Yeah, I know, the title itself is enough of a novel without the post... But here goes, *deep breath*.
I was MIA for a few weeks as well you know, sunk into the quagmire of sadness and nursing a severely wounded spirit. And so I missed a couple of the infamous Memoir Mondays. Imagine my sadness when upon my return I read this post of Trav's on his aptly named I Like to Fish... blog.
Now, whilst I understand the reasoning I am one who truly hopes this is a mere skuttlebucket in the Travisphere and that he hurries on back to us blog buds.
But in my own little world as I am, I am holding a Memoir Monday all on my lonesome. If you wish to add to this pseudo blog hop, feel free to leave link in a comment and I'll add ya at the bottom of this post. All you need do to join is:
Grab the button from Trav:
Do your memoir and link it here, it has to be a true tale, and either add a comment on Trav's Blog to let him know, or tell me to do it. Just so he knows we care...
Now, on with my tale... and the story behind the second half of the title.
In my google reader today, up pops a post from the lovely Thea at Do I really Wanna Blog? Now, this a subject near and dear to my heart, as not only do I have two terribly fussy eaters, but I myself was one such creature in my childhood (and even a little now as a all growd-up).
All those wonderful little jibes sounded so familiar, all those "Ooh, what do they eat then?"
comments we endured, not to mention the nasty holier than thou attitude of those "Oh, my kids will eat anything I tell them to" pariahs.
I choose my battles, and as long as they eat, and eat reasonably healthily MOST of the time I sure as hell don't stress over diet.
This brings me to my Memoir Monday Memory...
As I mentioned my children in their finicky fussiness taker after moi. However I grew up in a household where by hell, you ate what was put in front of you or else you will sit there until did! No, not Wise Woman, but Grumblebum imposing his formidible will upon his picky, stubborn daughter. Did I mention how much I take after him in lots of ways?
So, there we'd sit. Glaring at each other. Until I got smart. Learnt to always wear a top or coat with deep pockets, made sure I did a toilet run mid-meal (with masses of food buried deep in my stretched cheeks), brought the family pet in under the dining room table (though that little bugger hated most of the same things I did - bar lamb's fry... very grateful for his appetite for lamb's fry), ducked into adjoining lounge room on a quick ruse..
Wise Woman often remarks that she was still finding food stuffed down the back of the lounge decades later.
Did it change my eating habits? No. It wasn't until I was much older and moved away that my tastes expanded. But I grew up, as will my boys. I don't sweat the small stuff, as long as they eat reasonably healthily most of the time, then I am happy. I tell you though, the smell of fried lamb's fry still makes me dry retch.
And next time my darling sister-in-law makes snide jibes about my kids "And what on earth do they eat?" when they refuse her jam drenched cheese dip, I'll sweetly remind her of the times she bought McDonalds on the way to our place for a meal, when I had already checked and organised their favourite foods... How short memories can be.
See Thea, you are not alone in the kitchen as the short order cook (though I personally prefer to be called Queen), in fact I doubt there would be elbow room!
Schnitzel anyone?
