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.
“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.”
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.