My daughter does not care for most meat. She tolerates pork and abhors beef or chicken. You can imagine my surprise when she laid claim to fish as her favourite food. Her very favourite dinner is "chipfish" which is snapper or cod baked in crushed chips. She would eat it every day if she could. Serve it with broccoli and she's in heaven. Odd little person.
For the past year, we've had a betta fish she named "Simi". Simi was a beautiful fish; red with a blue tinge and a fan tail. Simi liked to be talked to. He would come to the tank and wiggle when you spoke near his tank. He was a good fish. He died last week. My daughter accepted his death with what I thought was grace. Turns out, she's got a cruel streak, this child. Sitting at the dinner table tonight, stabbing her chipfish and shoving it merrily into her mouth, she asked, "Hey, what did you do with Simi when he died?"
"Buried him," I said, which isn't completely true. Truth is, I pitched him with the red gravel, silently apologizing for his undignified send off. It was garbage day the next day, so can you blame me?
"Oh," she said, setting her fork down and grinning. "You should've cooked him. I like dead fish on my plate."
Another good reason to sleep with one eye open.
This blog started when my daughter was four, an age that was driving me crazy because four year old's are crazy. As time marches on and on, she is no longer four, but life is still interesting so the blog is still here.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Why My Husband Should Not Help Label Things
Yesterday, we (husband, daughter and I) went to a u-pick berry farm and had a blast picking cascade berries (cross between a raspberry and a blackberry) and raspberries, filling our tupperware containers to the brim in the hot August sun. We returned home with beautifully stained fingers and the realization that we would need to freeze a boatload of these delicious little gems. After opening the fridge freezer, I realized I'd have to open the little chest freezer in the laundry room for the first time in, uh, a long time. Peering into the icy depths, I discovered that we had a lot of soups and stews that were no longer edible, unless we were all having a hankering for freezer burn.
"Why didn't we eat any of this stuff? And how old is it?" I wondered, pulling out container after container of... something and something else. I peered warily at the label and remembered why we didn't eat any of this stuff. It's because my husband, whom we shall call Joe (this is not his name), had himself a comedy party with my label maker when I asked him to help. I had to throw away:
1. Five containers of "Shit Salad 1924"
2. Three containers of "Leftover Boots 9998"
3. Five containers of "Stuff That Rhymes with Magoo" -undated
4. Two big containers of something he called, "Flibberdy Gibbets"
The sad part about Joe's idiotic labeling system, apart from the gross amount of food waste, is that I really, really should have seen it coming. Two and a half years ago, when we moved the house we're currently in, Joe helped me pack up a few things. When it came to putting the boxes in their appropriate rooms for unpacking, we had no idea where to put the ones he had labeled, because "Crap In a Box" tells me nothing helpful, nor does, "Whiggidy WOO!".
I've learned my lesson now. Three lessons, actually. 1. Don't ask Joe for help if the job allows any sort of creative expression. 2. We don't really need a chest freezer and it's wasting a bunch of electricity and space. 3. Maybe don't make so many leftovers.
"Why didn't we eat any of this stuff? And how old is it?" I wondered, pulling out container after container of... something and something else. I peered warily at the label and remembered why we didn't eat any of this stuff. It's because my husband, whom we shall call Joe (this is not his name), had himself a comedy party with my label maker when I asked him to help. I had to throw away:
1. Five containers of "Shit Salad 1924"
2. Three containers of "Leftover Boots 9998"
3. Five containers of "Stuff That Rhymes with Magoo" -undated
4. Two big containers of something he called, "Flibberdy Gibbets"
The sad part about Joe's idiotic labeling system, apart from the gross amount of food waste, is that I really, really should have seen it coming. Two and a half years ago, when we moved the house we're currently in, Joe helped me pack up a few things. When it came to putting the boxes in their appropriate rooms for unpacking, we had no idea where to put the ones he had labeled, because "Crap In a Box" tells me nothing helpful, nor does, "Whiggidy WOO!".
I've learned my lesson now. Three lessons, actually. 1. Don't ask Joe for help if the job allows any sort of creative expression. 2. We don't really need a chest freezer and it's wasting a bunch of electricity and space. 3. Maybe don't make so many leftovers.