As it turns out, after my worries in this post , I was saved from cooking for Sam’s birthday when he suggested that we get take away. I don’t think he wanted to ruin his day by having to endure my cooking. Instead, he got to endure the worst cake I have ever made.
I fail to understand why people like baking. It’s not therapeutic, it’s horrendously messy (or maybe this is just me?), and by the time the damn thing is ready to eat, you are developing a headache and already on a massive sugar high after taste testing the icing and adjusting quantities. Add a baby into the mix (not literally, of course) and stress levels are approaching critical. Plus, this particular cake was just awful. Two different cake mixtures with different types of flour and both failed to rise. I made an iced pancake. I’m going to blame my tools as it’s the first time I’ve baked using our oven.
At the weekend, we experienced our first family meal in a restaurant. We had plenty of babysitting offers had Sam and I wanted to go out alone, but Sam’s wish was for the three of us to celebrate his day together. So, we went for lunch at a tiny little Lebanese place – just five tables and the waiter was also the chef. The food was excellent, and we were spoilt for choice with dairy free options for me and Arlo. Of course, Arlo would only sit in the highchair for three minutes before making a fuss. And, of course, sitting on my knee within reach of a table full of objects provided far too much temptation for him, so from this point on a serious juggling act ensued. We were grateful to the friendly waiter/chef/man for taking him on a tour of the kitchen for a few minutes so that Sam and I could eat some of the food with use of both hands.
I hadn’t quite thought through the consequences of baby led weaning in a public eatery. If the couple seated directly behind us read this, you have my apologies. I was more conscious of the mess and potential targets than when we are at home. Also, the fact that the restaurant was the same size as my dining room meant that I was all too aware that Arlo’s flying food missile reach covered the whole room. Needless to say everything was spotless again once we left. I foresee every future meal out ending with me on my hands and knees scrubbing the restaurant floor.
Special occasions are a different ball game now that we have Arlo. On Sam’s actual birthday, we took turns inhaling food at the speed of light and running up the stairs to Arlo, who had decided to wake as soon as dinner arrived. Eating at restaurants necessitates similar eating speeds, whilst also wrestling little fingers away from plates, glasses, cutlery and anything else he wants to grab from the table, and trying to anticipate the flying food missiles before they happen. No more lingering over a bottle of wine (or two), Sam and I talked more in the car on the way over than we did in the restaurant. But life has changed for us now, we are doing the family thing and want to share all of these experiences with Arlo. Although it isn’t anywhere near as relaxing, it is a lot more fun.