A Turn for the Traumatic

It all began last night3, when Grumpy Pants whipped up some sausages and mashed potato for dinner.

I, in the meantime,was trying to sort out my ‘space’; the Project Management system I had finally sorted and got comfortable with was no longer cutting it and I needed to implement something else before I totally lost my mind.

Coloured manila folders were purchased and awaiting my decision on how they were best to be used. My post it notes were sorted, albeit awaiting the same fate as the aforementioned manila folders, and both desks had been cleared of everything, including dust.

Thus, surrounded by files, folders and a plethora of paper pieces featuring the scribbled, inner-workings of my mind, I sat on the floor, defeated, whilst Grumpy cooked dinner.

Determining some comfort food was needed, and indeedy he was correct, he went the “gravy” option for the snags and spuds. There is something about sausages, mash and gravy that sooth the soul.

Unfortunately, we differ slightly on some aspects of this. He and his cheffy mind are of the opinion that ‘gravy’ is made utilising only foodstuffs, and the juices of said foodstuffs, heated, boiled, reduced and with added onion.

I am of the view that ‘gravy’ is made with a powdered substance that may or may not contain foodstuffs, water and some juicy stuff that has leaked out of meat. This is even more pertinent when being utilised as a Comfort Food, and not served in a fancy schmancy restaurant.

So, although he did his best, what he actually served up was sausages, mashed potato, every vegetable that we had in the fridge because he thought they’d been there too long and needed using up, and ‘onion jam’ which he called ‘gravy’ but wasn’t really.

Still it was delicious, and that’s when The Trauma started.

Our randomly and intermittently food-heathen children, who will happily scoff sushi and sashimi without blinking an eye regularly forgo gravy – particularly the onion jam kind of gravy.

No, they will not venture beyond tomato sauce. Unless cheese is involved, as cheese, any sort, is the preferred garnish/topping for any meal. Unless tomato sauce is preferred.

That dish called for tomato sauce. Of which we had approximately none.

I discovered this not by noticing the two 2 litre bottles residing at the bottom of the pantry, nor the three, smaller bottles (two of which are refillable) on the shelf at eye height. No. Funnily enough, the sighting of these objects gave me no indication there was a deficit of the red substance.

It was the horrific, blood curdling, heart clenching scream that emitted from my twelve-year-old when he squeezed one of the smaller bottles and nothing came out. This was repeated, with subsequent “I can’t live in these conditions” dramatics when he went to refill the smaller bottle from one of the larger canisters.

This, of course, after lording it up at the table and repeatedly demanding his ten-year-old brother take on the task as he was far too … well … seated and face stuffing to do it himself.

Meanwhile, Chippie was having his own little side-drama, deciding he wanted to be alone. He did this by wandering to the living room with his dinner, and screaming “Leave me alone! I want to be left alone!”

He spent the next twenty minutes, sitting on his own, screaming “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Incredibly, and I’m not quite sure how, they did manage to survive.

I had to leave for a meeting, so was not particularly fussed about the many crisis being carried on amongst my offspring.

As I readied myself to leave, I caught sight of The Whiteboard; an essential within my home that significantly helps me to retain even the smallest dose of my Sanity.


Perhaps I had underestimated the effect on my children?


Although, this morning, I had noticed that The Whiteboard, in relation to this crisis, has been updated …

Saucegate Day 2

It’s a Travesty!

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