Happily Imperfect

Next, the adults would eat their soup so we’d all swap over, though I’d always go back for more delicious soup – Jewish penicillin, as Nana called it. Then we’d have the main course, a roast chicken with yellow rice. No matter how many times my dad or I have tried to make Nana’s yellow rice, we have always failed to reproduce the warm spiced flavour. Most of the time we wouldn’t have pudding because by then Nana was too exhausted from cooking, but if we were lucky, I mean reeeally lucky, she’d make us meringues. It’s another family mystery as to how she got them so chewy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. I’ve never been able to master her recipe, and I don’t think Dad’s ever managed it either. Most of the time we got a fruit pop – a long stick of iced water and sugar – and were happy with that.

Nana died aged eighty-six. She never got to see either of my boys. Zachary was born a couple of years after she passed, which, even after all this time, still makes me feel sad. Those evenings were legendary. In fact, it was an epic childhood, though by many people’s standards we had very little except each other. Nana never had a spare penny in her life, but if she had, she’d have given it to one of us children. She thought she had everything, though, because she was rich in family and love.

My family has given me a sense of belonging that has carried me through all the hardships and times when I thought I wouldn’t make it. Their love and support have defined and shaped me. I’d be nothing without them. I know how lucky I am to have them. They are my tribe, my clan, my brethren.

Growing up, I never really appreciated how close we all were, and it’s only since I’ve been a mum that I’ve realized how important family has been to me, and how I’d almost taken it for granted. For instance, Jemma and I used to fight loads. We argued so much that Dad built a fake wall out of plasterboard, which cut our shared room in half, including the window, to separate us. I was gutted because it meant that Jemma’s clothes weren’t so accessible for me to steal – that was what lots of our fights were about.

The other part of me was thrilled to have a space of my own even though it was hardly bigger than a cardboard box. It meant I could spend hours on the phone to my friends and Jemma wouldn’t be able to snitch on me – another cause of our arguments. Despite that, as Jemma and I grew up we became the closest of sisters. I call her every day and now we’re best friends.

Strong women run in my family. Nana, who was the daughter of Polish immigrants, brought up her four children single-handed and alone after my grandfather died when Dad was young. Nana Toby, as she called herself – she hated her real name ‘Mathilda’ – was progressive in her views. She let my dad build a darkroom in her cupboard when he became interested in photography, which later became his profession. Later, she looked after us three when Mum had to leave early in the morning for work. I was still at primary school before Mum and Dad divorced. Mum worked for the Department of Social Security while Dad was setting up his photography business, which meant that neither parent could be there in the mornings to get us ready for school.

When my mum left quietly for the office, so I wouldn’t be upset, I always found her out, ran to a top window and cried, ‘Don’t go! Don’t leave me!’ I was never one for understatement.

I was eight years old when my parents sat us down one day and told us they were separating.

‘Jemma, Stace, Matt, we’ve got something to tell you,’ Dad began.

‘Move over,’ Jemma hissed at me, wiggling her bum into the space where I was trying to sit.

‘No, you move. Muuum, Jemma’s sitting on me!’ I wailed.

All three of us were crammed into the tiniest, ugliest brown leather sofa you can possibly imagine.

‘Listen, you three. This is important,’ said Mum. ‘We’re going to divorce because me and your dad love each other but we’re not in love any more.’

There was silence, broken by Jemma bursting into tears.

‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say. Jemma was very upset, and I assumed I should be too, but our parents made it so easy and friendly that I wasn’t sad for long. Matthew took it hardest. He was only seven when they split up, so he found it really confusing.

I’d had no clue that Mum and Dad’s relationship was ending. They were so amicable, though we always knew when Mum was having a little cry about it: she’d hoover downstairs and we knew not to disturb her.

I think Mum had been feeling neglected because Dad worked so hard setting up his photographic company, but the reasons for their separation were never discussed. I always felt it was their business, not ours. Dad moved out, and not long afterwards he bought the house in our road. Each week, Mum had us from Sunday to Wednesday, Dad would pick us up from school on Wednesday and we’d stay with him for the rest of the week. They made it so smooth. They did the most selfless thing by putting us first.

A few years later, in 2000, when I was at the end of primary school, Dad met Karen. He introduced us to her that summer. Instantly, we loved her and she loved us. All credit to my mum, she made a huge effort to be nice to Karen and they got on really well. If Mum hadn’t liked her, we’d have struggled.

As an adult, I look back at that time and can see how difficult it must have been for Karen, fitting into a close family. She and her children, Aaron, Samantha and Ray, came on holiday to Turkey with us, and it must have been strange being there with all of us, including my mum, while she was starting a new relationship. Dad was so happy, and she was such a lovely lady, that the holiday didn’t feel awkward at all. I’ll never forget that Karen bought me a book for the plane, The Prince of Egypt. It was the first time our new extended family had had a holiday together. To me, it was exciting, different and lovely. Dad was happy. Karen was happy – and so were we.

Once Dad and Karen had moved in together, half of our week was spent with our bigger family. The first time my new step-siblings stayed overnight with us, I insisted my new sister Sam slept in my bunk with me. When it came to bedtime, we lay there silently for what seemed like ages. It was really awkward. I didn’t know her or she me. All of a sudden Sam put her foot out and caught the white sheet, which made me exclaim that her foot looked like Julius Caesar because it was wrapped in a toga.

‘It’s Julius Cheeser!’ one of us yelled, and then we were laughing. We laughed so loudly and for so long that Dad had to come and tell us to stop. After that, whenever we stayed over, there’d be silence, then one of us would shout, ‘Julius Cheeser!’ We still do it today –though we’ve given up sharing a bunk bed!

I don’t know how Dad and Karen could afford to feed us. We’d walk in from school and all six of us would head straight to the fridge. Most of the time Dad cooked.

One evening we’d all sat down at the table. ‘Oi, budge up, Stace,’ Matt said, elbowing me in the ribs.

‘Hey, watch it! I’m bigger than you,’ I retorted, giving my little brother a mock-grimace.

‘Yes, yes, Stace, you look terrifying.’ Dad grinned. ‘Now, everyone, sit still and let me put this down.’ He was carrying a large baking dish, which he put in the centre of the table with a flourish. There was a brief moment of silence while we registered the food, then the babble started up again, with laughing, fighting, teasing and squabbling.

I looked around me, knowing my life was messy but utterly complete. My new step-mum, Karen, was laughing at one end of the table, while Dad served up huge portions of his homemade shepherd’s pie. My sister Jemma, my polar opposite in character, was chatting to our stepsister Sam, while stepbrothers Aaron and Ray (and later half-brother Josh) mucked about with Matt. It was a glorious mish-mash of children and adults, our blended family in action.

‘Arrgh, Dad! You’ve put loads of chilli in it again!’ I shouted, feeling the sudden burn.

‘It’s meant to be shepherd’s pie!’ Matt gulped down a glass of water.

Dad beamed, as happy as anything with his latest creation, while we coughed and went bright red in the face. I’d never seen so much water drunk so quickly by a group of children! Other times, we’d be sweating from the heat of the spices he’d jazzed up our dinner with, and he’d never relent.

‘If you don’t eat it, there’s nothing at all,’ Dad would say, and I’m the same with my boys, except I don’t lace everything with chilli. I leave that to my father.

Afterwards we bickered as usual over who would wash, dry or put away the dishes. No one ever wanted to dry them. The job everyone wanted was putting away and we fought fiercely over it.

My family has given me the strongest moral compass. They taught me always to try to do the right thing, and to know how important people are. They taught me to have compassion and empathy: you never know what someone is struggling with. They may seem grumpy but they could be going through a very bad patch. Living with so many family members taught me to have consideration for others, and patience, especially when they’re enduring difficult emotions. When I complained about my sisters or brothers, one or other of my parents would say, ‘Hang on, Stace, don’t just think about yourself. Look at why they’re acting the way they are.’

That message has stayed with me, and I’m so grateful to them for that perspective. My family showed me that we could stand together and help one another, even during a divorce, and that we can have so much fun together. Just having each other was enough.

This became the blueprint for my parenting. I hope I’m able to be a smidgen of the parent to my kids that my mum and dad, and stepmother Karen, were to me. I really hope that with my boys I can bring joy into the simple things, without lots of stuff, the way I was brought up.

I want the values that were instilled in me – kindness, consideration for others, tolerance for people around me, togetherness and love – to be passed down to my children. I work really hard to achieve that. I’m just so grateful for everything my family did for me, and everything they still do today.

I wouldn’t be the person I am today without my family. I have a huge amount of respect and admiration for everyone in it. I can’t imagine what it’s like not to have a family unit as close and loving as mine. Meeting Karen made me realize that family doesn’t have to be blood-related. Anyone we love can be a surrogate parent, sibling, aunt or uncle to us. Family can be anyone – friends, pets, partners: it doesn’t have to be biological to be real.

My family set-up isn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination. My parents divorced, and we blended two families together. I have two children by different partners, and now I’m not with either of them. Yet, despite that, we have thrived and loved, and I feel so fortunate we have each other. Why do we worry about being a perfect family? There’s no such thing, only the love we have for those closest to us.

My parents’ behaviour was a huge influence on the way we dealt with the divorce. It was their positivity that made our lives carry on so smoothly. There are lots of circumstances in which it is impossible to have that kind of break-up – I’ve discovered that in my own relationship history. It is also worth noting that it is completely out of any child’s hands as to how their parents deal with separation or divorce. It’s wholly up to them, and many may be unable to move on without conflict or difficulty. We all try to do the best we can.

It’s important to recognize also that the breakdown of relationships doesn’t necessarily define our parenting. We can make mistakes, or find we can’t deal with our exes as easily as perhaps we’d like. That doesn’t mean we’ve failed. It just means that real life is challenging and complex – and family relationships most of all.

I believe that my children can become whoever they want to become, despite our immediate family circumstances. I have to strive to be the parent I want to be, providing a happy and steady home for my boys that is full of love. It’s all I can do.

I try to stay positive and kind about all the people involved in raising my children, which, although it can be tough at times, it is of the utmost importance to me as being a single mum isn’t easy. That would be my main piece of advice to anyone who is reassessing their tribe right now.

My family is my backbone. Every day I give thanks for each and every one of them.

STAY POSITIVE

My parents were united as parents, regardless of what was going on between them, and they always spoke about each other in a positive light, with love and respect. I try hard to do the same with my own children and their fathers. It isn’t easy, none of this is, but when I look at how happy my boys are, I know it’s worth the extra effort.

How can you be more positive in your family relationships? Are there relatives or partners you can deal with more gently, or be more understanding about their troubles or behaviour? Can you stop yourself reacting in a negative way, even just a little? Your tribe is just that, your group of other flawed people trying to do their best, often in ways that may not be comfortable for you. It’s when I see this that I remember love is a verb, and I can choose to express it in my actions, even if that means biting my tongue.

CHAPTER 5

Recipes That Say Love (Version 1)

Getting a word in edgeways around our dining-table at mealtimes, especially on Friday night, was impossible unless you learnt to shout, make people laugh or debate passionately. With six siblings, and relatives coming out of the floorboards, we still have supper together on every Sabbath because it’s our tradition. I have at least fifteen people round my table.

Pretty much everything about my personality was formed round the dining-table. I learnt to talk really fast, like really fast, so I could get out what I needed to say before someone interrupted me. My head has always been filled with a million thoughts – and a million things to say. I guess my telly career thrives because of this so I’m very happy with this imperfection!

When you’re one of seven children, you aren’t heard if you don’t talk loudly. I learnt how to debate, how to engage in adult conversation, and I learnt about love. It was served up each evening amid the noise and the elbowing, the jokes and the occasional tears. Now, food for me is a form of love, and I serve it up to my boys every evening. I spend a lot of my life cooking. I see it as my service to my family, and all of it, absolutely all of it, expresses the love I feel for them. Friday-night dinner is the heart of our week, and has been since I was a child.

All these recipes are filled to the brim with love – the love oozes from them – and I dish it up unapologetically. I tell my boys I love them a hundred times a day, and that’s still not enough for me.

Nana’s Chicken Soup and Kneidlach

Nana always had a pot of her Jewish penicillin bubbling on the stove. Nowadays it would be described as ‘bone broth’ and sold for six pounds a pop in trendy Shoreditch, but it has been the staple of our lives. The chicken is usually a broiler bought from a kosher butcher so it has no giblets, but you can use any old chicken, though I’m told organic is best. This soup is meant to simmer from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. for the best flavour but two hours is fine!

Serves 4

You’ll need:

For the chicken soup

1 x 1.5kg broiler chicken or any chicken will do

1 onion, peeled and roughly chopped

2 sticks of celery, roughly chopped

2 carrots, roughly chopped

1 chicken stock cube

250g rice noodles

For the kneidlach

2 eggs, lightly beaten

2 tablespoons oil or chicken fat

2 tablespoons soup stock or water

1 teaspoon salt

110g matzah meal or fine ground breadcrumbs

Place the chicken and the rest of the soup ingredients in a large pot, with enough water to cover. Bring it to the boil, then lower the heat and allow it to simmer for around 2 hours, topping up the water as necessary. Remove any fat that rises to the surface and keep to one side for the kneidlach.

Meanwhile, make the kneidlach. (Or you can buy them if you’re super-busy!) In a bowl, stir together the eggs, oil or chicken fat, stock or water and salt, then add the matzah meal or breadcrumbs slowly until the mixture is thick. Cover and put it into the fridge for 30 minutes, then form into small balls.

Half an hour before serving, remove the chicken and set aside. Add the dumplings to the soup to cook for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, shred the meat from the chicken and place into serving bowls – you can return the bones to the stock pot for extra flavour. Drop in the rice noodles, and let them cook for 2 minutes.

Gently place the noodles and the cooked kneidlach into the bowls with the chicken meat, cover with hot broth and serve piping hot to appreciative diners. Amazing!

Friday-night Dinner Roast Chicken and Yellow Rice

Pretty straightforward, though Nana always made it taste amazing. It was always the centrepiece of Friday-night dinner, and reminds me of home, family and comfort. I have so many happy memories of those dinners, memories I try to recreate today at my own table.

Serves 4

You’ll need:

1 x 1.5kg whole chicken

2 tablespoons butter

1 lemon, halved

salt and pepper

For the rice

280g white long-grain rice

2 onions, peeled and chopped

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 teaspoons turmeric

A pinch of saffron

1/2 teaspoon salt

600ml water

Preheat the oven to 200°C/Gas 6. Place the chicken into a foiled roasting tin, rub the softened butter over the chicken and season generously. Put the cut lemon inside the chicken. Bung it into the oven and roast for 80–90 minutes. Stab it with a skewer: if the juices run clear, it’s done. If not, put it back into the oven for another 10 minutes, then test again.

Half an hour before you want to serve, make the rice. Heat up the oil in a saucepan, add the chopped onion and cook for two minutes until starting to soften. Add the turmeric, saffron, salt and rice. Cover with the water and bring to a simmer for 8 minutes. Place a lid on top and turn the heat off. Leave the lid on until the rice is fully cooked and all the water is absorbed. Fluff with a fork and serve with the chicken. Enjoy!

Dad’s Spicy Shepherd’s Pie

I’ll let Dad speak for himself here, as it’s his recipe after all: ‘I made this differently every time, but mostly it looks something like this. My spice mix varies according to how I feel on the day I’m making it, but I always have chilli, loads of chilli. My grandparents were Iraqi Jews who traded coffee in Burma. When the Japanese invaded they fled to Calcutta before moving to London in the 1950s. My heritage is where I get my love for spicy food, and I was always trying to share this with my children as they grew up.’

Serves at least 8, ‘because that’s how many I routinely had round my dining-table.’

You’ll need:

2 tablespoons vegetable or coconut oil

500g lean lamb mince and Quorn

1–2 medium onions, peeled and finely chopped

1 stick celery, finely chopped

1 carrot, finely chopped

1 garlic clove, finely chopped

1 teaspoon chilli powder or 1 fresh chilli, deseeded and chopped

1 teaspoon ground cumin

200g frozen peas

1 tablespoon tomato purée

100ml vegetable or lamb stock

For the topping

500g sweet potatoes

600g potatoes

1 tablespoon milk

‘I used half mince and half Quorn to make it healthier, and none of the kids ever noticed.’ Heat half the oil. Fry the lamb mince and the Quorn together in the oil. Once the meat has browned, remove it from the pan and set it aside. Fry the onions in the remaining tablespoon of oil, until they are softening, about 5 minutes, then add the celery and carrot. Continue to fry for a couple of minutes, then add the garlic, chilli and cumin. Let them cook for a minute, then tip in the peas. Add the mince mixture with the tomato purée, and a little vegetable or lamb stock to moisten the mixture. Leave to cook for 5 minutes, then remove from the heat.

Preheat the oven to 200°C/Gas 6.

Meanwhile, peel and chop the sweet potatoes and the potatoes. Add them to a big pan of boiling salted water. When they are cooked, about 15 minutes, drain and mash them with the milk.

Tip the mince and vegetable mixture into a large greased baking dish, then smooth the potato mixture over the top. Put it into the oven for 35 minutes, until the top has browned.

‘Hey presto – Spicy Shepherd’s Pie!’

CHAPTER 6

Mum Guilt!

Zachary: ‘Mummy …’

Me: ‘Yes, Zach?’

Zachary: ‘Can we please live in a tent?’

Me (spluttering on my bottle of water): ‘Erm, why do you ask?’

Zachary: ‘Because then you won’t have to work and you can stay at home all day with us. We don’t need new toys, we just need a tent so you can be with us.’

Bam! Mum Guilt, right there. It’s inescapable and, it seems to me, inherent in any parent. Even if my rational mind knows we’re better off with me working and building a future for them, I fold when one of my children says something like that. Within seconds I’m hastily reviewing all of my career choices and wondering if we could live in a tent – which, by the way, would be a disaster. Sorry, Zachary, but no. They’d soon regret it when it came to Christmas in the tent, and me having to say, ‘Guys, no toys this year, but that’s what you wanted.’ Can you imagine their reaction?

I overthink everything when it comes to being a mummy. A prime example is at breakfast time. Most days the boys beg me to make dippy eggs. I have to leave for the Loose Women studio by 6.45 a.m. so I usually fob them off with a bowl of Weetabix before I run out of the door. Do I feel guilty? Hell, yeah. Do I also provide them with a strong female role model, a working mum supporting her family? Hell, yeah, to that too. But the doubts never go away.

Should I get up earlier to make dippy eggs each morning? No, I’d get tired, do my job badly, upset producers, shout at my kids, then not be able to pay the mortgage, but my head will still tell me I’m not a great mummy because I make the choices I make.

Some nights when the boys were younger, they’d both be asleep next to me in my bed, one on either side, while I worked on my laptop. Some people say that co-sleeping is bad as it makes children dependent, but others say it makes them feel loved and secure.

For us, it was a natural solution to make bedtimes easier when Zach and Leighton were younger. We all loved snuggling up together, and who’s to say that was wrong? But I still doubted my decision: should I make them sleep in their own beds? I wondered. Have I messed them up mentally by letting them sleep with me? Loads of psychology books and the parenting advice you can read online strongly suggest that sleeping in the same bed with your children can be detrimental to their development. Well, not only do the boys and I thoroughly enjoy sleepovers in my bed, but at 3 a.m. when Leighton climbs out of his bunk bed to go for his early-morning pee, I’m not up for a debate as to where he then chooses to sleep. In with Mummy he comes. And my head still says: Should I force him to stay in his own bed?