Well, Oona pulled the Daily Double this weekend, pooping in the bath on Saturday and puking in the car on Sunday -- the former just for fun and convenience (who hasn't been there?) and the latter a case of car sickness, I think, as it's happened before, this time just as we pulled into the parking lot of the sports complex (and swimming pool). Baby might need a tiny bit of Gravol before the road.
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Came downstairs this morning to find a small pile of dirty tea towels and damp dish cloths on the counter. All rumpled together. I ignored this and began making coffee.
Keeping the kitchen counter clear is an aggravation of mine (when C can't figure out what to do with something, she just puts it on the counter) but one has to be selective in their comments. For example, I will remark on the baking dish that's been "left to soak" because this is the domestic equivalent of the boar's head on a stick: here's something gross, beware, and *you* deal with it. I'll also comment on the rotting apples in the hanging basket over the kitchen table.
Stop buying so many apples, I'll say.
But I like the way they look in the basket, C replies.
Right now we have eight or nine peppers kicking around the fridge. I didn't buy them; I've never seen a recipe that asks for more than half a pepper at a time. But C likes the way the peppers look in the cellophane bags.
Stop buying peppers in a bag, I'll say.
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Some holy rollers knocked on our door Saturday afternoon, and just as I started taking off my belt they handed over a loaf of fresh-baked bread -- with their contact information on the bag, of course. Smart. But later on, as I was cutting this bread into slices, I started thinking about accepting food from strangers. But where does one find a food taster on such short notice?
Does Oona want to try a little piece of fresh bread with butter? I asked.