Yesterday passed in a blur of craft, cooking and medical emergencies at housegoeshome. Sprog 1 borrowed a book from the library on Friday called Me Make Monster and spent the next 36 hours begging to sew a “Basic Beastie”. Whoever decided to christen it a “Basic Beastie” – Jenny Harada according to the book cover – has a very cruel sense of humour.
There was nothing basic about the “Basic Beastie”. Not the road trip to Spotlight at Birkenhead Point for $30 worth of materials. Not the three hours spent making the bloody thing. Not the three hours the Sprogs spent whingeing about making the bloody thing (a bit rich considering it was their idea in the first place). Husband was the primary participant in the three-hour making marathon. I just swooped in at the end for 30 minutes of remedial sewing. But it was still extremely painful to hear/watch.
When the Sprogs weren’t whingeing they were needling (in the non-productive-to-craft-project sense). They’ve taken to admonishing each other in faux-adult tones, which never fails to shit the receiver up the wall. So, while Husband slaved over “fun” fur, I cooked and yelled at the Sprogs to give it a rest. As mentioned in yesterday’s premature post about an apple crumble recipe I hadn’t even tried (but which turned out to be awesomely delicious, I’m relieved to say), I cooked like a woman possessed to plough through the insane amount of inconvenient vegetables sent to me by Farmers Direct last week (and to impress my sister’s new bloke, who was coming to dinner).
As I stood at the kitchen sink questioning my sanity, I made an apple crumble, oven-fried chicken, coleslaw, mashed potato, cornbread muffins and hot crab dip. I will post the recipes on the blog when I don’t feel so monumentally broken by them.
All the food turned out sensationally well and the dinner was going swimmingly until Sprog 1 and her cousin started dancing to their favourite songs with swear words in them and Sprog 1 tripped and brained herself on a sharp corner. She thought it was amusing until she discovered she had a dent in her head. She’d even requested some apple crumble and ice-cream with her gaping wound. But dessert went untouched after Husband examined the dent and found it was 5cm long and 1cm deep. Sprog 1 went off her apple crumble at that point, especially when we started discussing at trip to casualty (in between mental gasps of horror at the slight of the wound).
It was only at the mention of “stiches” that Sprog 1 started to weep. Not from pain but from fear of someone Me Make Monstering the back of her head. An afternoon of sewing had given her a rather vivid picture of what lay ahead. And so ended Sunday night at housegoeshome, with three stitches for Sprog 1 at the local medical centre. A rather dramatic introduction for my sister’s new bloke to the family. Fortunately the chicken was finger lickin’ good.