 'I do'...

... in front of friends and family from Belgium, Britain, Brazil, Germany, the USA...

... and become Mr and Mrs P&P!

When you're pint-sized and have just learned to walk, what's better than going to the park? Going to the park with your ball, that's what.

Except that until this week, M-little didn't have anything other than some teeny tiny teething balls. On sunny days I take him to the grounds of M-big's university, and when he screamed at some students kicking a football about one day, I knew we'd committed a huge parenting crime. The child. did not. have a ball.

So, although we try not to impulse-buy him toys, on the way home we bought a ball. A Peppa Pig* ball, no less.

He was thrilled. Tickled pink. Pulled an all Christmasses come at once kind of face. Of course we couldn't go straight home - we had to stop off at another playground to have a go with it.

I have never seen him regard other children so suspiciously. The place was packed, but if anyone came with two metres of him he'd scream. Just in case anyone was in any doubt that it was HIS ball.

I only had my phone camera so the pictures aren't very good, but this is him ignoring his normally-beloved swings completely, and keeping a careful eye out for potential ball-thieves. Did I mention it's HIS ball?

He carried on rolling and bouncing it all evening once we did get home. At one point we thought he might take it to bed with him, but it turns out that milk and his blankie still win in the comforting stakes. Phew.

*Peppa Pig. I know. I can hear your groans. But the thing is, I actually quite like Peppa Pig. It is just so ENGLISH and when you live abroad, any silly little reminder of home takes on extra-special significance. Besides, that episode where Peppa goes on holiday to Italy and it's bucketing with rain in the UK? Harharhar.

Yep, a boy. I have one of those, a 14-month-old tyke who’s currently obsessed with animals and tractors, who climbs the sofa, and tries to eat daisies. How do I raise that gorgeously innocent boy in our sexist and unequal society?

The feminist in me would have known exactly what to do with a girl. I’d have banned the princesses and taken her to science museums. I’d have bought her every colour other than pink. I’d have explained that she could be anything she wanted, that she didn’t need to be pretty to be valued, that she had a right to speak her mind AND be heard.

I would also have had to prepare her for life as woman in a world that values men and ‘male’ characteristics: dominance, detachment, physical strength. I’d have had to accept the fact that, like me, she would probably learn to always be on her guard, to always worry about her safety, to feel she couldn’t do certain things. Like me, she’d encounter misogyny in all areas of life (and if you think I’m exaggerating, go read The Everyday Sexism Project. I could add at least 10 entries off the top of my head, though fortunately none of serious abuse).

I’m certain that I would have felt frustrated at times, and worried about her continued exposure to pinkified toys, biased books, unrealistic magazine shoots and boobs masquerading as news. And that’s just the things in my own, relatively tame backyard. But at least I would have known what battles to pick. 

With my boy? I have no idea. And yet I do feel I need to formulate a battle-plan, partly because I don’t want him to become one of the men who thinks that cat-calling is okay (or worse, but I can't bear to think about that), and partly because boys and men also suffer in a sexist and unequal world. There is huge pressure on men to be stoical, successful, muscular, driven, wealthy, and so on. Many a conversation between myself and Mr P&P on shared childcare responsibilities has boiled down to him lamenting the fact that neither society-at-large nor many corporate environments support men who wish to prioritise their families in any way. We are ‘lucky’ in that, as an academic, his work schedule is fairly flexible and he managed to take 16 days paternity leave as opposed to the 3 that are usual in Italy…

And then there is the effect of everyday stereotypes on boys, that only girls are allowed to show emotion, to coo over animals and play parent, to cry whenever they like without being told to ‘man up’. Although I’m sure every parent thinks this about their child, M is a sensitive soul - he loves cuddles and kisses, hates being alone, and when he isn’t  trying to eat the daisies he will bring them over to his mummy one-by-one. It breaks my heart to think that he might grow up to think that he has to just ‘suck it up’ if he feels depressed, anxious, or lonely. 

So the feminist in me has decided to fight just as hard for my boy as I would have done for a daughter. Because to me, being a feminist isn’t really about hating pink and princesses (though I do), or encouraging girls to take up science (though we should). It’s about supporting not only One Billion Rising but also celebrating male feminists (they do exist) and giving men who don't feel like 'manning up' somewhere to go. It’s about fighting for equal opportunities for women AND better parental leave arrangements for men. It’s about teaching boys to believe in themselves, in their choices, and in their ability to stand up to social injustice of any kind. It’s just as much about instilling body confidence in boys as it is in girls. It’s about all of us standing up to prejudice, hatred and inequality because Inspiring Change in only half the population isn’t really much good. 

I’m still figuring out how I’m going to do all that when it’s at home, but do it I will. Do it WE will. 

It does funny things with you, motherhood. I used to be super-organised, never-late, ultra-ambitious. These days my attitude towards work is often lacklustre, the flat is a perma-mess and I can never find my keys (although my toddler swiping them might have something to do with that). Worst of all, I feel like I’ve lost my cooking mojo. When half of your blog is themed on food, that ain't good news. 

Lack of sleep has an awful lot to do with it. First we had weeks of teething and illness keeping us all awake. Now we all seem healthy again (shhh don’t jinx it!) but the Bean is still sleeping badly. For the past week he’s been awake at 3am every single night, bouncing up and down with excitement for up to an hour. I’m finding it rather hard to share the sentiment. Especially when he's then raring to go at 6am. Whatever juice he gets, I want me some. 

I’m hoping it’s another phase, and have resigned myself to spending my days propped up by tea and chocolate biscuits. In other aspects of my life, however, I feel I could do a bit more to help myself. I get to decide my own hours, forchrissakes. 

So here’s what I’m going to do: batch cook. 

Batch cooking is a good idea for all sorts of reasons. You have to plan it so you waste less food, save time, and have a better chance of making nutritious meals instead of reaching for any old crap when you’re knackered and out of ideas. And hopefully it will also help me get to bed (even) earlier in the evenings.

The first thing to do was to plan the week’s meals:

Asparagus soup, to eat together with Sunday’s leftover roast chicken
Pasta with butter bean, courgette and rocket pesto
Filo pie with feta, rocket and almonds
Aubergine and beef curry
Mushroom soup, to eat with poached eggs and toast
Pasta with pancetta and broccoli

Then yesterday I:

made the asparagus soup
made a start on the pesto
cut the massive hump of stewing beef I found at a reduced price into chunks and froze them (half will be used in the curry)

And today I:

finished off the pesto and froze 2 portions for another day
made the mushroom soup and froze it (half for Friday, half for another day)
chopped, steamed and froze the broccoli (it was threatening to go yellow)
mixed up a batch of muesli (so we stop eating expensive and overly-sugary cereal)

The first two meals have gone down a treat, and it's been great to have time to do other things before bed. Like, erm, blog. Hand me my mojo and my smug-mum badge!

It was just me and the Bean for a whole day on Saturday, as Mr P&P was off on a skiing jolly with his mates. Given all the horrid luck we've had with lurgies and teething recently, I was a bit nervous. Needn't have worried though - we had a grand old time together. 

In no particular order, we 
read a few books
had a little dance
toddled around at the playground
did some spring cleaning*

* I say "we"... 

Green asparagus is in season here in Italy. Everyone gets rather excited about it - the season is short so all the market traders are very keen to get you to buy theirs! I picked up a bunch of young asparagus, the type that’s picked when still thin and not too woody. It’s best to eat them as soon as possible, as they start losing their flavour quickly.

My favourite way to eat asparagus is with fried eggs, drizzled with olive oil and a grating of fresh Parmesan cheese. That’s never going to keep a growing toddler satisfied though, so I decided on this velvety risotto.

Risotto. needs. time. and. patience. Try to rush, and your base veg will be too crunchy, your rice claggy, and the whole thing flavourless. So to make it worth the hassle, picking a great-tasting seasonal vegetable like asparagus helps. Helps when you have to stand there pouring the stock in ladle by ladle. Would you do it for tinned peas? No. So wait until you have something you're excited about (I get excited about seasonal vegetables. Honestly I do). 

Serves: 4
Pots/pans to be washed up afterwards: 3
Prep time: 10 mins
Cooking time: 45 mins 

Ingredients:
250 g Arborio rice
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 stick of celery, finely chopped
1 bunch fresh asparagus, woody ends discarded and chopped into 3 cm pieces
100 ml white cooking wine
500 ml hot vegetable or chicken stock
juice of half a lemon
flat-leaf parsley, chopped
a knob of butter (optional)
150 g grated Parmesan cheese
olive oil
black pepper
sea salt

In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, fry the onion and celery over a low heat. A reaaaaally low heat, for as looooong as you can bear it (at least 10 minutes, 15 is better).

In the meantime, steam the asparagus in a bamboo basket or steamer for about 10 mins, or until soft.

Back to the risotto: increase the heat and add the rice, stirring well for a minute so all the grains are coated in oil and don’t stick to the pot.
Stir in the wine and let it evaporate.
Add a ladle of the hot stock, stirring just enough to get it mix into the rice. Leave to simmer on a medium heat until 90% gone.

Repeat. And repeat. And repeat…

When the risotto is almost done, heat a teaspoon of olive oil in a frying pan. Toss the asparagus in the oil with the chopped parsley, lemon juice, salt and pepper.

When the risotto is done (i.e. when the grains have some ‘bite’ but they haven’t turned into mush) take it off the heat and stir in the asparagus, Parmesan and a knob of butter. If necessary, more Parmesan can be added at the table.

How do you like to eat asparagus?

Well. What a difference a week makes. Last week we were back at my parents’, celebrating my granny’s 80th and feasting on some good old dirt. And this week?

This week has been The Week of The Flu. For all three of us. At the same time.

I can’t even begin to describe how awful it’s been. Oh go on then, indulge me in a proper moan: it’s been hack up half a lung every five minutes, hurts to move your eyeballs, weep into your already sodden tissues with self-pity kind of awful. 5 days of utterly awful (and counting).

We’ve made half-hearted attempts at playing, but really all any of us wants to do is mong in front of the TV. We have watched hours of cartoons. At least in that sense both Ms have looked as though all their Christmases have come at once.

Everything else has gone out of the window: dinner has been eaten at a different time every night, the dust bunnies are so numerous they could form an independent republic, and despite having just taken a holiday work hasn’t had a look-in.

And therein lies the problem. I’m freelance. I have not one, not two, but three deadlines scheduled for next week. And no matter how awful I feel, I can’t call in sick and hope someone else will pick up the flack. There is no one else.

When it’s just the Bean who’s ill it’s just about okay - both Mr P&P and I have enough flexibility in our work schedules to share the responsibility of looking after him. It gets difficult if it drags on, and this winter it’s actually been an infuriatingly ordinary feature of our lives. We were warned that the first winter of nursery (= lurgy factory) would be bad, but as with so many things about parenthood, you don't appreciate the true meaning of it until it hits you in the face like a steam train. But at least we can juggle, which it makes up for the fact that we have no family nearby with whom we can deposit the Bean.

This time, however, we’ve all been completely floored. Until yesterday the words on the screen were practically doing the jig in front of my eyes. Hopeless. Back to bed.

I’ve managed to do a bit today, but it’s still going to take some pretty funky voodoo to meet all the deadlines this week. In four years of freelancing I have never missed a single deadline. Not one. If I want to keep my clients in the long term, missing deadlines is simply not an option.

And in case anyone thinks I can work with the Bean at home (as my office is also at home), think again. He may be a cute assistant, but he just a liiitle too obsessed with the stationary and the gadgets to be truly useful. 

Silver linings this week:

1. Being poorly has made Little M the cuddliest cuddle-Bean you ever did see. He’s also learned how comforting holding hands is, so for the past few nights I’ve gone to sleep (and been woken up and gone back to sleep. Again. And again) with a tiny little hand clasped in mine. 

2. Mr P&P and I have proven again how good we are in a crisis. We've moaned, sneezed, whinged and spluttered our way through this week, and at times we've practically been in tears, but thank the Gods of Lemsip that we can depend on each other. So now I'm brimming with both phlegm and love. Marvelous. 

We've been spending the weekend at my parents', and there were lots of potential 'moments' to choose from:

Grandma & Grandpa cuddles. 
Stuffing our faces with food we wouldn't normally have, like chips and steak and chocolate biscuits.
Creating chaos with the cousins.
Motoring around a big, big house clutching a swiped remote control. Or two. 
Looking longingly at all the lovely, very breakable ornaments.

But the best one of all has been the simplest, most ordinary pleasure of them all: dirt. Or more precisely, unrestricted access to dirt. Dirt you can dig your fingers into. Dirt you can smear over you face. Dirt you can sprinkle onto the patio. Dirt you can have a little nibble at. Then come back for a little more. 

The dirt was great. Even better was that I didn't have to scratch my head about what bit of dirt to take him to. That I could finally let him at it, without worrying about dog poo or cigarette butts. 

Every kid should have lots of experiences with good old ordinary dirt. It's just a shame that, in the concrete jungle that is Milan, decent dirt is hard to come by. I'm hopeful for the spring though - I'm going to make it my mission to find new, potentially tasty bits instead of whining about the fact there isn't anywhere to go nearby. Who knows what sprinkly, smeary fun we might have.