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rj_andersonSlowly, I am getting things packed up for the big move this Saturday. The study, which I've worked on the past two days, was the biggest job: the kitchen (which I've barely started yet) is bound to be nearly as tedious.
And then, of course, we need to help my parents move as well... but we have at least found a tenant for our part of the old house, and she'll be moving in next week, so that's something positive. Well, unless she's secretly a destructive, chain-smoking party animal who never pays her rent and we have to spend the next four years in court trying to evict her, but she made a pretty good impression when we interviewed her and I think -- I hope -- that's not very likely.
In any case, I must write down something that happened a couple of nights ago. My mother, bless her Cornish heart, has made her yearly batch of pre-Christmas saffron cake, and she gave me a loaf about a week ago. This made me very happy, but my husband, having tried the cake once and disliked it, had no desire to share in the bounty.
A couple of nights ago, we were finishing up our dinner, and my husband said to our four-year-old, "Nicholas, what would you like for dessert?"
"I want Granny's cake," said Nicholas.
My husband was puzzled. "I don't think we have any cake of Granny's."
"Yes, we do," Nicholas insisted. "Saffron cake."
"Oh, no!" said my husband, appalled. "You don't like that stuff, do you?"
Nicholas nodded eagerly.
"But Nicholas, saffron cake is horrible! It tastes like medicine! No son of mine could possibly like such cake! You have one chance to repent, my son, or else I must disown you -- tell me that you don't really like saffron cake!"
My husband talks like this to the kids all the time. It doesn't faze them a bit -- they know he's only teasing. Nicholas certainly didn't bat an eyelash. "Mama," he said sweetly, "may I have some saffron cake?"
"That's it!" My husband threw up his hands. "Nicholas is dead to me! I have only one son! But at least Simon has better taste." He scooped up our two-year-old and sat him on the countertop, looking earnestly into his face. "Simon," he said, "my one and only son, what can I get for you for dessert? Is there anything -- anything at all -- that you would like? Tell your Dada."
Simon took his fingers out of his mouth and smiled seraphically. "Saffron cake."
And then, of course, we need to help my parents move as well... but we have at least found a tenant for our part of the old house, and she'll be moving in next week, so that's something positive. Well, unless she's secretly a destructive, chain-smoking party animal who never pays her rent and we have to spend the next four years in court trying to evict her, but she made a pretty good impression when we interviewed her and I think -- I hope -- that's not very likely.
In any case, I must write down something that happened a couple of nights ago. My mother, bless her Cornish heart, has made her yearly batch of pre-Christmas saffron cake, and she gave me a loaf about a week ago. This made me very happy, but my husband, having tried the cake once and disliked it, had no desire to share in the bounty.
A couple of nights ago, we were finishing up our dinner, and my husband said to our four-year-old, "Nicholas, what would you like for dessert?"
"I want Granny's cake," said Nicholas.
My husband was puzzled. "I don't think we have any cake of Granny's."
"Yes, we do," Nicholas insisted. "Saffron cake."
"Oh, no!" said my husband, appalled. "You don't like that stuff, do you?"
Nicholas nodded eagerly.
"But Nicholas, saffron cake is horrible! It tastes like medicine! No son of mine could possibly like such cake! You have one chance to repent, my son, or else I must disown you -- tell me that you don't really like saffron cake!"
My husband talks like this to the kids all the time. It doesn't faze them a bit -- they know he's only teasing. Nicholas certainly didn't bat an eyelash. "Mama," he said sweetly, "may I have some saffron cake?"
"That's it!" My husband threw up his hands. "Nicholas is dead to me! I have only one son! But at least Simon has better taste." He scooped up our two-year-old and sat him on the countertop, looking earnestly into his face. "Simon," he said, "my one and only son, what can I get for you for dessert? Is there anything -- anything at all -- that you would like? Tell your Dada."
Simon took his fingers out of his mouth and smiled seraphically. "Saffron cake."
