Have been thinking about Guy Fawkes night, and traditions around dubious fire work festival.
I am perfect example of why fireworks should not be sold to children, as liked nothing better than hunting out change to spend at corner shop on strings of bright red "tom thumbs" like little dried chilli's, or bigger, louder, hotter "double happy's" which were flung with gay abandon off verandah, or hidden in letterbox, or occaisionally, if Jason from over road was round, held between teeth -(where were my parents?)
Sounds terrible I know, but everyone did same back then. Recall one wild guy fawkes night being handed lit roman candle by adult and told to RUN! firework gushed incandecent stream of flame and sparks, like comets tail behind me as I tore around garden in dark.
Would undoubtably have been horribly maimed if I fell, or firework malfunctioned, but as neither happened moment is enshrined as glorious childhood memory. Felt like Tinkerbell trailing sparkles across the sky. Little frisson of danger made it all the more exciting.
But God forbid anyone hand MY kid lit incendiary device! My kids (to best of my knowledge) have never chucked fireworks off a verandah or exploded them between teeth (I haven't told them I did this). Nor have they ever traveled in car on someones lap, or in boot,or on back of a trailer, all perfectly normal. albeit dangerous, back in dark ages when I was youth.
Accidents and fires are constant concerns, and pets quake in fear - although chance to get own back on large scary "jump out and bark at you" dogs up driveway has significant appeal...
I will always love smell of fireworks and enjoy writing my name on the night with silver sparkler, but increasingly appreciate that freedom to purchase and let off highly flamable and dangerous explosive devices in close proximity to home and loved ones, is not a freedom I feel worth fighting for.
I will however fight to the death for my right to eat sponge cake with strawberries and cream, toffee apples, pavlova and treacle toffee on fireworks night. Also love watching kids faces as they stand around bonfire toasting marshmallows, and listening to teens mocking and scorning then in next breath cooing with delight at starry display bursting to life above them.
whether its at home or a display,memories will be made and gunpowder will turn to golden stars before your eyes. And just when its all about to end there is sponge cake with strawberries...you better be sure to save me some!
Monday, October 18, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Snack time at mother Hubbards
Have spent school hols waging war with boy/man/child over contents of pantry, or in his opinion lack of.
He simply refuses to acknowledge that ingredients are actual food, so complains constantly that I am starving him.
Apparently every other house is bursting at seams with snack foods, and all contain Fridges and freezers yeilding treasure trove of goodness to which young uns apparently are granted unlimited access.
Is constant source of shame to him that he is famished, and as he is son of foodwriter, I should be suitably shamed for not providing adequately. Will me all my fault if he gets malnutrition ...
Who are these people he knows with bulging cupboards? and what are they filled with??? And how do they afford it when milk is more expensive than petrol and a basic loaf of bread is $3.00. Don't they know how hard they are making it for the rest of us!
Have to admit that last week I was starting to waiver, begining to think maybe I should ingulge him, as is goodish lad, and makes me laugh (sings "you're beatiful to me" while I'm in dressing gown with scary morning hair, and says things like "my beef is not with you old woman" when he is cross about something).
Fortunatley had not yet caved in, as came home the other afternoon to find he'd cooked a platter of potato wedges for himself and friend ! Gaah! you'd have thought they'd discovered cure for Cancer! so pleased with themselves, posturing around the kitchen talking bollocks about seasonings and such. Was like they'd unleashed their inner Gordon Ramsay with a pinch of oregano and some cayenne pepper.
But was not the end of it, awoke next morning to smell of burnt butter.
Man child had made pancakes. From scratch. Flour, baking powder, eggs, milk, sugar, whisk...and all over again with the smugness, never mind its my recipe. Apparently better pancakes were never enjoyed by the male species, than those produced that morning!
Also noticed the toasted sandwich maker made an appearence and as there have been no further complaints about lack of food, is safe to assume they worked out how to plug it in and turn it on.
It would be easier no doubt to buy noodles and pies and frozen pizza's and such, but believe wholeheartedly that he'll be better off in the long run knowing how to roast a pan of wedges or knock together a batch of pancakes, and while he may never thank me for making him cook, one day I may have a daughter in law who will!
He simply refuses to acknowledge that ingredients are actual food, so complains constantly that I am starving him.
Apparently every other house is bursting at seams with snack foods, and all contain Fridges and freezers yeilding treasure trove of goodness to which young uns apparently are granted unlimited access.
Is constant source of shame to him that he is famished, and as he is son of foodwriter, I should be suitably shamed for not providing adequately. Will me all my fault if he gets malnutrition ...
Who are these people he knows with bulging cupboards? and what are they filled with??? And how do they afford it when milk is more expensive than petrol and a basic loaf of bread is $3.00. Don't they know how hard they are making it for the rest of us!
Have to admit that last week I was starting to waiver, begining to think maybe I should ingulge him, as is goodish lad, and makes me laugh (sings "you're beatiful to me" while I'm in dressing gown with scary morning hair, and says things like "my beef is not with you old woman" when he is cross about something).
Fortunatley had not yet caved in, as came home the other afternoon to find he'd cooked a platter of potato wedges for himself and friend ! Gaah! you'd have thought they'd discovered cure for Cancer! so pleased with themselves, posturing around the kitchen talking bollocks about seasonings and such. Was like they'd unleashed their inner Gordon Ramsay with a pinch of oregano and some cayenne pepper.
But was not the end of it, awoke next morning to smell of burnt butter.
Man child had made pancakes. From scratch. Flour, baking powder, eggs, milk, sugar, whisk...and all over again with the smugness, never mind its my recipe. Apparently better pancakes were never enjoyed by the male species, than those produced that morning!
Also noticed the toasted sandwich maker made an appearence and as there have been no further complaints about lack of food, is safe to assume they worked out how to plug it in and turn it on.
It would be easier no doubt to buy noodles and pies and frozen pizza's and such, but believe wholeheartedly that he'll be better off in the long run knowing how to roast a pan of wedges or knock together a batch of pancakes, and while he may never thank me for making him cook, one day I may have a daughter in law who will!
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