FeeFiFoto Blog

Self Indulgent Bragging On My Son The Creative Genius

In the car on the way home from school last week Robespierre volunteered: "I just invented a new recipe. Wanna hear it?"

Robey's poems, stories and other narratives are frequently endless, convoluted and filled with blood, gore, lasers, rockets, colossal extinct reptiles and questionable bodily functions.

Me (not in the mood but game for anything that might not involve hitting, screaming, food spilling, pulling over to the shoulder of the road, tattling and general sibbling on the ride home): "Okay."

Robey: "Grind up an apple, a potato and an onion and fry it like a pancake."

Me (ears perking up at the mention of actual food and now paying attention): "Wow. That sounds good. Where did you see that?"

Robey: "I made it up."

Apparently he did make it up, as further interrogation turned up no evidence of eavesdropping, plagiarism or the influence of television, comics, classmates or the internet.

When we got home Robespierre took out the food processor and made potato apple latkes. They were delicious! Here's the recipe, as he wrote it:

ROBESPIERRE’S LATKES (POTATO PANCAKES)

Ingredients

3 potatoes
1 onion
1 cut up apple
2 spoons of soy flour
6 shakes of cinnamon
1 carrot
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 shakes of salt

How To Make

1. Process (grate) all ingredients in a food processor
2. Mix together with hands
3. fry
4. enjoy

He was so proud of his recipe that he submitted it to the school newspaper; in his deeply earnest way he's wondering how many of his friends ran home the day the paper came out and tried it.

Today Is Pi Day

Okay, without any hinting, how many of us know what "Pi Day" is? Anyone? Anyone? Put down your hands, math people -- let somebody else have a turn.

Nobody?

All right, I'll tell you.

Today is March 14, or 3/14, or Pi, that is, 3.1415 blah blah blah. Robespierre's fourth grade class is celebrating Pi Day with ... pies, of course (I love this school!) Parents were encouraged to bring in whole pies, which the class, who are studying fractions, will practice on and then eat; in other words, they'll divide and conquer (do you love the puns? I'm full of them! If you don't care for puns you might as well unsubscribe right now.)

We made a chocolate meringue pie. Before baking it I placed a Pi-shaped stencil made of parchment paper on top and sprinkled dark cocoa over it. Robey was completely mortified; I suppose I was toeing the line between cool and profoundly nerdy, but as soon as he walked in to class he regaled one of his teachers with a minutely detailed description of the Pi on his pie. A few other pies were similarly decorated, thank goodness.

Maybe we'll bring a pizza when Cleo reaches 4th grade. Meanwhile, the meshuggenah French teacher is planning a party for tomorrow in advance of Spring Break, so we've been asked to bring in French food for the class, and French fries don't count.

My Dog Can Afford A Personal Trainer

We have a nine-month-old Tibetan Terrier puppy; we got her last summer a couple months after our Bichon Frise died. I thought I must be nuts for getting another dog so soon, as I'd had the entire summer to be gone all day without having to let anyone out to go to the bathroom. It took a while for her to grow on me, especially since she was so mouthy that I'd routinely wear her hanging from my arm like a bracelet; my neighbor commented that my forearms made me look like a cutter. Robespierre was pretty good with her but Cleopatra was terrified and with good reason -- the dog had an abiding fascination with our ankles and most of the time when we walked her we resembled a klutzy version of Riverdance.

When I got my first dog nearly twenty years ago I'd never had any pets other than fish, and except for when one of the fish jumped out of the tank and flopped around on the carpet, subtracting a good ten years from my mother's lifespan, they were about as exciting as actuarial tables. I was thrilled to have a dog, but I knew absolutely nothing about them; not only did I do everything in the book wrong, I even made up things to do wrong. Naturally, the Bichon and her younger half-sister were profoundly spoiled and ill-behaved. It's a good thing they were so cute and lovable or I'd have had to kill them. Bianca, the older one, never saw any meaning in housebreaking, and her tummy was so delicate that she threw up every morning, usually on my bed. It got to the point where I'd recognize her "hep hep hep" noises, and even in deep sleep I could grab her and run to the bathroom, where I'd put her front paws up on the toilet rim and she'd very cooperatively throw up in the toilet. To be fair, though, when I was pregnant with Roby and threw up at least once a day for thirty weeks, Bianca would camp out at the bathroom door with a worried expression; I told myself she was concerned about me, but actually she was probably just jealous that I got to lock myself in the bathroom and play with the roll of toilet paper.

So when Violet came along I swore I'd not make nearly as many mistakes, so I found her a personal trainer, Mr. Don't-You-Dare-Call-Me-Dog-Whisperer. He comes to the house and trains her to be a dog and me to be an owner. Now, instead of getting the "You Need to Exercise More" lecture from my own trainer, I get the "You Need To Exercise Her More" lecture from hers.

Will it work? Darn well better. I'm running out of shoes.

My Daughter Is Such A Girl

My daughter, Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile, is seven and in first grade. We just finished redecorating her room, and at just the right time. Both Cleo and her brother, Robespierre, were world-renowned nose-bleeders, and since he'd used the room before she moved into it, the carpet looked like we'd committed a murder there. In addition, the carpet bore scars from two elderly dogs who never quite saw the logic in housebreaking. On the other hand, I was able to hold out long enough to pass by her "everything has has HAS to be pink" stage, and decorate the room in purple and green. Now that she's moved back in and arranged all the Madame Alexander and American Girl (miniature) dolls on a long shelf above her bed, she spends much of her time dancing around the room and belting Hannah Montana songs into a hairbrush. Her cousin gave her one of those tiny pink stuffed dogs you get for making a purchase at Victoria's Secret, and last night she took quite a long time arranging the dog in various positions on top of pillows and under blankets so she could sleep with it and make sure not to injure it by rolling over on it in the middle of the night. Have I mentioned this is a stuffed animal?

So I want to know: where does all this girliness come from? It's not as if I was a tomboy (I'd have had to be at least passably athletic to qualify) but I distinctly recall that my main activity with dolls as a child was piercing Barbie's ears by driving straight pins through her head. I also recall that one of my favorite pastimes was pretending to be Superman. And as an adult, I have just enough traces of testosterone in me to watch football and baseball with a modicum of interest, and never to ask for driving directions; I figure if I drive in concentric circles long enough I'm bound to get there eventually.

And yet, here she is, Miss Girly Girl, practicing cheerleading moves on the basketball court, completely oblivious to the game swirling around her. She draws fairies and mermaids, and lots of pink and red hearts. And that girly giggle puts me away every time. I'm trying to store all these memories in my data banks so I can revisit them when she hits adolescence and flames shoot out of her head.