Described as the ‘Best British Children’s Literature Blog’, Playingbythebook.net is written by Zoe Toft, a 37-year-old mother from the UK. A trained linguist and a self-confessed lover of dictionaries, Toft reviews picture books that she reads with her children. Interestingly, each review is accompanied by an activity inspired by the book. When Toft reviewed my book Nonie’s Magic Quilt, for instance, she merged it with making a quilt for her daughter.
Toft came up with an unusual idea last year. “My kids and I love receiving ‘proper’ mail,” she says. “There were many online postcard swaps, but none that the kids could participate in. So I thought up a swap where every postcard would include a children’s book recommendation, because sharing a favourite book is a great way of making a connection.”
The swap is structured so that each family sends cards to five families across the world. In turn, they receive cards from five other. The postcard can be printed or drawn, with a book recommendation. Effectively, ten books are talked about, and ten families find a window into each other’s lives.
Toft’s first postcard swap brought together over 250 families. “The toughest part is pairing up people, making sure everyone receives families from five different countries, with children of similar ages. The reward is hearing about the little connections they make. I don’t want to make the world any smaller, but I think it’s important we feel connected to each other.”
During the swap, Toft ‘met’ many people, including Sandhya L., a writer for Saffrontree.com, an Indian children’s-book-review site. Sandhya’s family sent cards to the UK, US, Singapore and Spain. Her daughter “was delighted to receive letters addressed to her. One came from the Republic of the Marshall Islands in the Pacific Ocean! In these days of instant communication, it was exciting to get post.”
Another new friend was homeschooling mom Bronwyn Lavery of Christchurch, New Zealand. Lavery set up a world map, marking the locations of families her kids connected with. “I told them about the distances each card would travel. We loved sharing our favourite books and searched for books that were recommended.”
When Christchurch had a 6.3-magnitude earthquake in April 2011, Toft got in touch with Lavery and heard that many families had lost their homes. Together, they paired families around the world with those in Christchurch, and, “Thanks to the kindness of strangers, we sent 565 books into welfare centres and care packages as well, so that the families would have something to enjoy as they rebuilt their lives.”
To find out more about the International Postcard Swap for Families and to participate, go to http://www.playingbythebook.net/?p=12489 (short url:
http://bit.ly/he4Q1Q) Or email zoe.toft@kuvik.net. The last date to register is May 17.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Vive La Différence
If you’re marrying someone from another ethnic group in India, two things could happen. Either your parents never talk to you again, or if they are nice, normal people, they will mutter hopeful homilies like, ‘Children of inter-caste-marriages are always very clever…’ Luckily, by the time everyone learns of the actual difficulties of living with differences, it’s way too late. As a Malayalee married to a Gujarati, I could tell you a bit about this.
We Mallus believe that drinking hot water boiled with jeera, dhania or sunth in summer actually cools the body down. Anyone wanting to drink ice-cold-water is morally weak – and asking for a sore throat. When we got married, for the longest time, our fridge saw a silent battle. He would put in water bottles to cool, I would take them out. My mum is still bewildered when my husband blanches at the Malayalee summer cooler: hot, pale-yellow, jeera-infused water.
This is probably because he comes from sunny Kathiawad. Where drinking cold water feels like a minor religious experience. My mother-in-law tosses ice-chunks into a large vessel of water and everyone drinks it. Shuddering with guilty joy, so do I.
Likewise, breakfast in a Mallu house is serious business. Idli, dosha, upma, appam, etc. In a Gujju house, breakfast is the time you kill, munching homemade naasta, because lunch – delicious hing-and-gur-tinged – is around the corner. When the sun sets, you want to eat light, and it’s time for a ‘prograam’. A bhel, bhajiya, dhokla or paani-puri no prograam. I watch awe-struck as the elderly polish off homemade fried snacks for dinner. If I gave a Mallu father-in-law bhajiyas for a meal, he’d probably go for the world plate-flinging record. Stuffing my face, I worried about being able to conjure up similar snacks when the in-laws visited us in Mumbai. Obviously, a square meal just wouldn’t do.
Then there are the specific-food-group-related hysterias. Featuring – in our case – rice and proteins. Mallus like their proteins killed, cooked in kilos of cokennut and served with red rice. To most Gujjus, proteins = dals, and dal is eaten not with rice – which is starchy, somewhat debauched – but with wheat.
We found all of it funny – till baby arrived. Then battles-lines were drawn. Rice versus wheat. Oil baths versus just baths. Ragi versus rava. Dal-paani versus rice-paani. Green bananas versus yellow bananas. Picking-a-name-off-the-top-of-your-head versus naming by rashi. Rubbing a stick of scented herbs with a bit of gold inside it and giving the baby a drop of the paste (Mallu colic cure) versus fainting at the suggestion (Gujju reaction).
And food-group snobbery again. My mother-in-law implored, ‘Dal is the best protein, no need for non-veg! At least don’t give her pig-meat!’ My mom enquired, ‘Just when do you plan to start fish-chicken for this child?’ Meanwhile, the fruit of my womb calmly refused Mallu staples like chicken, fish, steamed yellow bananas, jackfruit and rice kanji. She seemed predisposed to sev-gaanthiya, pasta, paneer, pijja, noodles, and still needs her daily Gujju staple: dal-bhaat-shaak-rotli.
Growing older makes you hanker for the ways of your childhood. It makes you want to reclaim some of the future for the past, by teaching your kids things you picked up unconsciously from your parents. I sometimes imagine a family where everybody drinks warm jeera-water and enjoys dried-fish pickle. My husband would probably like a wife who makes chhunda in summer and methi theplas in winter. However, despite our occasional longings for the familiar, it is with the unknown, the different, that we are charting a course. It’s a bit rocky, but it’s fun too.
Our mixed-up Gujyalee or Mallurati kid will, hopefully, find her own path through the minefield of her parents’ combined nostalgias. If she ever marries, though, I hope she goes all out on a limb. Brings home a son-in-law who grew up eating whale blubber or pickled goat intestines. The more different the better, I say.
We Mallus believe that drinking hot water boiled with jeera, dhania or sunth in summer actually cools the body down. Anyone wanting to drink ice-cold-water is morally weak – and asking for a sore throat. When we got married, for the longest time, our fridge saw a silent battle. He would put in water bottles to cool, I would take them out. My mum is still bewildered when my husband blanches at the Malayalee summer cooler: hot, pale-yellow, jeera-infused water.
This is probably because he comes from sunny Kathiawad. Where drinking cold water feels like a minor religious experience. My mother-in-law tosses ice-chunks into a large vessel of water and everyone drinks it. Shuddering with guilty joy, so do I.
Likewise, breakfast in a Mallu house is serious business. Idli, dosha, upma, appam, etc. In a Gujju house, breakfast is the time you kill, munching homemade naasta, because lunch – delicious hing-and-gur-tinged – is around the corner. When the sun sets, you want to eat light, and it’s time for a ‘prograam’. A bhel, bhajiya, dhokla or paani-puri no prograam. I watch awe-struck as the elderly polish off homemade fried snacks for dinner. If I gave a Mallu father-in-law bhajiyas for a meal, he’d probably go for the world plate-flinging record. Stuffing my face, I worried about being able to conjure up similar snacks when the in-laws visited us in Mumbai. Obviously, a square meal just wouldn’t do.
Then there are the specific-food-group-related hysterias. Featuring – in our case – rice and proteins. Mallus like their proteins killed, cooked in kilos of cokennut and served with red rice. To most Gujjus, proteins = dals, and dal is eaten not with rice – which is starchy, somewhat debauched – but with wheat.
We found all of it funny – till baby arrived. Then battles-lines were drawn. Rice versus wheat. Oil baths versus just baths. Ragi versus rava. Dal-paani versus rice-paani. Green bananas versus yellow bananas. Picking-a-name-off-the-top-of-your-head versus naming by rashi. Rubbing a stick of scented herbs with a bit of gold inside it and giving the baby a drop of the paste (Mallu colic cure) versus fainting at the suggestion (Gujju reaction).
And food-group snobbery again. My mother-in-law implored, ‘Dal is the best protein, no need for non-veg! At least don’t give her pig-meat!’ My mom enquired, ‘Just when do you plan to start fish-chicken for this child?’ Meanwhile, the fruit of my womb calmly refused Mallu staples like chicken, fish, steamed yellow bananas, jackfruit and rice kanji. She seemed predisposed to sev-gaanthiya, pasta, paneer, pijja, noodles, and still needs her daily Gujju staple: dal-bhaat-shaak-rotli.
Growing older makes you hanker for the ways of your childhood. It makes you want to reclaim some of the future for the past, by teaching your kids things you picked up unconsciously from your parents. I sometimes imagine a family where everybody drinks warm jeera-water and enjoys dried-fish pickle. My husband would probably like a wife who makes chhunda in summer and methi theplas in winter. However, despite our occasional longings for the familiar, it is with the unknown, the different, that we are charting a course. It’s a bit rocky, but it’s fun too.
Our mixed-up Gujyalee or Mallurati kid will, hopefully, find her own path through the minefield of her parents’ combined nostalgias. If she ever marries, though, I hope she goes all out on a limb. Brings home a son-in-law who grew up eating whale blubber or pickled goat intestines. The more different the better, I say.
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