Baking - What Mary Berry Doesn't Tell You

As this post goes live, millions of wannabe bakers across the U.K. will be sat watching The Great British Bake Off. Me included!

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Baking.

A simple word.

Eggs.

A simple food.

Simple and nutritious - packed with protein and minerals.

Eggs.

They now scare me a little.

You see, eggs have taken a whole week from my life. Well, if I'm being honest, food poisoning has taken a whole week from my life.

Food poisoning is the worst thing ever.

I can honestly say that I've never felt so ill in my entire life. Apart from maybe mastitis but I was over the worst of that in a couple of days tops. No, food poisoning, wiped me out to my bed for a whole week.

At first I thought it was caused by a takeaway curry I'd eaten that night, but no.

The innocent act of baking resulted in 6 days in bed, two phone calls from doctors, two trips to the doctor, a hospital visit at 1am, 2 injections in my ass and 5 days without any food at all.

I was also off social media.

*plays highly dramatic music*

Yes! It was that serious!

*shocked face*

It may sound overly dramatic but those who saw me at my worst (only Matt, my Sister and my parents) will know how bad I actually was. I was weak and teary. A wreck. In agony. Unable to eat, unable to get up but unable to sleep or do anything.

Yes, 6 days in bed.

Any mother will know this is serious. Us mums don't get ill. If we have flu we soldier on, we fight through it when all men fall to their beds complaining they're dying. "Even my finger nails ache!" they cry whilst we mutter under our breath, juggling 10 or more tasks.

Nope, this wiped me out good and proper.

So, what happened? Did I eat a dodgy egg?

No.

Did I eat raw egg? (I know you're all reading this thinking I licked the spoon whilst baking...how rude!).

No.

To be perfectly honest, I'm quite careful with eggs. I always wash my hands after breaking them and I never ever lick any cake batter if it contains raw eggs (I know, I'm so restrained!).

Just a short walk up the road from where we now live there's a great local farm shop selling a vast amount of fresh produce. It's lovely. I used to drive there from where we used to live to get fresh produce but now I'm lucky enough to live so close.

Friday 13th (how apt!) was the day before I became ill and I'd been busy as it was Matt's birthday on the 12th. I decided to bake him a sponge cake as he'd been away with work for his actual birthday and we also had his parents arriving the day after.

I got the freshly laid eggs from the farm shop and cracked them into the bowl.

I washed my hands.

I returned to the bowl to mix the cake batter.

Nothing wrong there you may say.

I'd cracked them into the bowl. That was my mistake.

The eggs were freshly laid. You know the sort? Straight out of the chickens backside, freshly covered in lovely chicken poop.

Even though I'd washed my hands I then returned back to the bowl to mix and grabbed the edge of the bowl.

That's it.

That's all it took to poison me.

Obviously my hands must have gone into my mouth at some point after that and the deed was done. Less than 36 hours later I was in utter agony.

Sadly, I'm old enough to remember old Eggwina Currie causing outrage in the late 80's. Since then I've always been well aware of how to handle eggs but obviously not enough. I guess I just never thought it would happen to me.

Over the past couple of days, since my recovery, I've heard from people who have also been told that you should always wash your eggs before use (but they never do) and people who lick the batter (naughty naughty).

I've had a couple of interesting conversations with our local environmental health officer and he said this type of food poisoning is common with bakers. Obviously the cake is fine but often the person who baked it becomes seriously ill from handling contaminated eggs. So all you budding Mary Berry's and Paul Hollywood's, take heed!

There you have it.

I wanted to blog about this to warn people to be more careful with eggs. Apparently if you're using 'fresh from the arse of a chicken eggs' then wash them first and break them with a knife or into a separate cup that can be washed straight away. There's something old Mary Berry doesn't tell you on the TV.

I wouldn't wish food poisoning on my worst enemy.

Serves me right for trying to be the domestic goddess I'm so very clearly not.

*runs off to buy shop bought cake*

Bogey-gate

I've never been known for my strong stomach.

In fact I always recall an incident whilst shopping with my mum and older sister years ago where a bird decided to empty its bowels from a great height into my sisters hair. My mum, armed with the kind of tissue that mums generally carry around with them (you know the ones they put up their sleeves and then pull out, spit on them and wipe your snotty face), proceeded to wipe the offending bird crap out of my sisters hair.

I gagged.

I mean I really gagged.

It was disgusting. My stomach was convulsing and it still traumatises me when I think of it all these years later. I don't ever remember feeling so repulsed.

Things have changed though.

I think once you have children you seem to obtain a stomach of sheer steel. No longer do I buckle at the sight, sound or smell of poop*. No more do I wretch when I see a big greeny hanging from a nose* Even upchuck doesn't faze me*

No, I am a changed woman.

I wish the same could be said for my daughter. Mini Cheddar appears to have developed my weak stomach and she will gag at pretty much anything. I tried to get her over this problem when Tiny Ched was about 8 months old. I asked her to wipe the smallest (I mean, it wasn't even the size of her fingernail!) bit of spit-up from his chin. She wretched like he'd just curled one out in her lap!

We haven't had an incident for a while so I didn't think anything of it when TC had a bogey hanging from his nose in the bath last night.

Not able to reach for a tissue easily, I wiped it with my hand to wash it away.

A simple enough action.

Every mum has done it.

MC didn't think it was simple though. She saw what I'd done and started gagging.

"Oh don't be so silly, it's just a bogey!", I said laughing.

I think the mere mention of the 'b-word' sent her over the edge!

Next thing I know I'm seeing her vomit her entire dinner up. She vommed everywhere. Yup, everywhere in the bath.

"MATT!" I screamed, hoping my husband could hear me from his office.

He came running upstairs and into the bathroom to see MC, now standing, still gagging and upchucking into the water whilst I'm trying to grab sponges and toys out of the vom and pull the plug.

Meanwhile, little TC who is only 17.5 months wondered what this strange part lumpy, part wispy stuff floating in the water was and decided it would make an interesting play toy.

MC saw him grab the vomit which only made her chunder more.

It was a scene worse than a disaster movie.

MC is scarred for life about bogeys and I'm left with a bath, toys and a baby covered in vomit.

The incident will be forever referred to as 'bogey-gate' in our house and will go in the book of legendary stories with the 'pootastrophe'.

Bleurghhhhhhh

* So long as it's from my own kids, obviously :)

#SilentSunday 82

Inspired by...

I'm Keeping My Big Mouth Shut In Future

I expect there are quite a few mums that hate me at the moment.

I have a 14 week old baby who will sleep 9-10 hours straight at night. He will have a quick feed, doesn't need changing most nights and goes straight back off.

It's bliss. I'm sorry.

However, I am not going to be smug. I'm going to just be prepared for the unexpected in future.

Yes, I'm just going to keep my big mouth shut!

As I turned off the bedside lamp last night I said to Matt, "You know what, I can't remember the last time he did under 7 hours straight".

I should have known as soon as those words fell from my lips that I was asking for trouble.

It's like when I have said "He hasn't cried at all today" and 5 minutes later he starts hollering just as we all sit down for dinner.

It's also like when I've said "He had quite a windy feed and burped loudly but wasn't sick" just as he vomits at the feet of people queuing up for their Sunday carvery in a pub.

Yup, last night he did 5 and a half hours.

Now, before any sleep deprived mums start throwing their laptops, tablets or phones across the room in anger because their little people only manage 2 or 3 hours, let me explain...

I've had a baby like that. Mini Cheddar didn't sleep through until she was much older. I've felt the sheer awfulness of utter sleep deprivation. So, this time I'm making the most of having a 'sleeper'.

That was until last night.

He woke up in some discomfort just before 2.30am. I decided to wind him but to no avail. By this time he seemed frantic for food so I latched him on. He fed very calmly and seemed extremely content. It was all a ruse. A secret baby plan to lull me into a false sense of sleepy security - like Stewie from Family Guy secretly plotting his next move. I, meanwhile, happily played on Draw Something (so shoot me) and emailed a friend.

He fed for a long time - a lot longer than usual. Then I felt an eruption in the nappy area.

The cause of the discomfort had finally reared it's head (or should I say bottom?)...or so I thought.

When he'd finished his feed I took him into the nursery and placed a very sleepy man onto the change table. As I opened his nappy I thought I noticed something on his 'little man'. Now, mums of boys will know the telltale sign that your man is about to pee by the column in question standing to attention.

No, it was all clear.

I moved in for a closer inspection just to check everything was okay (it was).

Just then it erupted. Yup, the good old urine fountain.

In a moment of sleep deprived panic I ducked and pushed him gently to his side away from me instead of grabbing a tissue to cover up the little offender.

The wee hit the nursery wall and ran down the back of the change table. It also covered his sleep suit.

Just as the realisation of what had happened hit me I heard a loud noise. I peered over the edge of the change table to see what I can only describe as a 'yellowy river' which was, as it felt like at the time, the size of the Amazon, run from his rear end soaking the towel he was lying on. It was a pooptastrophe of korma calamity proportions again.

Great.

By this point I think I'd been awake with him 2 hours. I could hear the birds starting to sing the dawn chorus - those chirpy happy buggers...I've never wanted a shotgun so much before!

I started to tackle his tackle, mopping up the pee and poo, whilst cursing under my breath at my husband who was snoring in the bedroom across the landing, completely oblivious to the crappy carnage that I was dealing with!

Just then, Tiny Ched opened his eyes and gave me the biggest gummiest grin ever.

My heart melted.

Then he puked all over himself.

Moral of the story. Just shut the hell up.

Don't let this pose lull you into a false sense of security

Bank Holiday Bedlam

You know one of those days when everything is fairly calm and serene? No surprises? A little bit dull really, if you're honest.

Then something happens to turn your day around?

That was us a few days ago. Honestly, it was like a scene from a Carry On film.

On Monday we were enjoying the long Bank Holiday weekend. We'd been out and about a bit and after a day of rain on the Sunday the weather was warm and sunny. Life was good.

I'd already planned to cook a roast chicken for dinner. Matt was in charge of the kids in the front room after I'd fed Tiny Ched and left him to be winded by his daddy.

I had returned to the kitchen to turn the roast potatoes over. Above the noise of the oven being open and the spitting of fat I became vaguely aware of shrieks and hollers from the lounge. As I returned I was met by Matt and TC in the hall both covered in breast milk.

"He's been sick" Matt said looking slightly suspicious like I'd given TC a good shake before I'd passed him over to be winded.

No shit Sherlock!

Just then TC unleashed a second wave of chunder which drenched Matt and his slippers and made a spectacular splash on the laminate floor in the hall.

Just then Mini Cheddar appeared, who, I have to say, has THE worst gag reflex EVER!

She laid eyes on the vomit and immediately puked on the lounge carpet just inches from the 'wipe clean' laminate of the hall.

Yup, it was like Carry On Puking!

Then, freaked out and ashamed at the fact she'd also chundered, MC decides to make a run through to the kitchen to escape the carnage.

She slips on said puke.

She falls and smacks her head on the laminate.

Cue screams and tears.

Incidentally MC and TC both cried too.

Barbara Windsor and Kenneth Williams

Silent Sunday #11

All Aboard The Train To Vomit Ville

After last weeks overnighter in hospital with Mini Cheddar which put a stop on her birthday week (poor little love) I was kind of hoping for a bit of a break.  The sun is finally shining and it's warm enough to step out in a t-shirt pretty much.  But no, someone had other plans for me this week.

Early evening yesterday I started to feel really nauseous.  Then the stomach cramps hit. Bugger.

I thought I'd gotten away with it! Apparently there are 3 hospitals in the area I live that are shut now due to the dreaded norovirus so I guess my chances were slim.  I've already boarded the train to Vomit Ville and it ain't stopping.

Complete with hospital sick bowl

So, a truly awful nights sleep last night along with severe vomiting at 3.30am, here I am.

As I lay here on the bed feeling a little sorry for myself, I'm actually feeling more sorry for Mini Cheddar.  Not only did we have to cut her days out for her 2nd birthday short last week, then the poor mite had to be put on a drip as she couldn't keep any fluid down at all....now here she is fully recovered but stuck in bed with me.  

Not only that, my husband is now trying to jump on my sickness bandwagon complaining that his tummy feels 'dodgy'.  Didn't stop him wolfing toast and a coffee this morning though did it?  Or stop him going to the chippy last night.  Why can't I just be ill on my own and be nursed properly?

He's just offered to get Mini Cheddar dressed.  It's 11.30am.  I've just been presented with the first question "What shall I put her in?"

"I'm sure you can choose an outfit for her" I shout from my sick bed.

I'm wondering what on earth she'll appear from her room wearing.  Men really have no idea.

Then comes the next one..."I think she may have poo'ed'.

"Well change her nappy"

"Does she need a vest on?"

"That depends what (bloody awful) outfit you dress her in!"

AAAAARRRRRGGGGH!

Ill or full of health, we never stop being mothers do we?

Actually, I really want my mum right now (I always do when I'm ill) but I don't want her to catch the train too.

The Ticking Clock

As I sit here at 3.40pm on a sunny Saturday afternoon this is my view. The only sound I can hear is the loud ticking of the clock above the ensuite door and the gentle breathing of my beautiful daughter in my arms.

The garish blue of the hospital walls and the clinical linen on the bed is a stark reminder of where we are and how quickly things can go downhill with a little one.

It's hard to believe that only a week ago we were celebrating her 2nd birthday in style and here we are with her hooked up to an iv drip to get fluids into her after a dire case of vommiting and diarrhoea - she couldn't even keep a thimble full of water down.

I have never felt so utterly helpless as I did last night. Her little body fighting against me, two doctors and two nurses as they tried in vain (no pun intended) to put the cannula into her hand to hook her up to the iv. It was the most awful moment of my life.

But this isn't a post to moan about how rough we've had it. As I pop down to the hospital cafe every now again to take a break and get a fix of caffiene, I'm reminded of how fragile our little ones lives are. I go past high dependency units and SCBU machines and it absolutely breaks my heart to think of those parents and children who have their lives literally hanging by a thread.

I've read blogs recently from parents with poorly children, children who spend most of their lives in and out of hospital and doctors surgeries and I can't even begin to imagine the pain and anguish they must have gone through. I've only had this hospital experience for the last 24 hours, so far, but it will be forever etched in my memory as the worst night of my life.

To all those parents and children who have suffered, are still suffering or will suffer in the future - you're in my thoughts.