If you have a busy life (or even if you don’t) you will probably know the value of one-pot cooking.
It’s weird, looking at Elfie now you don’t see a baby anymore. You see a toddler, a mini-person. Especially when she’s dressed in the next size up of 18 months-2 years clothes which seem seem so much more geared towards making toddlers look like children rather than babies.
It’s hard enough to get dressed in the morning. No matter how many clothes you have it is always a bit of a challenge to find something to wear.
Everyone goes mental for pulled pork, don’t they? Even my mum, with whom I had a 10 minute conversation about it ending with her asking why I named a dish after my dad (Paul…. she thought I was cooking Paul’s pork) loves it, despite not knowing what on earth it is.
So here I am on New Year’s Eve. 20 weeks pregnant. A time when it has become neccassary once again to put makeup on before leaving the house – thank goodness, for the sake of my face and the outside world.
And I mean it’s really really a boy; you could see the meat and two veg from across the other side of the room as the sonographer panned around my uterus, though I valiantly stopped myself from making a ‘well endowed like his dad’ joke.
I have to say that I completely expected a girl so the news hasn’t quite sunk in yet.