I braised 3lbs of short ribs for supper this evening. The day had turned windy, rainy and cold and it was nice to have the oven on, if only at a low temperature.
No one seemed overly fond of the ribs come supper time. I thought they were good, but then I love the idea of turning cheap cuts of meat into flavorful, fork-tender morsels. It sounds like dog food, I know. At least someone around here always likes my cooking.
But Kipp couldn’t eat because he came down with a fever right during dinner. As I tucked him into bed tonight, we read the first chapter of The Boxcar Children, one of those books of childhood (Heidi is another) that makes simple food—like a loaf of bread or a hunk of cheese—seem mouth-wateringly delicious. Kipp’s eyes closed as we finished the chapter and I lay there next to him for awhile, listening to him breathe and recalling the hundreds of time I’ve put him to bed. I remembered how, when he was a stubborn toddler in desperate need of a nap, I’d lull him to sleep each afternoon with the aid of a rocking chair and a volume of Mother Goose. There was one rhyme in particular that always seemed to do the trick; it was absurdly violent, but, given that we are not vegetarians, I saw no reason to be hypocritical about the subject:
There was a little man and he had a little gun
And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He went to the brook and he saw a little duck
And he shot him right through the head, head, head.
He carried it home to his old wife Joan
And bade her a fire to make, make, make
To roast the little duck he had caught in the brook
And he’d go and fetch the drake, drake, drake.
The drake was a-swimming with his curly tail;
The little man made it his mark, mark, mark.
He let off his gun, but he fired to soon,
And the drake flew away with a quack, quack, quack.
Carnage and all, I gotta tell you, there is no more somnia-inducing rhyme out there. If you can’t stomach this version, I direct you to the vegan alternative in The Humane Mother Goose.
Naturally this had repercussions. When he was about 20 months old we went to see a theatre production of Little Red Riding Hood. During the climactic scene in which the wolf chases Red around the bedroom, Kipp hollered out for all to hear, "Shoot him! Shoot him with a gun! Shoot him in the head! Kill him!" I'm sure there were a few raised eybrows as to just what sort of parenting I was practicing. Wasn't the first time; won't be the last.
10:34:04 PM 
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