If you ever injected truth into politics you have no politics.

This is Henry's angry face.

I am reasonably certain that is uncannily like the face I pulled last night after spending an hour slaving away over a hot stove cooking dinner after spending eight hours slaving away over a hot computer only to have my oldest child turn his nose up and refuse to eat one single thing on his plate, telling me that it was "yukky".

I will concede that the rissoles were dry, and the roast veg a little overdone, but it all tasted okay. How could he be so certain when he didn't taste it anyway?!?

Comments

Roddy said…

Believe me my son, you children always knew, when you too hadn't touched a thing on your plate. The bane of every parent. Having their children better informed than them. Absolute bliss.

9 September 2009 at 21:51

Chris Wolf said…

is it time for some kid-friendly meals? finger foods, mac and cheese, with a few veg. sides? Compromise has within it the 'promise' that everyone gets a turn to be pleased and to suffer....

10 September 2009 at 02:02

yamini said…

Is that my dear Henry, turning his nose upon a meal that you so lovingly cooked for him? Ha ha ha ha ha :-)))

Going by Roddy's comment, life has come full circle for you Kris.

I know what you'll say to that.

10 September 2009 at 15:20

Diederick Wijmans said…

Intuition? Children have more developed senses than adults and politicians!

10 September 2009 at 18:11

KL said…

Because it didn't contain any meat?

11 September 2009 at 09:25

Kris McCracken said…

Kids are just plain fussy!

14 September 2009 at 10:19

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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