Last Sunday I fed my family our normal Sunday Roast.
Eldest was just back from Skiing Trip and needed Real Proper Food.
Roast Beef. Yorkshire Pudding. Roast Potatoes. French Beans, frozen, from the garden last summer, peas and carrots. Gravy. The most Amazing Tarte Tartin that a friend had taught me to make, and which was, I have to say, the Dog's Bollocks. If you see what I mean. (I prefer Mutt's Nuts. What about you?)
Eldest Ate Everything. A Volcanic Mound of food on his plate. This Heap slanted steeply, precariously, on his plate. The three younger ones stared at it. Huge Eyed.
'Mummy, will he eat all of that?'
Eldest lifted head slightly from plate. Grunted. Carried on shovelling in Huge Mouthfuls. Had seconds.
Pudding. Eldest managed to get Large Slice of Tarte Tartin and a vat of cream onto his plate. Youngest three looked on.
'Mummy, I think he might be sick.'
Eldest grunted. Shovelled more in. Wanted seconds.
We all cleared away. Washed up. Dried up. Put things away. I folded the Drying Up cloth with some relief and popped it back on the rail of the still warm oven to dry.
Read my book.
Went outside. Moved things. Pretended to be Useful in the Garden.
One hour later came back in.
Eldest glaring into Depths of Fridge.
'Is there Any Food,' he asked.
'Is. There. Any. Food? ISTHEREANYFOOD??!!! Could Not Believe It.
Felt like Large Fat Bloke in Oliver Twist.
'Mum!' pleads Eldest. 'I'm Hungry.'
Grrrrrr. Mutter. Grrr. Mutter. Grrr.
I threw him some eggs.
'Make scrambled eggs. See you later.'
Went back outside. Grrr. Grrr.
My three youngest came bounding up.
'Marmeee!!!' they chorused.
'Hello, my darlings.' I grinned down at them, thinking how lucky I was to have such Little darlings, with no unreasonable demands for food.
'When's tea? We're Starving.'
Their little faces all lit up with expectation.
'Can we have Pancakes?'
You know what... You Just Can't Win.