by Dodie Clark
4. Splosh in about a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar and sprinkle over a smattering of oregano to round out the sauce and season to taste.
5. Serve with pasta of your choice (obv spaghetti is proper, but I’m keen on its thicker cousin tagliatelle, which makes, delightfully, Tag Bol . . .), a bowlful of grated cheddar and a plate piled high with garlic bread, because . . . mate. Mate, though.
VEGGIE CHILLI FOR FOUR
You can make this as hot as you like by leaving the chilli seeds in, or by adding more if you’re a maverick. I like a bit of a kick, but Dodes and pals can’t handle more than a slight, warm tingling so I only use one. Unless I fancy a laugh.
You will need!
* olive oil
* a nice chunky sweet potato
* a red onion
* a red chilli, deseeded
* a clove of garlic (see above)
* a couple o’ peppers (one red, one yellow, for aesthetic purposes)
* two 400g cans chopped tomatoes
* two 400g cans kidney beans, drained
* one teaspoon each of cumin, cinnamon, cayenne pepper
* three cubes dark chocolate (no, seriously)
1. Peel the sweet potato and chop it into bite-size cubes. Toss with olive oil and a sprinkling of salt and pepper, then spread evenly on a baking tray. Roast in an oven at 200oC (if you want that in Fahrenheit, you should have thought about that before you bought this book) for forty minutes, turning halfway. Set aside to add right at the end.
2. Chop your onion, garlic, chilli and peppers, then fry over a medium heat until soft. Add your spices and cook for a minute. You aren’t even slightly ready for how good this will smell.
3. Add the kidney beans followed by the chopped tomatoes and give it a good stir. Add a little water if you think it needs it, then bring to the boil, reduce the heat and simmer for about twenty minutes.
4. Chuck in the cubes of dark chocolate. Trust me, chocolate and chilli is a match made in heaven – it adds a beautiful depth and sweet roundness to the tangy sauce.
5. Add the roasted cubes of sweet potato and BOOM. Nailed it.
6. Serve with rice and some form of bread. I go with garlic naan. Mild culture clash, sure, but I reckon both continents would be absolutely on board.
DEAR HEDY
Mum told me she was pregnant as a way to cheer me up when I was eight years old and sick in bed with one of my stomach migraines. It was the old red bowl, half-sipped glasses of old water and loo roll by the bed deal; I was sleeping, throwing up, crying, repeating – weak, miserable and dramatic. I half sat up on top of mountains of pillows while Mum stroked my limp dry arms and softly chatted to me through the nausea.
‘I have something that might cheer you up,’ she said with a smile, a sparkle in her eye. As a particularly excitable child, this was one of the best things to hear, and I immediately perked up. Sweeties? A booked trip to a theme park? What was this secret?!
‘You have to promise not to tell anyone, for a while. No one at school. Not even Lauren, or Natasha.’
I nodded as enthusiastically as I could for someone whose insides were rolling around. She smirked and looked away, dragging out the process as long as possible, until I was ready to burst. Either with vomit or curiosity, I couldn’t really tell. She looked back at me, opened her mouth, held it there for a bit, and then whispered, ‘I’m pregnant!’
For a split second I was confused. And then the widest grin grew across my face. ‘Really?’
Mum nodded.
In all honesty, I was a little too young and definitely too sick to process this information properly. I knew I was excited, but I didn’t really know what for, or what was going to happen.
I got better, went back to school and ended up accidentally telling Lauren. And Natasha. And Jessica, Ella, Sophie, Ms Harris and pretty much everyone in year four. Top tip: don’t tell a kid with an obsession about gaining attention a potential attention-attracting secret. I’d drag my friends and teachers to meet my mum in the playground after school, dancing around her and babbling, ‘Here she is! Look! There’s a baby in that tummy!’ ecstatic that there was something so new and interesting happening in my life. Mum tutted at me for spreading her secret; she was only twelve weeks pregnant and that information wasn’t something to share until a little later, especially because she’d had a miscarriage a year or so before. But she was excited too, and chatted to Ms Harris a little after her confused (slightly forced by me) congratulations.
* * *
As you probably know, little Dodie’s world was driven by her ginormous imagination. I started planning the worlds we would explore, the tricks we’d play on Iain, dreamed of us swapping clothes, painting each other’s nails, sharing wishes and secrets. The nine-year age gap didn’t faze me in the slightest, as I’d already chosen never to grow up and so that would obviously never be an issue. I started watching documentaries on pregnancy and childbirth, reading books on becoming a mum and practising nappy changing on all my dolls. I’d sing to you through Mum’s large belly and think of you smiling inside, knowing that you’d recognise my voice when you arrived.
There was also, however, a slight worry. I knew that I loved my family in a very different sort of way to my friends. The love I had for Mum and Dad, Iain, Granny and Granddad, Grandma – it was rooted deeper in my soul and I’d known it forever. You were to be a stranger, and I didn’t know if I was capable of experiencing that same sort of love for someone I hadn’t met yet. I was so excited for you to come, but what if I didn’t love you the same way? What if I didn’t love you enough?
* * *
I met you in Mum and Dad’s room in a tiny cradle by the bed. You had white cotton mittens, pink gums and a tiny button nose. You wrapped your little hand around my finger. I definitely loved you enough.
* * *
I seemed to have skipped over the years of you being a baby in my plans and fantasies, but nevertheless enjoyed bottle feeding you and teaching you words. I tried playing teatime with you when you were just over two, but you just slid off your chair and threw the plastic cups across the room.
‘She’s still a bit too young for this, I think,’ Mum tried to comfort me when I folded my arms and pouted. ‘Just wait a few more years.’
Well, somehow my ‘never growing up’ thing didn’t really work out, and there wasn’t too much of an overlap of us both wanting to play together. By the time you were ready and longing to have a dressing-up tea party with me, I was fourteen and wanted mostly to talk about boys in my room with Alice. You’d wander in and steal my things and I’d shout and slam doors and complain (sorry about that – but at least you can probably relate a little bit now). But I’d still take you to the park and glow with pride at your improvement on drawings and tell everyone about my little sister’s funny antics.
It was weird when you started going to school, and you’d come home with phrases and lessons you’d learned about things that I didn’t teach you. I couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit jealous when you started talking about your new friends and teachers; you were mine! You found me, only me, fascinating and I was your only friend, but I thankfully grew out of that as I grew out of the extreme insecurity that teenagehood brings.
This is probably where your own memory starts to creep in, and I can talk about the moments we both remember: like you hiding in my cupboard when trying to film ‘Stuck The Way We Are’ (for my readers, this is a duet I wrote about our age gap when Hedy was seven and I was seventeen), or us playing with Lego on the landing and giggling like monkeys in the corner of rooms at family events. We would run to the park at the bottom of the road and take turns on the swings until the setting sun made us shiver and Mum appeared by the gates to shout at us to come back for dinner. We adored each other and, despite the age gap and the occasional bickering, we were best friends in the most special way.
* * *
Little nauseous Dodie could never have fathomed the impact you have had on my life.
(We’re going to get slightly dramatic here, but if there was a chapter that had to have it this one would be the one that deserves it the most.)
When I say that I’m proud of you, no one will ever understand the magnitude of that statement. I am not just proud. I am constantly overwhelmed by your talent, your confidence and your intelligence. You are already a thousand times more objective and kind than I was at your age, and I just want to show the world how incredible you are, and how much more incredible you will be.
When I say that you inspire me, I mean that you remind me of who I am and why I am alive. You pull me up and bring me pure, real joy when I haven’t been able to find it for a while.
And when I say that I love you, words seems pathetically incapable of describing what this means. You are the most important human in the universe, and I would go through absolutely anything just for you to be happy. I have never experienced the amount of care for anyone else as I have with you, and I am so lucky to know this feeling because it is so intense, it must be so rare.
I’m excited for all the years we have to mime our favourite musicals to each other, to have sleepovers and gossip about our emotions before we fall asleep, and to grow up and experience life as sisters together. You have already taught me so much, but you are going to grow so much more in the years to come, and I can’t wait for you to become even cooler a person than you already are. It is so funny to me that I couldn’t understand how I would love you; and it must have been because it was so much more than anything I could have ever dreamed of experiencing.
You’ll either be cringing or crying at all of this. Probably both.
ANYWAY. I love you. Thank you for everything. If I’m ever a crappy sister, you have permission to force me to sit and listen to you rap the entirety of Hamilton until you are content.
Love Dodie x
LITTLE ROOM
Goodbye, little room, you’ve served me well,
I’m sorry for all the nail polish and tea I’ve spilled.
You saw my secrets, my fears, my best friend, my tears,
my loved and lost encased inside these walls.
A little girl grew up in here,
she’s far too grown up to live here any more.
If I’m honest, the bunk bed won hands down.
I almost miss the fuchsia floor and dressing gown,
flower stickers, books and toys, cringey notes to year six boys,
now a tenancy agreement’s on the floor.
A little girl grew up in here,
she’s far too grown up to live here any more.
So here we are, the final goodbye,
I’ve got to leave the nest but I’m not sure how to fly.
Thank you, room, you’ll always be my warmest place, a home to me.
Turn off the lights and finally close the door.
A little girl grew up in here,
she’s far too grown up to live here any more.
A BROKEN FAMILY
Once upon a time, there was a family of five. They all lived in a dusty, dark house with four bedrooms, crammed with thousands of forgotten objects like old books, broken paddling pools, baskets of school reports and photographs, argument-inducing board games and boxes of tools and other DIY supplies.
There was a mum, and she was happiest matching her daughter in a fluffy dressing gown with a glass of wine, dishes cleaned, and Saturday night TV playing in front of her. She’d pick up her children from school and joyfully listen to them babbling about their days, pouring them glasses of orange juice and writing them notes for their lunchboxes for the next day.
There was a dad, and he was happiest lying back on the sofa with his family, watching a loud movie in the summer with the curtains shut to block out the sunshine. Afterwards, he’d open the curtains and the orange glow of the setting sun would tempt him and his children outside. He’d watch them have space hopper races and practise their cartwheels, and after a cigarette or two he’d join in, flipping frisbees and jogging across the garden, laughing loudly.
There were three children. One was a boy, who was growing into a man. He enjoyed the comfort of his bedroom, but would occasionally emerge and interact, winding up his sisters and chasing them up the stairs, loud stomps and giggles booming through the house. The other two were girls: one a child, one a teen. They both danced around their rooms and dreamed of bigger, colourful worlds, holding hands and harmonising in the echo-y bathroom, drawing flowers in the wet fog on the mirror.
The house was never fully clean since it was jam packed with so much stuff, so the mum would clean around it, every day; flustering and dusting over piles and piles of DVDs, hoovering stained carpets and scooping out loads to wash from the laundry basket that would never be empty. She rushed around, confused as to why she never felt truly fulfilled when her days were full of tasks. She longed for a bright, clean house, in hopes that it would brighten up her soul too, and though she dreamed of a different world it felt impossible to leave the dark life she’d always lived.
Every year or so, the dad would knock down walls and plaster over bricks, sandpapering and sawing for a few weeks. He’d set out for change and start – but would come across a problem every time that would drain the spark of determination he’d somehow found. These rooms would then remain with concrete walls and unstable floor boards – unfinished, inconvenient promises that over time would have life scattered and built back on them.
The laughter in the house was matched with shouting on most days, and the kids would often lie in their bedrooms, colouring to the soundtrack of anger and door slamming. Their hearts would sink but they’d still peek through the cracks of their doors, catching each other’s eyes and miming along to the yelling, stifling their laughter with sniggers.
Time went by, and the young man packed up a large suitcase and awkwardly hugged everyone goodbye, the three girls crying with their shared sentimental hearts. They walked around and explored their new atmosphere, wondering how things would run with a missing piece. The dad came home in the evenings most nights, and they watched TV together on the sofa, spreading out a little more than usual.
Then the young woman was given something to look after. It was something that she knew couldn’t be kept in her home, so she took down some Blu-tacked photos from her wall and packed her little room into a few boxes. Again, the girls sobbed, but unlike the boy she had promised to return, so it didn’t hurt too much. She dipped in and out of the family, hopping between her new and old world, making her head spin. The house started to seem darker, and dustier.
The cogs of the family started to change shape through their turning. They all battled on, spinning unhealthily and knocking against each other, denting and damaging one another. Years passed, and the memories of running around together in golden sunlight and sharing a home together seemed more and more distant.
Until one day, the young woman decided to give back what she was given, and the family machine malfunctioned.
There was a year of pain and confusion. No one really knew what to do, and everyone was a little lost. The house, having once been full of shouts and laughter, was quiet.
One by one, they started working on emptying the house. The mum spent her days packing her car with the books and the board games, and bringing them to people who would use them. The children filled bin bags with the broken paddling pools and yellowing school reports. The dad packed up his tools and DIY supplies and lugged them across London to a new flat.
The two girls held hands and harmonised in their old home, the melodies echoing around an empty, dark, dusty house.
The youngest girl and the mum now live in a bright, clean little house, with yellow dining chairs and white tables. The mum cooks for two in the evening and then continues her writing in her fresh, neat bedroom. She listens to the rain on the roof and smiles, while the young girl lies in her bedroom and draws to her favourite music. Every now and again, the dad, son and older girl cram into the little bright house too. It is completely different an
d utterly the same at once; but it is certainly better, and neither dark nor dusty.
HOMEMADE FAMILY
My brain is working.
Pleasant thoughts are skimming along the surface of my brain, washing over the tissue and coating it in a thin warm layer of milk.
I still can’t see, of course. It’s too dark, or too light. And I’m a little disappointed, but my heart is held firmly in my chest tonight by strings of friendship. So, although it tugs a little, it can’t sink.
One of my friends sniffs, and my subconscious tells me it is my dad. I fade back in and happily internally chuckle at my silly mind.
I look up and lovingly gaze at my homemade family. Laughter bubbles up so easily around these souls and it spills into the room and seals the cracks in the windows and under the door.
Relationships of any kind go through a sort of honeymoon period, of excitement and infatuation, where you feast on the highs of company and saturated experiences. Then comes the anger and irritation, and the future splits into what was, and the rich room I’m in now. Where the mannerisms, predictable jokes and familiarity isn’t boring or frustrating, but safe and encompassing and warm.
BEST FRIEND LOVE
* You find something in a shop you know they’d love and crave to buy it to see them happy
* You look for their name in ‘attending’ lists on Facebook events
* You feel 100% comfortable and calm around them. There is no stress or worry about what to say or how to act
* You value their opinion so highly. Theirs is the most important so you go to them for any advice
* You can message each other saying ‘I love you so much by the way’ when you become overwhelmed by the thought and not worry about feeling clingy or unbalanced
* You imagine laughing in old age about the arguments you once had, or comparing your wrinkles
