Strange days in the familial household. Mammy’s moods seemed to have calmed down somewhat, just as Papabear’s strike up again. It all kicked off on Sunday when Mammy announced to a very hungover Papabear that she was ”taking her weekends back”. In English, this means that she will not cook Sunday roasts anymore, as allegedly they have taken her weekend from her. Somehow. Instead, she will visit her sister, for many hours on a Sunday and not cook. I think. I mean the basic upshot is that there will not be roast dinner, via Mammy, anymore.
Cue rolling of eyes, not in a ”whatever” way from Papabear, but in a hungover, what the hell are you on about type look, as he banged around the kitchen looking for headache tablets. In what he thought was a cutting reply, but was in fact a help to Mammy’s stance, Papabear has declared that if there is no roast dinner in the house on Sundays then there will be no Papabear in the house on Sundays either. This is supposed to be a bad thing. Why husbands think that threatening absenteeism to their wives will help them win fights/public stances of taking weekends back, will always be beyond me. Wives will think ”party!!!” and get on with aforementioned weekends.
This was all done in the kitchen, which has reminded me, as I’m sitting here and reaching for the biscuits, and noting that the packet that appeared quite full the other day (when it was bought) is in fact practically empty. Could it be that there seems to be a demon eater in our little house of fun and games? Over Christmas, Mammy had amassed a small fortune in biscuits, chocolates, cakes, puddings etc etc for the festive period. Yet she declares she hasn’t eaten any of it. And I haven’t either – that’s not to say I NEVER eat it but for the simple reason that I get crippling headaches if I eat rubbish several days in a row, I actually CANNOT eat it – and we’ve established that Papabear is too lazy to get his own food, preferring instead to take weekends from people in order that they can get it for him…well if I’m not, and Papabear isn’t, and Mammy insists that even though she bought it all it’s not for her – who then? Nobody visits us because I usually visit them, and let’s be fair, Papabear and Mammy cannot be introduced into society yet, so I believe the secret stuffer of junk food must be within the four walls of our house, and being as I’ve just watched all three Paranormal Activity films since I moved back to Ireland I conclude, as an expert, that it must be a ghost. It makes perfect sense. Besides, every time I query Mammy on the subject she hits me and calls me a bitch, so it CAN’T be her.
I digress, but not for long.
Papabear, having shouted as loudly as his head would let him that he would not remain in the house on any Sunday that did not see Mammy producing a roast, also declared that he would not eat ANY food that Mammy prepares, ever in his life again. This meant that on Monday (after we all got a roast on the Sunday) he would not eat the leftover meat, veg and mash that Mammy made, and which I gratefully inhaled. He instead made a sandwich of cheese and crisps, which didn’t look great, in all fairness.
By Tuesday I was lecturing him on the non-benefits of eating crisp sandwiches which he ate at lunch aswell, for which I got a rant about roasts and missing weekends. I left him to it and was delighted to see him joining us for Tuesday dinner – having made his point about never eating Mammy’s cooking again, he appears to have lasted a good 24 hours in his conviction, and this is to be admired, not laughed at, and how dare you think otherwise.
I am on dinner duty tonight, preparing my potato cakes, in an effort to convince my parents to eat less meat. Mammy called me earlier to take the sausages out of the freezer so that they are defrosted in time for dinner.
I also showed Papabear my leek and potato soup earlier, lovingly prepared from scratch, with fabulous garlic bread, at which he sniffed, and reached for the crisps.
Who needs tv, with this great stage of fools. Sigh.