I’m no idiot.
When Lily excuses herself to go to the bathroom at dinnertime and she can barely get the words out for all of the casserole she has crammed down the side of her mouth, I know exactly what she is going to do.
You do too.
She is going to spew that ‘hours over a hot stove’ meal right into the big white telephone.
“Helloooooo”.
I’m not an idiot.
I know the plan because
I used to do it too.
Now, Mum, I know you are reading this and I don’t want any comments from you,
M’kay?
I hear your distress at my failing to eat what you put in front of me.
I do.
Karma has bitten me on the bum seven fold, if you get what I mean.
For me, it was broad beans.
Ugh.
What is the deal with those things?
They taste like wood or something else that I can’t quite put my finger on because I don’t eat it on a regular basis…
Oh yeah, poo.
They taste like poo.
(Sorry to any BB lovers, or for that matter anyone, who might have a love for anything faecal).
They just don’t do anything for me.
So, the broad beans were flushed, often along with brussel sprouts.
This story is not about that though.
This is the tale of the ham steaks.
A story I told my kids in true mummy/child confidentiality, only to have it relayed straight back to the one person I never wanted to find out.
My mother.
It goes like this;
Tuesday night was bowling night and we were fed early. It was my mother’s one night to go out and get away from my father have some time out.
Every week we would have the same thing.
Ham steaks, pineapple, cheese and salad (or vegies in winter).
Tuesday night was Ham Steak Night.
Mum would serve us up and go for a shower, trusting us to eat our meals in doing so. You can imagine that after a while we got a bit sick of it (being kids and all and not stopping for one moment to think about anything other than ourselves).
During this period of our lives, we had acquired a red kelpie dog, who we had named Toffee. That dog was not meant for suburban life at all. In fact I’m not sure where she belonged because she was a tree climbing, fence jumping, runaway tear - arse of a dog, who was cunning in avoiding capture when she escaped the yard. She thought she was some kind of bird, I’m sure.
Always flying the coop.
She was, of course a working dog and would try to round us up, any chance she got, like sheep into a holding fence, ready for the dip. She could leap especially high and this was a great source of amusement to three children with a less than stellar childhood.
The dog was alwaysat our feet around dinner time and was a die hard carnivore, often stealing meat from preparatory areas before the cooking had begun.
So when we discovered that ham steaks made especially good frisbees, Toffee was there to play fetch.
Except she didn’t fetch…
and the ham steaks didn’t come back.
We would fling the round slabs of meat high into the air, often obtaining some mad spinning pizza action mid throw. Toffee would leap, her svelte, red body almost folding in two as she twisted and turned to snare the much desired lump of ham. She would seemingly inhale the steak just before the next was hurled.
Of course dinner was dutifully finished, not a trace of ham to be found and we were toted as angels for having eaten quickly and quietly…
and she never found out
until the traitors gave it away.
I’m thinking a little payback is in order… ham steaks, anyone?
