My son is a fussy eater.
My partner was sick, so he rang me at work and asked me to pick up a pie to cook for tea. Well, the Esk Co-op, small country town, so no big variety. They only have Black and Gold pies and I decide not risk it.
I see some fish on special. Pre-crumbed with chives and sour cream. Nothing flash. Just frozen fish. Of course my son, Tama won’t eat it. Bugger it, I think to myself, I’ll just tell him it is chicken.
I’m cooking and Tama wants to know – “What’s for tea?” Hungry kid.
“Crumbed chicken.”
“Yum! I love crumbed chicken.”
Am I really going to get away with this?
I dish it all up and he sits down to eat.
Miriama, my daughter, says “Nice fish.” I give her a look and she shuts up.
I ask Tama does he like his chicken.
“Mmm,” munch much, “just don’t mention fish.”
“But it is fish.” Miriama always has to know it all.
Tama – bless his eight-year-old heart – says, “Why would they cook fish when they know I don’t like it?”
Why indeed? “Eat your chicken.”
“I’m leaving the best for last.”
“OK”
His plate his empty. Time to come clean.
“Tama will you forgive me?”
“Oh no! It’s fish.”
I pull the empty packet out of the bin and show him.
He and his sister share the last piece.
