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My mother is a heavyweight mother. By this I mean she’s always been there – one eye on us, one eye on the pot bubbling on the cooker. She was a stay-at-home mum for most of my childhood, with a brief spell as a working mother when I was a ‘tween’. She cooked 98% of meals in our home and did most of the household chores, though as soon as my brother and I were old enough, she roped us into this task. She was the ‘bad’ cop, the one who shouted, who doled out the punishments, and the one who chased us round the dining-room table to tickle us and cuddle us.

My mother and my son.

I’m sure by today’s standards her methods of discipline would be severely frowned on, and in some places, no doubt, she would have been locked up for child cruelty. But this was back in the 80s and 90s, in Hong Kong – a place where people still smack their children’s bottom in public without people batting an eyelid.

First, a word about my background so readers can understand the context of what I talk about. I am the product of a bi-cultural marriage – East (Hong Kong Chinese) meets West (British : English, Irish and Scottish). This was in the 70s, when Hong Kong was very much a British colony and the British ruled it with the desperate fervor of the last (almost) abandoned outpost. There were football (soccer) clubs and cricket clubs in place of country clubs, and few Chinese were admitted as members. My childhood was a heady mix of hanging out by the club pool or going on company junks (the company boat used for senior employees to impress clients ) with my parents, or going to the wet market with my mother, or visiting my Chinese relations in the most densely packed part of the world – Mong Kok. My father’s job meant I had a privileged upbringing – going to a private school and living in a large, airy 4 bedroom flat in the expensive part of Hong Kong. This sat oddly when I visited my grandmother and uncle’s family, who were squeezed into a tiny 2-bedroom flat above a market, just big enough to allow people standing room when we came over. And yet, nothing was said about, and just taken as a part of life. Chinese people are immensely pragmatic, and perhaps it was just felt that my mother had done well for herself and ‘good for her’.

Hong Kong Skyline

For us it was second nature, and we assumed most kids grew up the way we did. But I guess my mother had more foresight than most, and saw how other kids of a similar background were being raised by the amah (the domestic helper) while parents worked or played all day long. She made us go to the wet market with her, a place we hated, at the time, for its smells and grime and rawness. We saw how chickens were chosen while alive, and then taken round back and dispatched, cleaned and plucked. The same with fish. It always grossed us out, but we grew up with a far stronger connection to our food than most kids. Food fussiness was not tolerated well under my mum’s roof. My brother was once served the exact same dish for breakfast, that he had turned his nose up the previous dinner. It was the last time he messed around with his food. As soon as we were old enough, we had to do chores, even for the brief time that we had an amah to help us, because my mother thought there was no excuse in not knowing how to clean up after yourselves (and everyone else). My favorite was always helping her prepare dinner. I graduated from washing vegetables and rice to chopping, dicing, slicing and mincing before most kids knew how to dress themselves. My brother and I took great pride in making our parents tea for breakfast in bed at the age of 6.

Chinese Banquet Dinner, Hong Kong

Words meant little in our household. “I love you” was rarely said but often shown. Food was our strongest conduit. I could tell when we had displeased our mother if she regularly served fish (which I hated) or one of her ‘medicinal’ soups that looked and tasted like brackish water. When we were in her good books, it was:

• Stir-fried garlic snake beans,
• Green carrot soup,
• Pork and mushroom stew… all the dishes we loved.

I still remember coming home from school at lunch when I was five. There was always a plate of sandwiches, a cup of milk and a little chocolate Club bar waiting for me, under a napkin so it wouldn’t dry out, which my mother would insist I eat as soon as I came in the door, while telling her about my day.

She was harsh with her criticism, letting us know straight away if we were doing things wrong. When I was 14, I smart-mouthed her in front of the relations at a big Chinese banquet reunion. She picked up a chopstick and hurled it across the table at me, smacking me right in the forehead. No one blinked. Even today I can see her trying to bite her tongue, as she watches me cook or parent my two-year-old, knowing that she’s itching to tell me how to do it. Sometimes it slips out before she can stop herself – ‘Ai Ya! Is this how I raised you? What kind of Chinese cook are you? This is not Chinese cooking! What will your husband say? Ai Ya!”.

She also had her own “secret, Chinese mother ways” of not letting us eat bad things like Coke, or hamburgers, or sweets, or making us eat food that was good (like fish). The biggest whopper was pointing out a man on the street who had a neck brace on (presumably for whiplash) and saying ‘You see?! This is what happens if you don’t eat fish! Your throat swells up BIG and then you can’t eat! Better eat fish now…”. Or another time, “Don’t drink any Coke, it excites your glands. Make you lu-lu (crazy)”.

3rd Birthday Party!

With hindsight, I see how hard it must have been for my mother, juggling East and West, entertaining Dad’s colleagues on their junk trips, or cooking Chinese banquets, being a kind of trophy wife then running back to Mong Kok to spend time with her brother and mother in their tiny flat with 5 people crammed in. All this while simultaneously raising two kids in two cultures, helping them find their feet and their independence. When my Por-por (grandma) passed away a few years ago, my mother had spent three or four years by her side watching her decline into dementia and finally slip away, frail and fragile as a feather. At the time, my parents were going through a difficult divorce after being married for 30 years. She wobbled badly, but never crumbled. I can only conclude that she has a will of iron and a diamond-hard core.

Being back under her roof now, with my son is both a blessing and a curse. She is exactly the same with him as she was with us… Uncompromising, determined, loving, raucous. He now knows where to put his dirty clothes, loves to sweep the floor, helps his Por Por to load and unload the washing machine and hang up clothes, and is generally a little messenger boy between rooms. They adore each other. She is his absolute best friend. And yet, with me it’s still the eagle eye, and the odd “Why are you doing it that way? My way is better!”

So I listen, watch, observe quietly and remember how she kept us in line, how she showed us love. I too have mastered her thousand yard stare – better known as the Eye of Death, for its laser beam intensity. I practiced it to perfection as a teacher, and now only have to release a fraction of it, to scare my kid into picking up his toys. If I turn out half as good and tough as my mother, I will be happy in the knowledge that my son has been raised well.

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When I was asked to guest blog for M-O-M, I was absolutely gobsmacked and almost fell off my chair. Who’d have thought that my little blog would garner any attention? I feel very much a minnow in the blog world, compared to the big-hitters of Skip to My Lou, Smitten Kitchen, Bakerella, Steamy Kitchen, The Pioneer Woman, to name just a few. How to stand out amongst the crowd of giants? Because, to be honest, there really isn’t anything special about me or my blog. I’m just an average Joanne, struggling to make things work – food, love, life and motherhood. But after reading M-O-M’s blog, I realize that I’m in great company – the women featured are all average Joannes making sense of their world. The things they blog about are universal – food, love, life and motherhood. That’s what makes it so relevant to me, keeps me hooked. How many times I’ve read something and laughed out loud, thinking ‘Hey, me too!’ or ‘Wait a minute! I thought I was the only one!’. My guest blog is hopefully one that resonates with all of you too. Enjoy!

Warm Regards,

Shal
Jasmine & Ginger Blog
www.jasmineandginger.blogspot.com

About a year ago, the Henderson’s returned from Russia with two VERY tiny, new additions to their family in-tow. Many of us know what a challenge it can be to get our picky eaters to finish what we put on their plates. This family had an entirely different version of the “picky-eater” challenge ahead of them with trying to feed two children who were severely underweight, undersized, and unfamiliar with Western food.

I must further preface this story for the readers who don’t already know that Malt-O-Meal Hot Wheat® tastes really good when prepared using the recipe on the box. Increasing the caloric content usually isn’t necessary to get adequate nutrition and flavor benefits. It’s fortified with vitamins and minerals including iron and has been approved by WIC program dietitians and kid nutrition experts in 33 States. (However, I still add a serving fruit to mine, but I’m a somewhat of a rebel.)

This blog entry from www.clutteredpantry.com was written by Mr. Henderson about 7 months ago:

” It’s been 5 months since we brought home our two new, adorable, tiny daughters from eastern Siberia. We’re so unbelievably happy to have them in our lives, and we’re even more happy that these two sisters get to stay together. That day in October, when we finally began our 18 hours of air travel home with them, they were happy, but quite small (hardly on the US growth charts) and, as they only spoke Russian, difficult to anticipate with regard to what they’d be able, or willing, to eat. Once we got home to Chicago we kind of looked at each other, looked at them, and considered how we’d reach our goals for helping them to pack on healthy weight just as quickly as possible.

Our biggest “problem” was their intense desire for fresh fruits and vegetables. We had to bribe them with broccoli and peas to get them to eat the foods that most toddlers beg for.
In 5 months there has been a lot of experimenting with menus of course, and a lot of success and failure along the way (I think it’s like this for every parent), except when it comes to breakfast. Breakfast is always a success.

We’re convinced we’ve been able to get our girls to grow so quickly (they’ve each added 6cm and more than 30% weight gain!) because their most important meal of the day, breakfast, is one they always completely and happily finish and, amazingly, one that’s even great for them.
I’m talking about Malt-O-Meal, which is what my wife grew up eating. I was a Cream Of Wheat® kid, never had Malt-O-Meal at all, but my wife was from a Malt-O-Meal family, and she insisted from Day 1 that we try it. Home Run!!

Malt-O-Meal with:

• Butter
• Brown sugar
• Blueberries

(the girls’ nickname for it, “mush!”, which they evolved from their Russian “kash”) is THE signature meal in our home. In the beginning, to help get the weight-gain ball rolling, we’d make it with whole milk, and even added a little heavy cream. Once their cheeks starting getting chubby, we went back to the regular recipe. But from the start and even now, these tiny girls are putting away a whole serving of Malt-O-Meal each and every morning. Here we are, 5 months in to our parenting journey (AND the first morning of pre-primary school for our oldest girl!) looking at empty bowls, smiling, healthy, faces and full, happy tummies…theirs and our! Thanks Malt-O-Meal!! ”

I recently contacted Mr. Henderson for an update on the tiny”Russian dolls”, and this is what he had to tell us:

Happy Father's Day!

As for present day…

It’s been 10 months now that we completed our 2nd trip and brought them them home, and they continue to grow at a phenomenal rate; of course Malt-O-Meal continues to play a daily role. Each girl is about 10cm taller than they were when we first brought them home, and they’re up almost 40% in weight. The funny thing is, they’re so active that the added weight is almost all muscle. Never have I seen such triceps on a 2 year old!

One of the questions we get a lot is, do they still speak any Russian? The older one did have quite a vocabulary when we first met. We learned enough Russian to communicate with them, and to know if they were telling us if they were hungry, thirsty, had to go potty, etc., but after a few months home they both started picking up English very well. After about 5 months they didn’t know any Russian words any more (nor did they recognize pictures of their once-beloved main caretaker from their orphanage…the woman with whom they had a big farewell cry when we all left).

It’s as though they decided; okay, that stuff was all then when we were waiting for our mommy and daddy to come get us. This is now, and that chapter has closed. We do know that as they grow, and as they learn of, and comprehend their origins, they’ll want to learn Russian again. We can’t wait.

But right now, two little girls (as American as can be) are trying to wake up from a nap. I hear their two little voices on the monitor are already lobbying for a visit to the playground.

The photo is from Father’s Day 2009…..my first ever as a Dad myself!

I could not be more thrilled to hear the great news about these little darlings!

You can read more about the Henderson family and these “Tiny Russian Dolls” at www.clutteredpantry.com.

All the best,

MP Godfrey

Team Malt-O-Meal