This weekend we visited one of my sisters’ homes and celebrated my oldest niece’s birthday. The event highlighted for me the inevitability of growing up and getting older. The third generation of my family now consists (my side) of 2 children (boys), one nephew, and now no less than four nieces.
The youngest of these is not yet one (at least I don’t think she is, I’m really rubbish at ages and birthdays) and is still small enough that even though she can sit upright she has a tendancy to roll around on her backside and then flop forward and face-plant if you aren’t careful.
Nevertheless she provides good entertainment value: I was holding her (she is small but seems to weigh her equivalent size in lead) and gave her one of those baby biscuits; she was happily chomping on it and then when I looked down she seemed to have forgotten it. I pulled her hand up so she could see it and then she reacted like it was something she had never seen before and she continued gnawing at it; the whole episode made me think that babies have memories like goldfish – 3 second retention span.
This made me think about the boys – one minute you are changing nappies, reminding them to go to the loo and so on, the next minute you are explaining to their teachers that they ‘are good kids’ and that ‘they just need a firm hand’ and whatnot.
Nevertheless I have found that the older children get the more useful they become…especially in the kitchen. The capacity for children to eat food (especially males) is quite amazing. The oldest boy now only seems to appear when he requires fuel. He sort of just appears like a jack-in-the-box, eats, and then disappears.
So in an attempt to stay connected with these people, (seems like the best description), I try to encourage participation in the kitchen.
And there is no better way to encourage this juvenile collaboration than when making trifle. It’s simply irresistible.
My wife and I celebrated our third year of marriage this week. Seeing as we had work the next day we didn’t go out but made sure we had everything we needed:
The obvious answer is because you like what you are reading, or looking at, but you can’t think of anything to comment about. You just want the blog owner to know you were there. Gives you a nice, warm fluffy feeling and it gives him or her a nice, warm fluffy feeling. Ah, bless, warm fluffy feelings all round.
Of course for the more focused, intense, driven blogger, there is another reason. You want the recipient, or any other visitors to the post you ‘liked’, to click on your ‘Gravatar’; your little picture or emblem that identifies you in the blogosphere (dreadful word, should have been taken out and shot).
But what happens when you click on a Gravatar? You get something like this:
Okay this is the last post on this particular subject. However I justify it’s presence here on the basis that a) it made me laugh and b) it’s about food and, after all, this is a food blog.
Over here (i.e. anywhere between Ireland and Russia) we recently found out we’ve been eating horses when we thought we were eating cows. And it started in Tesco (the UK’s version of Walmart). And in Tesco you get poor-people’s food and not-so-poor-people’s food – either way we’ve all been eating horse shit)…
Three years ago we got married. In the run up to that event I got myself a rowing machine. I mean I wasn’t going to spend my honeymoon in St. Lucia blubbering about like a beached whale. Sadly I didn’t stick with it. Once the ring was on it was all downhill. The night of the wedding we ended up eating pizza in a pub in Henley on Thames. You get the idea.
Fast forward to 2013. My ‘emergency diet’ did a job in the fourth quarter of 2012 but things aren’t going well now. I mean last night I ate pork belly and breast-of-duck; and a bottle of wine. And then fell asleep. So today I made a decision – out with the old….
Check out the magic bucket