A day for soup.

Today was a day for soup in our house. Not just any soup, but chicken soup. Why, you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you why. Chicken pox have somehow wrangled their way into our household, so in an attempt to make my pretty little girl fox feel better, we are (somewhat inaccurately) punishing chickens of course; by turning them into soup. Delicious, delicious soup I might add filled with supper immune boosting, bug fighting wonder-foods.


This is it:

Ix cup black & white quinoa

1x decent sized chicken breast fillet

2x celery sticks

2x decent sized corn cobs

3x cups of good quality stock (as opposed to all that horrid stock you usually use…)

2x garlic cloves

1x finely chopped onion

Here’s how:

In a large enough pot bring three cups of stock to boil, add the chicken and continue to boil until cooked through, remove from heat and slice the bird into small pieces before returning it to the broth. Place aside for now.

In a small pan, add 1 tbsp of olive oil and cook the onion, corn (removed from cob), celery and garlic, until the onion is lightly brown.

In a separate pot add the quinoa, most brands as a general rule suggest 1 part grain to 3 parts water. Bring to boil, simmer for 15 minutes and drain.

Add the quinoa, and the celery/onion mix to the broth and boil for a further 5 minutes stiring continuously.

Viola, chicken revenge!

Although the quinoa soaks up much of the fluid, a delicious chunk of crusty bread goes particularly well.


A place to start.

Well, this blog has existed empty and lifeless for much longer than I’d care to admit, and I just don’t have the heart to leave a sad little “create post” box empty any longer!  Virginia Woolf famously wrote that “a woman must have money and a room of one’s own if she is to write.” Virginia obviously did not have children (if she did, we may never have had to tolerate Orlando). Words used to come much easier to me with the luxury of time, personal space and the freedom to do basically whatever the hell I’d like. However, considering these glorious aforementioned circumstances dramatically fled some six years ago with the arrival of my first little fox, a penchant for crafting words (although left sleeping dormant) did not.  Thus it’s about time to accept the fact that the ideal creative circumstances, much like clean hair and nice boobs aren’t going to come back to me any time in the near future. So really, there comes a point when you just have to overcome the difficulties and adapt to what you have if you want to do what you love, even if this means lying sideways across the bed, fighting a tiny human for mattress supremacy at 2 am, typing as finger cramping-ly quiet as possible in the dark whilst lamenting how much easier it used to be to cleverly craft witty sentences not comprised of words that may be easily mistaken for baby talk.