Dear leek harvest
I know you have been been growing, despite neglect, for many weeks in the vege patch. I'm sorry that after Teddy and I picked you, my back went out and laid me up, unable to perform my usual culinary tasks.
Instead of being garden-to-kitchen in just a few hours, you are Tupperware-trapped, nutritional goodness leaching from you by the second. I would ask Keith to cook you, but it would involve a conversation like this: 'Just dice up some bacon don't forget to wash the dirt out of all the leeks blah blah blah make a bit of a white sauce but use the chicken stock instead of the milk it's in one of the ice-cube-trays in the freezer make sure you don't use on of the baby's frozen purees by mistake blah blah blah if it doesn't look like enough chuck in some broccoli and maybe some peas but not at the same time...' It's Esperanto. And his face would likely look like mine does when we discuss the finances. Outwardly composed, if blank. Inwardly, screaming STOP TALKING STOP TALKING STOP TALKING IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY WHEN WILL YOU STOP SAYING ALL THE NUMBERS?
Any the hoo, fresh young leeks, I'm sorry but Keith will probably forgo you for what we call the Horses Dinner around here, sort of a tasting plate; a tour de fridge, if you will. (Oh, say you will.) A Horses Dinner might feature cheese, carrots, grapes, broccoli and half a hot cross bun, squashed flat to fit in the toaster.
Thank you for being such a reliably good time. Even in the hospital last Friday, with Ted's asthma, you helped us pass the hours. You might be the best game ever.
There you are, again, above, hanging out with T-Bone in the hospital while I walk the ward trying to get George to sleep. You are the best and I am more grateful than I can express for your help. Remember how funny it was on that drive in the emergency when Ted looked really sick and Georgie was crying and then I suddenly yelled as a stabbing pain got me in the back? I mean, not funny. The other one! Tragic.
Dear creaky old bones,
We have a problem. The bursitis in my hip from carting my sweet fat baby about has been difficult to manage, but I have treated it successfully thus far with Nurofen Plus and denial. But on Friday you took things to some new level. The hive mind on Facebook and my own internet noodlings lead me to self-diagnose with a trapped sciatic nerve. Is that my problem? What it really feels like is a tiny, invisible, nasty dog suddenly biting me above the hip every time I move about. When the public holiday is over and I see an actual health professional I'll find out which diagnosis they agree with.
I miss you. I guess I just haven't really appreciated you since the last time I was in a third trimester.
Dear Easter Weekend,