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At least the dog biscuits aren't deep fried

3 0 0

The baby was having nothing to do with the mushroom.

It sat between us on the high chair tray, warm and black and shiny. A just-cooked chunk.

I thought it looked delicious. The baby? Not so much.

"Loooooook!" I said, with that weird high-pitched, sing-song voice that comes as naturally as the chicken-clucking noises, the pigeon-cooing noises, the raspberry-blowing, nose-scrunching, la-la-la-ing that bursts forth when I'm within slobbering range of a baby, and particularly one whose every cell carries an imprint directly from me.

The baby, 14 months, and I share slobber. My granddaughter's slobber is partly mine, and vice-versa. (And excuse me if you're eating your breakfast at this point. I should have started this with a warning.)

But back to the baby and the mushroom.

"YumyumIwishIcouldeatthisyummymushroom," I said to her. And yes, I tend to run my words together when I'm with her as well.

I don't know why, but she doesn't seem to mind when I blather in her presence. She's also a big fan of my version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, complete with hand movements, which shows she's not particularly discriminating on verbals yet.

But she is on food. And last Saturday morning she was making it clear she didn't care for mushroom.

I picked the mushie up and pretended to nibble as if it was a "sweet-tasting langoustine in the powdery magenta scattering of ground Icelandic dulse (seaweed)........

© Canberra Times