Sunday Lunch time, quite a few years ago. Sitting on a slightly worn sofa in a country pub nursing the remnants of a hangover from the previous nights frivolities. There's a Bloody Mary in one hand and a pile of newspapers heavy enough to challenge even the strongest of paper boys just in reach of the other. Enjoying the peace, I order a Sunday Lunch, which is enjoyed at a leisurely pace whilst supping contentedly on a couple of glasses of a cheeky little red. Sated, I amble home and have a nap.
At least, I'm pretty sure that's how it went. Maybe the pub not as quaint, more plain shabby, and maybe the roast potatoes were CRAP. Maybe I'm looking at days gone by through rose tinted glasses.
I LOVED eating out. I still do.We'd scout out places we'd heard good things about - an exemplary roast potato, a proper, home made meaty burger, we'd drive for miles on the hope of finding something really special. You may notice the tattie fixation here. I'll write more on that sometime soon.
Ha. Those days are GONE. Gone, and they aren't coming back for a long, long time.
Venturing out of the house with children, is, at best a bad idea. Taking them out to eat is an even worse one.
Remember upon the advent of child number one, when you still thought that your life wouldn't change. "No," you'd say, relaxed by the assurances of the dog eared baby manual, "it'll be FINE. We'll just take the baby with us. You know, it's a BABY. They're just going to have to fit in with US."
For the first few weeks/months, this actually seems to happen. You are lulled into a false sense of security where upon your little bundle snoozes soundly through starters, mains and dessert. You won't risk the coffee though (breastfeeding) and Gina Ford dictates it is time for a feed, so you pop the carseat back in the car and home you go. Lovely.
Don't get used to it. It doesn't last. There's something about the sound of a fork hitting a plate that will wake even the soundest sleeping baby. Meals will now be consumed at breakneck speed, in turns, whilst one of you holds the baby and the other snorts their dinner whilst trying to mentally locate a pack of antacids at home. One of you will settle the bill whilst the other straps the screaming baby in the car, and you'll realise all you've done, if you actually managed to finish your meal, is pay for a very large dose of indigestion. I'm not even going to talk about that feeling you have when you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole, screaming LOUD baby in arms. No one likes crying babies in public places. It may be a fact of life but we all know the feeling of the disapproving looks wondering what you've DONE to make that poor child cry so much, when you'redoing your level best to distract them (god knows where their bottle has gone) because believe it or not, you don't like the damn noise either.
There's a fifty fifty chance that the staff will either be indifferent or coo over your baby and get in the way of you trying to sneak to the bar for a top up of wine. The over enthusiastic staff are the worst. Incessant face pulling and silly voices can scare even the hardiest of babies. And no wonder. Id think someone was completely off their tree if they came over and spoke to me jumping about, playing peep-o and putting on ridiculous voices. Sometimes a particularly grandmotherly type will whisk your baby away to show her friends at a nearby table, and I'd use this opportunity to wolf down as many pommes frites as I possibly can.
Weaning comes and you'll ask the waitress if they can kindly warm the bowl of mush you tipped in from a jar earlier and is now sitting proudly in your changing bag. Really can't let all that tupperware you bought go to waste. Yes, it seemed like a GREAT IDEA at the time, to prepare a million and onelittle pots of pre pureed veg but the sad fact is that your little one's uneducated palate really does seem to prefer the processed gloop from a jar. You can't comprehend this. Especially when you have spent ages pureeing and peeling mpre vegetables in one afternoon than you have eaten in the last 6 months, your little darling dines on delicious organic prduce whilst you sustain your ever decreasing energy levels with a no effort, taste or nutrtional value frozen pizza of questionable quality.
That, my friends, is what you now mistakenly think of still as a TREAT. If this is your reward for trying to get a break from the cooking. I'd recommend getting a takeaway. Every time.
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