Keeping the faith.

(www.youremyfavouritetoday.com)

We have entered that dangerous territory where

the two oldest children have admitted that the fairy dust has cleared

and that they no longer "believe".

Santa Claus? Easter Bunny? Tooth Fairy?

Nope. 

Not buying it anymore.

Our kids are pretty naive and we have had a pretty good run.

I have only forgotten the nudge the tooth fairy once

in the grand scheme of about 24 lost teeth.

The tooth fairy really needs to use the alarm on her smart phone 

a little bit more.

So far, not a single one of them has taken me up on my offer of wrapping it in thread,

attaching it to the door handle and slamming the door shut

but I am secretly happy about that.

In spite of the annual grumblings from Mr Boozle about how hard it is 

to sneak Christmas stocking onto the ends of beds

when they are laden with bells*,

we have never had to use our

"Just helping Santa out. He had to run- Rudolph was being a pain in the you-know-what" speech.

*It was cute when I was making them

and I will admit that I am into aesthetics rather than practicalities.

That's probably why we make a good team,

in those moments where we aren't exceedingly frustrated with each other.

I could have probably come up with some better explanations about

why the tooth fairy pays a different dividend to other kids.

The socioeconomic rationale didn't really sit well with the five year old.

Near the end of last year, the 9 and 11 year old offspring

admitted to their dad that they were no longer believers.

The oldest said that he lost a tooth at school

and didn't tell us.

The tooth fairy didn't come.

He told us the next day that he had lost a tooth and, lo and behold,

the tooth fairy dropped by that night.

Ergo tooth fairy = parents

(actually tooth fairy = mummy.

Credit where credit is due.)

Too bloody smart for his own good, I say.

Who needs to deal with that logic when you are trying to parent?

Like all good parents, 

we gave them the "Do the right thing and don't spoil it for your sister" chat.

The "If you don't believe, you don't receive"" spiel.

It was so far, so good... until this morning.

The constant tit for tat between the youngest two escalated this morning and

the middle child decided to tell his little sister that 

none of them were real.

She is luckily easily persuaded to believe what she wants

and, when talking to her about dicey topics, she can be easily distrac...oh, look, a rainbow.

Somewhat surprisingly, her oldest brother then saved the day when he contributed this pearl of wisdom:

Hey. They are like God. They rely on faith. They exist if you believe in them.

If you look up one of those books about birth order personality characteristics,

my kids' names would be right there in print.

I know the most Prime Ministers were first born children.

But I wonder if the most frequent child cut from their parents' wills

for being little s*$ts were middle kids.

(www.someecards.com)

Computer security fail.

(www.extremetech.com)

My 11 year old son accessed his dad's computer today.

No password.

No hacking.

He accessed it because the facial recognition let him pass.

Genetics 1 - technological advancements 0

School lunch orders will never be the same again

Where I grew up,

Fandangle was not a word that you'd think of -or want-
associating with children's icecream.

I am guessing that Peters' marketing gurus didn't grow up where I did.

Keep calm and place more blocks.

Sometime, I daresay in the not-so-distant future,

 my (more than likely adolescent) son will throw the

"You don't ever do anything for me" line at me.

I'm ready.

I'll throw back the

"Do you know exactly little square blocks of chocolate cake I cut up and iced to make

that Minecraft cake for your 11th birthday?"

Admittedly, that might be only after the

 "Do you know what trauma and irreparable damage my pelvic floor 

and nether regions went through giving birth to you?" line

(though Mr Boozle and I are currently negotiating at what age my offspring

need to be before I use that for the less than moral use of emotional blackmail).

But it will be a close call.

Because they were both excruciating.

One day, I might get over the trauma of natural childbirth 

but I will never get over icing all those bloody cake blocks .

Nailed it!..No, I really mean it. I nailed that sucker.

You know those photos you see on the web?

Those postcards where they show a pic of the outcome of a really cool recipe 

or fantabulous crafty project 

or awesome science experiment on one half

while the other half displays a photo of the disastrous attempt 

by one of us mere mortals to replicate it

with "Nailed It" in  what is obviously the most sarcastic font

emblazoned across it?

We all laugh (well, I know that I do)

but it is a nervous, sympathetic laugh knowing that one day it could be your cooking 

or sewing or slime-making experiment that is a dismal failure.

I do suspect that some of those glorious projects

have been doctored or photoshopped or the like

so we have no, no, no hope of emulating those achievements.

The home economics equivalent of models in fashion magazines.

So while I was really excited about finally trying to emulate that rainbow cake

that turns up on every corner of the world wide web.

I was also a slightly bit (read that as really) petrified and had a backup plan 

of less impressive but hopefuly less stressful rainbow cupcakes.

It turns out that the biggest fear to overcome is that of copious amounts

of artifical colouring at a little girl's birthday party

but hey, a rainbow is a rainbow after all.

Time-consuming, yes, but totally do-able.

And even a little bit fun.

And, if you can keep the secret,

the cutting of the cake is an awesome surprise to behold.

In the end, even as I fist-pumped the air,

and the birthday girl announced that the cake was "perfect',

I felt like a bit of a fraud for all the adulation that I received.

Though I also felt immense relief that my project wouldn't end up on the world wide web

as a total failure.

Not this time round anyhow. 

Hairy bits.

(www.drewdahlman.deviantart.com)

Please believe me when I say that when I got up this morning,

I had no thought to write a blog post 

that was going to mention pubic hair.

Pubic hair in soap no less.

But wandering the supermarket aisles this morning,

my mind wandered,

and the posts about how I miss blogging,

about how sad I am at the passing of Phillip Seymour Hoffman,
about how grumpy/sad/ I am that John Barrowman is coming to Australia
but not to Adelaide,

and the one asking how many other people drive and walk around

and imagine what their neighbourhood would be like post-zombie apocalypse

just evaporated when I started to think about hair.

I have spend the last two years freaking out about the amount of hair

migrating to life in the drain every time I wash my hair.

Mr Boozle has been lamenting his every increasing male pattern baldness for years

but, at the end of the (not-as-much-gender-equality-that-we-would-like) day,

just like grey hair,

it is easier for a man to carry off the thinning hair look than a woman.

Ah, the cycle of life...

We are born, hair on our limbs but maybe no, or little, hair on our heads.

We grow, get hair on our heads.

We get hormonal and there comes the fuzz in our armpits and in our nether regions.

We enjoy a full body of hair for a while,

albeit apparently shaving/ripping off/dyeing a good amount of it 

for the sake of fashion/comfort/heck knows why else.

(My GP friend says that by the time our girls are teens,

they will be fashionably hair-free in the you-know-where.

Hands up if you haven't had a Brazillian?

I am not into pain and I am not into looking like a 

pre-pubescent kid so I haven't been there

and have no interest.

I am not too worried about my pink bits being out and proud 

for necessity of health and in the privacy of a doctor's room.

After 3 pregnancies and natural childbirths, I've lost count of how many people

have eyeballed the area and I are comfy with the idea.

However, someone standing there with hot wax

and no necessity towards my health and life prospects

does not make me want to ask my va-jay-jay to be out and proud)

Anyhow, I digress.

Then we start to lose our head hair.

Well, actually it relocates to the face for older women

and the ear canals and nostrils for older men.

The word hirsute no longer means a hairy chest or back.

Any hair left at this point turns grey and starts to grow at awkward angles.

So through our lives we pluck, we shave,

we wax, we dye...

Human beings are weird, really.

I am not really into makeup

and can often head into summer without breaking open the fake tan lotion

but I don't like hairy armpits.

Parental influence? Teenage peers? Comfort?

The media? Partner's preference?

When do we make that decision

to shave that bit or dye that bit?

My folks are pretty laid back when it comes to most things when I was growing up

but my mum was an oppressive fascist tyrant when it came to her teenage daughter's beauty regime.

(OK, maybe she wasn't quite that bad but I was a teenager at the time

and that's how I remember it)

I was not allowed to get my ears pierced till I was 16.

That I could take with good grace.

Nor tweeze my eyebrows.

Taken with not such good grace

but accepted as I didn't (quite) have a monobrow.

But I wasn't allowed to shave my legs either.

When I was growing up, my mum bought into a lot of those old wives' tales...

sucking lemons will dry up your blood...

break a pin off in your splinter dig and it will go into your bloodstream and kill you...

shaving your legs will make the hair grow back faster and thicker...

(www.flickr.com)

So picture me,

the slightly dumpy, bespectacled, academic brunette nerd,

who may have also had a haircut resembling a mullet,

bleaching her leg hair through high school.

It wasn't enough for me to be dumpy, nerdy and wearing glasses.

I had to give the bullies a bit more fodder.

The only consolation was that my mother insisted on me wearing my school dress

at a hideous, longer length 

so that less of the bleached leg hair was showing.

That and the fact that the girl with the shortest dress in school 

had orange legs from fake tan 

so that diverted some of the attention,

more than the short dress alone attracted.

So I look at my 6 year old daughter

who has daddy's colouring so isn't a brunette

but has hairy legs all the same

and I think about the big decisions...

When will we give her the sex ed talk?

When will her boyfriend be able to sleep over?

When can she shave her legs and tweeze her brows?
When do we discuss pubic hair etiquette?

Mr Boozle and I,

like most partners, I am sure, 

follow the unspoken rule that head hair left on the soap is fine

but pubic hair is not.

Soon we will have 3 teenagers sharing one bathroom,

one shower

and quite possibly one cake of soap.

It does my head in now when the word "mum" is turned into 3 syllables...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, I can't find my hat"...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, he hit me again"...

But I should enjoy it.

I suspect that I will find that preferable to hearing it turned into 4...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, someone left a pube on the soap again.

I'm not touching it.

Can you come and get it off please?

...

...

Mu-uuu-ummmmm?

...

...

Muuu-uuuuu-uuummmmmmm? "

Of course, if my GP friend is correct,
we might not have to worry about it.

Let them eat cake. After beating it into submission with a rolling pin.

It has been a long time since I have done any "real" art.

The sort that you do with pencils and paper or paints.
I reckon it was 1987 the last time I did anything significant like this drawing.

It is always something that I am going to get back to when I have the time.

My creative outlet these days comes in the form of sewing, knitting

and making birthday cakes.

With the exception of the occasional purchased ice-cream cake,

each year I wear like a badge of honour 

the hours that I spend making

then decorating a themed birthday cake for each child.

This year we had a request for Pokemon

(note- well worth doing the homework to find the simplest Pokemon character in existence...)

and my daughter wanted a Dolly Varden cake

(not Dolly Parton cake, as one friend thought.

Barbie's boobies are a tad more discrete than that version)

I was secretely chuffed as I had one of these as a girl.

and you would understand that, in an accumulated 17 boy requested birthday cakes,

my sons had never asked for a pretty doll stuck in a cake.

(note- well worth investing in a doll that has legs which are disarticulatable

[possibly not a real word, that]

It is not worth the time and effort trying to reason with a 6 year old fairy princess

as to why Barbie's legs had to get sawn off
and no, no glue stick in the world would reattach them)

I am not a girly girl

but I did love the idea of re-creating a cake that my mum made for me

nearly 40 years ago.

While I take a pride in the results I achieve,

I admit that, as the year passes

and as the years pass,

I mark the passing of each set of birthdays with a celebratory booyah

as I get a break before the next round starts.

So when the last cake request for the year involved some creature that was 

pink and round and Japanese and apparently needed to be made from ice-cream,

it seemed timely that I came across a recipe for a pinata cake.

It wasn't a hard sell.

"Hey, lovey.

Wouldn't you prefer me to make you a giant choclate crackle filled with goodies

that you get to whack with a rolling pin then pig out with your mates?"

It was fun to make

and quite fast too, compared to the half day I usually spend decorating the cake.

The end was brutal and it was ugly.

But it was all over very quickly. 

I have to be honest and confess that a cake was definitely harmed in the making

of this 10 year old's birthday.

The siblings have requested their own pinata cakes for their birthdays next year

so I might get to spend a bit less time cake decorating

and maybe pick up a pencil again.

Sex Ed. Or why 249 million sperm have to die.

(www.healthewomb.co.uk)

My mother is not a great communicator,

especially when it comes to emotional issues.

I remember calling her from University, distressed that a friend had died,

and her response was "Well, that's not very good, is it?"

When I had reached puberty, she handed me a book.

That was how I learnt about menstruation and other rather significant changes 

that were happening to my body.

In grade 9, if our parents had ticked the appropriate box

and signed the appropriate form,

we were herded off,

girls to Mrs Smith in this room,

boys to Mr Brown in that room,

where Mrs Smith and Mr Brown somewhat uncomfortably

enlightened us on the nitty gritty of the birds and the bees

and how not to have baby birds.

Grade 9.

I can't imagine most kids these days getting to grade 9

without teaching their parents a thing or two about the topic.

Last week, I took my 3 off to the "Where did I come from?" session at school.

I nearly bailed when, in the car ride there, my 9 year old son was explaining to his little sister

that you can't have babies unless you kiss someone or get really close to them

and you have to be married.

Did I really want to ruin that innocence with one graphic sentence

in the school hall?

The seminar had a nice turn out of 5 to 9 year olds

and their parents

and the lady in charge was obviously well practiced

in saying words like "penis" and "sex" to a hall of kids
without showing any evidence of weakness to the pack.

There was a universal "ewwwwww" (from the kids)

when it was explained that the actual way that those sperm cells from daddy 

get to the egg in mummy

is by daddy putting his penis into mummy's vagina.

(My, my. What a difference 10 years will make to that reaction)

Friends had taken their children to a similar seminar

and this got explained as a"special hug" between mummy and daddy

but you know what?

The little kids accepted this new fact about life and went with the flow.

There was a universal titter (from the adults)

when kids were yelling out their household's pet names for female pink bits

and some little one yelled out "trapdoor".

At the end of the evening,

the message that hit home to me was that the kids

took the facts on board, 

processed them and moved on.

We as adults can choose to be embarrassed or vague or deflective

when we get asked those uncomfortable questions that are going to come.

I don't want to hand my kids a book and tell them to read it.

I know that a book should at least be giving the correct information

and I might read that book with them

but I need to be there

to make sure that they are coping OK.

It is important stuff and, heck knows, at times it will be emotional stuff,

especially when they reach the next seminar,

"What is happening to me?"

There are a number of disturbing things about the "Gangnam Style" song

(OK, yes, it is catchy)

but the one that is the top of my list

is seeing 5 and 6 year old children

doing the dance and singing "se-xy la-dy".

We have explained to our kids that sexy is not an appropriate word for them to use 

at their age.

After this talk, they do now have a little understanding about the can of worms

that words like "sex" and "sexy" are opening.

My oldest was a tad non-plussed about the fact

that both sperm and wee came out of the same place in a willy

but was super excited that sperm looked like tadpoles.

My youngest loved the cute pictures of the babies
and took in the information that made sense to her.

Only my 8 year old,

my beloved, sensitive boy,

seemed scarred by the whole evening.

He had already decided that he didn't want to be a woman
because he didn't want to go through the birthing process.

But he was devastated to learn that only 1 of the 250 million sperm

racing for that egg would make it 

and that the other 249 million plus sperm would curl up their toes.

Oh, boy.

I think that puberty and hormones with him is going to be a roller-coaster ride.

Out of the mouths of (growing-up-oh-so-quickly) babes

(www.wordsfromwillow.blogspot.com)

My oldest child is nearly 10.

A really awkward age when he (mostly) knows how to throw an insult out there
but often doesn't know how bad it is
or even what it means.

In the past 2 days alone,
thanks to assorted friends and books,
he has managed to offend practicing Christians ("for the love of Jesus Christ"),
elderly people (his grandparents are"fossils")
and pretty much anyone in between.

His best to date, however,
was to tell his little brother that he had a big dick.

A teasing fail firstly because his younger brother didn't even know what the word "dick" meant.

And secondly...well, for obvious reasons.

It proved very difficult during the parent-child talk about not using adult words
to restrain myself from explaining why this wasn't actually an insult
and why, one day, he might be praying desperately that someone might say it to him.

Breathing on my own.

When I took the kids back to my folk's place in the new year,

my parents were very keen to have the children visit by themselves.

Yes, all three, easily bored, demanding and hyperactive children visit by themselves.

There was a suggestion of me flying over, leaving them for a week and flying back home 

but I recognise the limitations of both the grandparents and the grandchildren

and felt that it was in the best interests of healthy relationships for all concerned

if I wasn't that far away and if I wasn't gone that long.

So I took myself off to Hobart for two days.

Two days.

All to myself.

No kids.

No commitments.

Not even a hubby to please.

And oh, it was soooooo good.

Being a mother,

I feel a certain obligation to announce that I miss my children.
Do you know what I mean?

But in the short term it really is a general absence makes the heart  grow fonder kind of thing.

Apart from being displaced at knowing that I couldn't actually get back to them,

did I spend two days wondering what they were doing at any given moment,

keen to get back to them

or wishing that I was there to tuck them in?

In all honesty, I didn't.

I have to be honest and admit that, 

...while I love my kids more than anything on this earth,

while I will defend and protect my children ferociously ,

while I would die to save them,
the whole mother's pledge of honour...

 I sort of thrive when I am apart from them.

I spent 2 completely self-absorbed days.

I shopped.

I wandered.

I sat in cafes and knitted and watched people.

I sat in my undies in the heat in my hotel room

sitting up late watching movies and drinking iced coffee for dinner.

I wrote blogs posts in my head and started sketching.

I read.

My world, standing on busy city streets, was suddenly a quieter place

without demands of life and family

and it cleared my head.

I swear that I could almost feel my creativitiy returning.

Something else happened that I wasn't expecting.
I felt really nostalgic about my childhood.

I spent of lot of time in Hobart as a young child

as my working parents sent my brother and I off to nan and pop's for the holidays.

My nan is gone now,

 my pop is drifting away

and it is dozens of years and two houses ago since they lived in this city.

But I remember how much I loved it then

and still love it.

It has history. 

Beauty. 

And, for me, many memories.

We used to ride the ferries when they were working boats

but now the couple left are taken out as tourist attractions

We'd stroll around Salamanca Market,

which is still big...in size, quality and personality.

We used to wander around the docks after the Sydney to Hobart yachts arrived,

though back then it took a lot longer for the boats to get to the finish line.

These are the strong memories,
so many others faded and gone
now that I can no longer have a conversation with my nan and pop
and have them remind me of some experience we shared that I have forgotten.

All memories of times not shared with my mum or dad
which seems fitting in the context of this post.

I guess I have a guilt thing happening

that I can actually be away from my offspring and be doing a happy dance.

I feel like it is not what I am meant to feel.
I imagine it is similar to what some women feel when, for whatever reason,
they had a C section or bottle-fed their baby.

But my kids are with me in my heart and mind

and I wouldn't have it any other way.

It would seem that I am just a person who needs to breath on my own for a while.

Talk the talk.

(www.articulate.com)

People who know me well will tell you that you can't shut me up

or get a word in edgeways, upside down or inside out once I start talking.

This is true and yet as a rule I find it very hard to make ongoing, polite conversation with people that I don't know in social situations

(in part, I admit, because I just can't be pfaffed)

I am blessed to be a stay-at-home mum

but in those 6 or so hours while the 3 kids are at school,

I thrive on being a loner.

I love pottering by myself

and enjoy my own company probably more than is good for me.

I get to be in my own space,

(usually a bra-free and fluffy-slippered place)

accompanied by a never ending cup of coffee 

and the ipod cranked up to play everything from show tunes to synthesizer music from the 1980s.

But if I do have to (God forbid) don a bra and actually leave the house, 

watch out anyone who makes eye contact and hesitates in their stride.

It is like an uncontrolled craving for human interaction takes over me once I enter the real, functioning world.

It doesn't matter which complete stranger ends up being the deer to my headlights.

I am off and chatting before they have a chance to retreat.

Admittedly, some individuals do rise to the challenge of  a two-sided conversation.

In others, however, I can see the physical change of eyes glazing over,

as the smiles and nods become an automatic reflex

and their brains daydream them to happier places.

I have had a lengthy discussion about boob jobs with a complete stranger behind the counter

at the local newsagent.

I have discussed the pros and cons of my post-natural-childbirth toiletting habits with a lady 

at the local chemist.

(Luckily it was at the chemist.

The person serving at the bakery might not have been so soothing and sympathetic)

I have discussed the likelyhood of vomiting on my children

(yes, vomiting on my children) with other parents

in a waiting room.

Don't get me wrong.

It isn't all bodily fluids and ablutions.

I have chin-wagged with various victi.....er, individuals about global warming, 

ever increasing supermarket monopolies,

Pokemon versus Skylanders,

men's sex drives, online shopping, 

the crap printed in the gossip magazines,

the tastelessness of tomatoes...

I could go on.

(They might say that I do go on)

Sated, I come home,

get back into my comfy slippers,

at peace knowing that I can still hold a conversation with other real human-being-adult-thingies,

and resume playing "Defying Gravity" at high volume.

But what has really struck me this past year

is that my kids are growing up

and with that, the conversations are growing up too.

No more discussing if Bob the Builder's Lofty the crane is a boy crane or a girl crane.

No more talking about "tana" toast and "nana" bread.

We have finished the chats about why one should wee in the toilet rather than in one's undies.

While a small part of me is mourning the loss of my  sweet babes,

a big part of me is running around with my shirt over my head 

shouting booyah at the top of my voice.

In the past month, we have discussed racism and acceptance, Christianity and faith,

circumcision, home-branded products and supposed "Australian made",

where babies come from (as in physically- where they actually come out from)

umbilical cords and belly buttons,

the implications of losing your belief in the tooth fairy when you have a young sister

who hasn't even lost a tooth yet.

Even Hitler, albeit a very sanitised version, got a look in.

I get to talk lots.

And as a bonus, it is really interesting stuff.

But it is really interesting stuff laden with responsibility as a parent.

This is our chance to teach our kids the real facts 

and to shape that moral compass that will make them better human-being-adult-thingies.

And I can do it all from the bra-free, slippered-feet comfort of my own home.

I can get my fix without having to bail up neighbours and strangers 

in the supermarket aisle or in checkout queue.

Now I am just going to enjoy these conversations until I need to start talking to my youngest,

my daughter, about boys and "women's things" in general.

That is, I hope, more than few year's away yet.

Before then, my boys will want to talk about (or more likely not want to talk about) girls and "men's things"

but that is sooooooo Mr Boozle's job.

I'll be changing out of my slippers, putting my bra on and heading out the door and leaving them to it.

The bear is back from his travels...





...and so are we.

(More to follow once I have caught up on sleep and washing)

Bear necessities

Interesting priorities emerge as packing for an overseas holiday for a family of five

draws closer.

Mr Boozle is reaching for his bike riding gear as his first priority,

practically salivating at the thought

of tearing wildly down mountainsides in the vicinity of the Grand Canyon.

(Yes, we have travel insurance...

though I reckon there is a clause which prevents middle aged men hurting themselves

doing stupid things from making a claim)

Eldest of the Boozle offspring is working out which books will

give him the most hours of reading time

and how many we can put on an e-reader.

Middle Boozle child has been persuaded that his rock collection

is perhaps not needed,

which is more than I can say for the littlest,

who is, at this point in time, insisting on packing her maracas.

(As you do when you are five apparently)

My first packing priority,

even before knitting,

(Yes, let me repeat that:

Even. Before. Knitting)

is Jean Sibelius.

JS is a little bear that I bought from a Finnish kiosk in 1987

when I was an exchange student.

He is my travelling buddy.

My other travelling companions may fluctuate

but he is consistently by my side

(well, in my luggage)

He is a great companion.

Not too big, not too small.

Doesn't snore or fart or have toilet emergencies.

Doesn't complain about being snuck into hand luggage 

rather than getting his own seat.

Doesn't whinge or demand lollies or constantly ask

"Are we there yet?

He has climbed the Eiffel Tower and walked up to the Colosseum.

He has seen St Paul's cathedral and the gondolas in Venice.

He has seen Barcelona and the Norwegian Fjords.

Indeed, he has backpacked around Greece

and Combi-vanned around Europe.

He has been to numerous family visits home,

sewing weekends,

hospital visits,

school reunions.

You name it.

And, as a true cliche, he gets his photo taken whenever he comes across a famous land mark.

He has been photographed with the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Big Ben.

Amongst our (still yet to be sorted) 2001 overseas photos,

he was with us every step of the way.

So Jean Sibelius is my first priority.

He is out and waiting patiently.

Now, onto my knitting...

Meat for non-vegetarians

I wouldn't make a good vegetarian.

I am a butcher's daughter and I don't like mushrooms. 

Not a good start.

If you don't like meat recipes, look away now.

This is seriously good.

I used to make it a lot when hubby and I were D.I.N.K.S,

before we lost our enjoyment and passion for cooking

as seems to happen when you are needing to feed 3 children

and try to get at least 2 out of 3 of them to eat what you are cooking.

I am a have-to-have-precise-amounts of ingredients kind of gal

If you are too,
tough cheddar.

You will have to forgive me as this is a throw-in-to-taste recipe.

BEST EVER THAI BRAISED LAMB SHANKS

Season Frenched (or not) lamb shanks with salt and pepper

then seal in a hot pan and remove.

(I don't use salt at this point as the later sauces 

cover any salt cravings)

Cook in a large pan:

chopped onions

chopped garlic

julienned ginger

whole chilli, sliced in half

chopped coriander roots

Stem of lemon grass, edge chopped

Add oyster sauce and ketjap manis

(lots)

(and then some more)

Return shanks to pot.

Add chicken stock and kaffir lime leaves.

Cover and cook an hour till tender

(I cook for hours.

I have tried this in a slow cooker and it doesn't work as well.

Best on the stove top)

Serve with rice (or even mashed spuds)

I serve with a side dish of stir fried healthy things 

like snow peas, capsicum, bok choy, baby corn etc.

Sorry that you can't photograph taste.

Lamb shanks are not the most photogenic food in the world.
They have a face only a mother shank could love

but man, they taste mighty fine.

Enjoy!