Silent Sunday this week is another Christmas photo, which I thought was a suitable image as we slide into the new year …
Category Archives: Dubai
The turkey left-overs
This week, I’ve been having my favourite lunch of the year: turkey soup and a turkey sandwich made with gravy.
It’s why, despite not enjoying cooking, I insisted on having Christmas dinner at home. The reason I spent four hours in the kitchen toiling over a hot stove, preparing sweet potatoes with marshmallows, creamed onions, stuffing, roast potatoes, Christmas pudding, custard and brandy butter. (The bird was a take-out turkey, from a local Lebanese restaurant, which DH picked up rather like you’d collect a pizza.)
DH had wanted us to eat out at a Christmas brunch to save all the effort. “BB will just ask for bread and hummus,” he argued. “And LB will say he doesn’t like it.” All true, but I stood my ground, salivating at the thought of a whole week of my favourite, easy-peasy lunch.
The cat will help me finish the turkey at least
And, you know what, apart from a minor incident with some burning oil that caused the kitchen to fill with smoke and LB to run round the house shrieking excitedly, “The kitchen’s on fire, the kitchen’s on fire,” the Christmas dinner was a big success – if I may say so myself and even though I had to lie down afterwards it took me so long.
But back to the cold-turkey sandwich. It’s such a simple, no-hassle, tasty lunch. I was sure the rest of my family would agree.
They didn’t.
“Yuck,” harrumphed BB. “Not turkey a.g.a.i.n. Can I just have bread with nothing on?” Then when I practically shoved a bite in his mouth: “EUUUGHHHH! What’s that brown stuff?” he cried, eyeing the gravy suspiciously and dropping the sandwich like it was about to explode.
LB was less vocal in his complaints, and having eaten all the sweets off the gingerbread house wasn’t particularly hungry.
Until five minutes later…when he asked in a small, plaintiff voice, “Mummy, what’s for lunch?” (after serving a perfectly good meal, I literally bristle at that question).
If you’re sensing some frustration it’s because my children are going through a particularly fussy phase at the moment (I say phase, it’s lasted since BB was first weaned) and they’ve thrown a few too many meals back at me recently.
The turkey soup, needless to say, was a no-go, as the children took one look at all the veggies swimming around in it and gagged.
But I was confident DH wouldn’t think I was trying to poison him. He’d just got back from a long flight and what better way to show-off my wifely skills than by serving him some homemade soup with French bread.
“You’ve got to try my soup,” I enthused. ‘It’s delicious. I’ll bring you some.”
He took a few sips. I waited for a reaction. He ate a little more. I went back into the kitchen, still hoping he’d like it.
He sort-of-did – but only after he followed me into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard for the Hot Sauce, and poured a whole load in.
“Just needs spicing up a bit,” he said, before running for cover.
I may not be one of life’s cooks but, boy, was the brandy butter I sought solace in good.
The real Santa
“Santa came to my school, to music class,” announced LB proudly last night.
“No, he did not,” retorted BB, more knowledgable about such matters. “That wasn’t the real Santa. That was just a man dressed up as Santa.”
Christmas Eve: (having already had a visit from Santa on the 23rd) “Will he come twice, Mummy?”
The ‘how he gets in’ questions – our villas obviously have air-conditioning ducts rather than chimneys – had all been fielded successfully, I thought (he slides down the mobile phone mast just outside our compound and makes his way through secret, underground tunnels to each villa).
We’d also carefully got round the fact that Santa visited our house on the night of the 23rd, so we could have Christmas with DH before he left on a ‘sleigh ride’ to Tokyo.
But there was a chance BB was getting suspicious.
“Don’t you know?” he continued, causing me to nearly choke on my tea, thinking he might actually be about to tell LB the truth (maybe the secret tunnels were a bit far-fetched).
“The real Santa,” he said, summoning up every ounce of his three years’ seniority over his brother, “lives on YouTube.”
Phew – thank you www.portablenorthpole.com for keeping the magic alive.
Last-minute shopping (with kids)
It’s retail hara-kiri at the best of times. Let alone 48 hours before Christmas, in a city brimming with tourists and visitors.
But it was my last chance, and the present was important.
Each year, on top of a Christmas bonus, I like to treat our helper Catherine the Great to some girly presents. It’s the least I can do, given how hard she works, and I also love shopping for her. Being the sole female in our household other than the cat and me, it’s the only chance I get to buy guilt-free girl stuff, usually in pink.
This year, I’d left it a bit late, and while at the Madinat Jumeriah with the children, I realised I probably wasn’t going to get another chance to buy her gift.
Shopping sans children is better than sliced bread
The kids darted through the Arabian souk, past wind towers and lantern-lit hallways. We paused briefly at a few market stalls, my eyes scanning the rows of sparkly jewellery. My fingers roamed over the rings and I picked up a couple of silver bracelets, turning them over in my palm to see the jewels catch the light.
All in about two seconds flat …
Because the boys’ hands would reach up to grab the shiniest item within touching distance. They dropped things, sent rings rolling across the floor. They knocked pots over. They put their fingers in the jars of coloured sand and it was a small miracle the souvenir bottles of sand didn’t go flying. Then someone needed a poo.
We found ourselves in one of the boutique clothing stores and I resolved to make a split-second purchase before my stress levels got too high. But then they discovered a mannequin, dressed in a floaty white cotton top.
“She’s got boobs,” announced BB to everyone around. It got worse: he cupped them in his hands. Gave them a rub, and called his brother over. “Look, boobs!”
I shooed them away, but they spotted the male mannequins, in swimming trunks. The boys peeked down their shorts to see if there was anything there (I must admit, I did ask them later: it looked like a nose, said BB).
Then, as I raced to the till with a hurriedly chosen item, BB appeared with a bikini top clutched against his chest.
“Look Mummy, boob holders,” he said loudly, with a triumphant grin that suggested he’d just invented the wheel.
I’m never taking them shopping again, I swear.
Silent Sunday: Sandballs
I tend not to put personal photos on the blog, but as I’ve made some lovely bloggy friends on here, I’m breaking my rule. I also went to great lengths getting everyone to co-operate for this photo (let’s just say, it was nearly me throwing sand) and so I decided it was worth getting some extra mileage out of it. Have a wonderful festive season and thank you for reading Circles in the Sand!
A tune for Tuesday
After all the bad news, this is a very quick, cheery videopost, best viewed with a mince pie and glass of sherry.
I really enjoy the fact that in Dubai we’re surrounded by about 200 different nationalities – it makes for a rich blend of culture that broadens your horizons in so many ways.
Tonight, our doorbell rang, and standing outside were some carol singers from the Philippines. I invited them in straight away, and called up to the boys that they had a reprieve from bedtime (woo-hoo, they yelped, as they scampered down the stairs).
These carol singers – who our helper Catherine the Great knows from church – visit every year, and I just love how festive they make me feel. Last year, there were about eight of them and it was like having a whole choir drop round. This year, there were just three, with a guitar, but how wonderful to be serenaded like this at home!
This might not work if my blog is emailed to you, but if you’re online, it’s a 30-second snippet of Jingle Bells. Enjoy!
Rain day in Dubai
What I really want to write is a raging post on gun control in a country I love – but although my husband and kids are American, I’m not, and perhaps I just don’t understand.
Yesterday, after hugging my children, I yelled at the iPad, my blood boiling – incensed by some of the comments left by absolute morons (who can’t even spell) on British journalist Piers Morgan’s blog. I’ve no doubt my outburst was futile.
So, I’ll spare you the rant about what to me is intuitive – and by way of distraction from a tragic topic that’s left me shocked, horrified and saddened to the core, I’ll be very British, and talk about the weather instead.
Here in Dubai, we don’t get much adverse weather. Some people would say it goes from boiling hot to hot, but this isn’t actually true: at 9am this morning, the outside temperature reading on the car told me it was a chilly, jumper-worthy 16 degrees.
The cars were making waves just outside my work
But it wasn’t the ‘cold spell’ that was the talk of the town today: it was the rain. Lashings of it, pouring down from low-hanging granite clouds and forming small, muddy lakes on the city’s drenched roads.
Puddle-loving children always get excited due to the novelty factor (the lack of variety has led one school that actually has weather on the curriculum to lay on a field trip to Ski Dubai – the lucky kids).
And for the grown-ups – who hail from the UK at least – the dull, wet, languid weather transports us on a metaphorical journey across oceans, back to Blighty, easing a little of the homesickness that can set in as Christmas approaches.
But what starts out as a rare treat can quickly become a proverbial pain in the arse as you start worrying about flooding on water-logged highways, remember that the wipers on the SUV don’t work (they disintegrated, through lack of use), and realise you have no rain clothes. Not even a brolly.
“Look Mummy, those people have an umbrella,” squealed LB in delight, as I dragged him in the pelting rain across a soggy football field to his classroom this morning. “Why don’t we have one?”
The wettest ever Dubai school drop-off completed, I got back in the car to go to work, fully expecting the roads to be chaos and for it to take twice as long, when I realised something. The usual 10-15-minute bottleneck – leaving the community that hosts my youngest son’s school – was, to my surprise, only six or seven cars long.
Half of Dubai must be taking a rain day, I smiled to myself, imagining my fellow commuters curled up at home with hot cocoa and watching Jaws on telly. What a good and sensible idea.
The next time the heavens open over Dubai, I’m having a duvet day too
Heads that go bump
A nice quiet evening after a busy week of work sounded just the ticket. A movie for the kids, a shawarma sandwich to eat, and rattling through my favourite blogs.
But when is an evening ever ‘nice and quiet’ when small children are involved? There was a nanosecond in there, a split second of tranquility in which the boys looked serene, tucked up in the spare bed watching a DVD about pirates together, with the lights off.
It was such a cosy scene – their sweet faces lit up by the glow from the TV – that I decided to hop in (secretly hoping they’d let me lie quietly with my eyes shut, or at least not notice that I was looking at the iPad and not the movie).
But three in the bed is asking for trouble, isn’t it? They picked a pointless fight with each other. They both wanted to lie next to me. There were cross words exchanged. Someone got thirsty and needed a drink. They got in each other’s way. One rolled out.
“Mummy, I can’t see past your big fat boooobs,” grinned LB, poking me with his little fingers.
Ouch!
Then, a little later, while I was downstairs making some tea, there was the most enormous clunk, on our marble floor. Followed by silence, which I just knew was the calm before the storm.
I turned on my heel and shot up the staircase in a flash as the howling was unleashed.
“Get some ice,” DH called.
“What happened?” I almost yelled back, pulling a sobbing LB into my arms and peering at the egg-shaped bulge bursting out of his forehead.
Like a deer caught in the headlights, I forgot about the ice altogether, so it was a good job BB had the wherewithal to run to the freezer to get the Mr Bump coldpress. Bless him.
But being the mother of boys, with seven years of head bumps, bruises, finger crunches, knocks and kicks under my belt, I’ve learnt that a brother’s sympathy is rather short-lived – their empathy (unless it’s the two of them pitted against the world) about the same as a sabre-tooth tiger looking for his supper.
“He was running and slipped Mummy. Right there,” BB told me, pointing at the spot.
Before turning his attention squarely back to the TV: “Look, Mummy…look at that pirate boat! And those pirates with swords…quick, look!”
Boys, eh – talk about having the uncanny ability to ensure a ‘quiet evening’ ends in injury.
Our little fishing village that could
During nearly a decade of airline life, we’ve lived in or near three different cities, and with each move, I’ve noticed a theme:
Our proximity to megamalls and Disney parks.
It’s like we’re destined to live next door to either the country’s most ginormous, cavernous shopping centre or Mickey Mouse himself.
As newlyweds, we set up home in Florida, not far from Orlando and close to more theme parks than you could shake a stick of rock at. Ironically, we didn’t have children then, but that just made park visits a hundred times easier.
Our move to Minneapolis put us in the perfect location for shopping at America’s biggest mall, The Mall of America – which actually has a theme park inside it. You could get married in the mall’s wedding chapel, browse 4.3 miles of store fronts, then ride the rollercoasters and log flume.
Beat this Dubai! A theme park in a mall, at the Mall of America, Minneapolis
Here in Dubai, we’re just 20 minutes away from the Dubai Mall, a vast, glitzy megamall and the world’s biggest shopping centre by area – as well as a short drive from the Mall of the Emirates (home to the famous ski slope) and an unfathomable China-themed mall called Dragon Mart, where you can buy anything from cheap toys to gaudy bathroom fittings and forklift trucks.
It’s all a far cry from my days in England when I’d pop to ‘the shops’ – aka The Peacocks Centre, an easy-to-navigate shopping complex that you could skip round, about the size of Dubai Mall’s ice rink.
Some 8.8m visitors flock to Dubai each year to enjoy not just the beach, but the sparkling array of foreign brands on sale here. So it’s perhaps not surprising that the Dubai Mall has been deemed not big enough. There are plans to add another million square feet to the retail giant and – to top this – the city also intends to build a new, bigger, even shinier megamall, called The Mall of the World.
Located in a spanking new, sprawling ‘mega-city’ – to be constructed, where else but just down the road from us. With enough room for a mind-boggling 80 million shoppers a year [I can see my mother rolling her eyes as I write!)
And just as we were digesting the news about the proposed Mohammed bin Rashid City, with its 100 hotels, park, art galleries and a Universal Studios, came the announcement that Dubai is planning another five theme parks. Assuming the projects are completed, there will be parks based on both Hollywood and Bollywood, as well as a marine park, a children’s park and a night safari.
It all rather surpasses the news from a couple of months ago that our city, which in a former life was a fishing settlement, has several flamboyant, pre-crisis style projects up its sleeve, including a replica of the Taj Mahal (only bigger) and a copy of the Egyptian pyramids containing offices and a museum.
There’s never a dull moment in Dubai, a city that thinks big – and as for that debt crisis the size of China? Things appear to be moving on, quicker than you can say ‘refrigerated beach’.
Silent Sunday: Love notes
The relationship between my oldest son, 7, and his adorable Girl Next Door, 6, is a source of fascination to me, because from the moment our lovebirds met (aged 2!), their friendship has shown that boy/girl differences really are hardwired into the brain.
I was reminded of this the other day, when they drew these pictures for each other:
Girl Next Door thinks she’s going to marry BB and doesn’t mind that he only talks about trains and ships. This is the birthday card she made for him – how cute are the kisses on the track, the hearts coming out the coal and the word ‘Love’ in the smoke?
Here’s the drawing BB did for her. It had a functional purpose – the hole was so he could hang it on her front door handle like a pizza-delivery menu. The words, in case you can’t read them, say: ‘The Titanic sank 100 years ago’. Talk about girls being from Venus, and boys from Pluto!