Return-to-self... again
Utilizing postpartum tools to find my way + the crispiest beer batter
Might I preface this long overdue entry by apologizing to my subscribers (paying and not) for my slower pace. Hobby is 16 months old and I can barely find time to make dinner between making sure he doesn’t flop overboard or get into something he shouldn’t. My phone is full of notes which I scribble down while he naps; ideas for newsletters, feelings and recipes. A huge thank you to everyone that has chosen to continue to support Sea Wench in spite of my inactivity, and I promise you that with continued support I will keep Sea Wench alive! It is very much active behind the scenes!
The creative process is much more than the hour or two we think it’ll take to spill the soup of our minds onto paper. It’s the days and weeks of simmering that really count. It’s having quiet time to conjure, season the metaphorical soup with a sprinkle or this and dash of that, and then more time to revisit with a cleansed palate, taste the soup and adjust seasoning as needed. It’s only then that we might consider it finished and ready to share. I can find the time here and there between naps to write but have been struggling to find that time to simmer my ideas, and I consider that the most important part of it all.
I find myself during these very full toddler days revisiting some of the tools I utilised in those feral postpartum weeks to help me get back-to-self. Currently the days are vivid and rich but there is hardly any space in the fleshy corners of my body or silence in my incessant chattering mind for the things — besides being a mum and making nice food — that make me feel like me!
Around a week after Hobby was born I journaled a delicious and joyful list of that which made me feel like me, and it really helped me to find clarity during a time when it all felt a bit foggy. The list was long and tangible, full of the honeysuckle scents of summer and the comforting tastes of home. It was woven with birdsong, the low hum of bumblebees and the lilting melody of children playing at the beach, and each word I scribed reminded me that I could have and love these things whenever I needed them, and that they would return in due time along with my body and my identity. It was something very simple but helped me profoundly when I was teetering on the edge of a very fine line separating normal hormonal reconfiguration and postpartum anxiety.
In the days following the birth of Hobby I gently descended the great hormonal mountain back down the side I came from; the side that faces the hot round sun, soft underfoot, undulating and teeming with life. I returned-to-self like a feather falling to earth, thankful that I wasn’t tumble-weeding chaotically down the other side, a versant cold, unknown and cast in shadow. I remember a time before we were being squeezed like juiceless oranges under the pressure of conception, miscarriage and infertility where I felt truly myself, prioritising movement and deep nutrition in an effortless way. I can vividly recall watching a sunrise with a smoothie in my hand that I had made with fresh candy-sweet berries from the farmers market, raw milk, thick cream and plump golden egg yolks. I truly felt nourished, my mind unburdened with the stress of conception and loss, my limbs loose with a youthful suppleness I haven’t seen since. I am returning there, albeit at a snails pace but I am, unlike the World Cup, coming home and it feels glorious.
My favourite things are peppered in nostalgia, pulled from memory and are palpable in scent, taste and feel. They are summer, always summer, fruit and ice lollies dripping down my arm. They are back garden barbecues, recollections of tipsy teenage freedom and swimming in great bodies of water. My favourite things are cushioned in soft, English grass, not the scratchy rash-inducing stuff over here, but also caressed in the clear Pacific ocean and tickled by kelp tendrils entwined in a tango. If my childhood tastes like ice lollies and prawn cocktail crisps, then my adolescent years taste like Strongbow Cider from a plastic bottle, and strangely they both have a place at the table despite the zaps of teenage anxiety that rippled through the latter. This isn’t a “mentally I’m here” kind of list, because mentally I am very much HERE, in the scrummy thick of it, but it’s a list that reminds me of all that I still have access to while also being in this full season of life! Motherhood is not all or nothing, it’s a careful dance that stitches together the past with the now and it greatly benefits my mental health if I can secure those connections daily.
⋆˚｡⋆✧˚ 𝒯𝒽ℯ𝓈ℯ 𝒶𝓇ℯ 𝒶 𝒻ℯ𝓌 ℴ𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝒻𝒶𝓋ℴ𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓉ℯ 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓈 ˚✧⋆｡˚⋆
Hot pebbles under my bottom, the vinegary tang of fish and chips in my nostrils, seagulls crying greedily overhead and a cheap cold cider in my hand. Something from 2010, probably Lily Allen, blasting in the distance, a warm June sun shimmering like a jewel on the English Channel.
Santa Cruz Island after a crossing that looked like liquid mercury. The water is an aquarium, impossibly clear and unseasonably warm. Orange flashes catch our attention as Garibaldi dance inside the kelp. The water is more than inviting — I need it, I need to be in it, tasting it on my lips, feeling it around my naked buoyant body. The sun dries me out like a washed-up Trigger fish on a barren Baja beach, turning me into salt-encrusted leather.
Mexico; the first land we’ve seen in days. Banda music blaring from somewhere, a margarita slipping down too easy, hitting an empty stomach like a rouge firework. The world lightly shimmers as I scoop up fresh guacamole with tortilla chips. I am thankful for our safe passage South, grateful to be in a new place.
England in late summer, the thick scent of fresh hay in the air and a light breeze in the old oak. Soft forgiving grass is under my toes. Hedgerow fruits are ripening, fertile and full. The desperation of August is felt deeply, a long hold of her breath, the weight of her responsibility noted as she carries the last kiss of summer in her bronzed hands, only to be blown away like dandelion seeds when the first conker falls.
Sitting on the boat after the last gale of spring, unfurling like a fern in the stillness of a new summer, mind clear, tea brewing, crossword pages fluttering in a warm offshore breeze. Time is like a blank book, endless opportunities sprawl out ahead of me.
A picnic in a meadow, wildflowers and weeds bobbing soft round heads, the green Downs reaching the horizon, broken only by small village and church spire. Sky larks hover as cheese sandwiches are scoffed, the crunch of crisps between white bakers bread and salted butter. The shade is dappled and dancing, drops of afternoon sun placing scattered kisses on our bodies.
Holding my warm wet baby at last. Him; pink, sticky and alert. Me; bewildered, bamboozled and utterly besotted. Nine months dancing in my womb and many more than that imagining him and now he stares back at me saying “at last mama, we found each other” with blue eyes older than time.
I have discovered, and with it a direct influence on my state of contentment, the crispiest fish beer batter ever, and cornstarch is the key! We’ve made this three times in the last month or two and slipped the supremely crispy fish into burritos and tacos, scooping up refried beans with them like chips. I must recommend that you fry your fish is beef tallow! We’ll be eating this again soon with some homemade chips and fresh tartar sauce for a little taste of home!
Shatteringly Crisp Beer Batter
Ingredients:
1.5 cups plain flour
1/2 cup corn starch
1 tsp tsp salt
1.5 tsp baking powder
1 12oz (regular sized) can of lager - ICE COLD!
How to:
In a large bowl whisk together the dry ingredients. Pour in the cold beer and whisk well to remove lumps. Post the bowl in the fridge for at least 30 minutes to chill. Dredge the fish in seasoned flour before dipping into the cold batter. Fry in hot fat until shatteringly crisp!