the SmockLady

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For those who came by via Google here’s a link that may interest you.
In the first installment of the allergy journey of my son I mentioned some of his history with foods and food preservatives and additives. I know there is more history to share, but that is for a yet to be determined [...]

I hate it when my children ask me what’s for dinner. I despise it. Why? Because no one pays attention to the answer, only to the fact that some one asked a question that had the word dinner in it. So each little brain tunes in to that one single word and they wage a war against me each asking me one at a time only minutes apart, “What’s for dinner?” UGH! Why do they do this? I think it is to wear me down. Break me so they can tie me up and put on their Indian costumes and dance around me with tomahawks and yip and hoot like the Lost Boys and Indians in Peter Pan. When I get that question I often answer with something like, “Food”. They especially love it when I say something like “pickled pigs feet” or “hog jaws”. So when I am prepared (read organized) I love it when I have something in the kitchen for all of them to do - at least then they won’t be dancing around under my feet just getting in the way. That’s worse than the repetitive questioning.

“All doze luebewwies” (eight quarts and that doesn’t account for the one quart that got eaten last night as snacks or the quart that we lost - ate - while sorting)