Grace

We say Grace at dinner time. And it can be a lengthy affair, especially since Pants decided that we should all have a turn. So now instead of a single (adult!) person giving thanks for the evening meal, each child offers his/her thanks -
Tubby prays a brief, thankful prayer which is accurate and genuine.
The Rabbit gives thanks "for the delicious meal Mum has prepared", and then often proceeds to tell me it's gross and that don't like it as soon as we say Amen.
The Honey Girl prays long prayers, most of which are not easily understood and presumably are in tongues
And Pants gives his thanks for each individual food item. Which is fine if it's french toast and not so fine if I've served up a casserole or stir fry of multiple ingredients.
But eventually grace ends and we can all eat/complain about the meal.

Last night I served rissoles, mash and vegies. I last served this meal some months ago, and I had neatly cut the rissoles up into small pieces, in the hope that the children might not look too closely and just eat them. Unfortunately it didn't work and I ended up with plates full of cut up and poked around rissoles which could not be used as leftovers because we couldn't distinguish between what was simply cut up and left, and what was cut up, chewed up, spat out and left.

So last night I served the rissoles whole. (albeit hidden under and disguised by tomato sauce!)
We sat down and started on grace and of course everyone took a turn. Sibling rivalry thrives during spiritual moments!

Now I'm not much of a chef. We eat varied, relatively healthy meals and snacks, and while I enjoy cooking, there is still much for me to learn. But only yesterday I was whipping up a batch of scones from scratch, without a recipe, and had commented to the Rooster how far my cooking abilities had come. How improved my kitchen efforts were to when we first met. How much I enjoyed cooking and believed I was doing pretty well with it all now. And he, being a smart man who rather enjoys scones, agreed.

So I was not prepared for Pant's heartfelt thanks when it came. With small head bowed, eyes squeezed tightly shut and lips moving to form his words with the cute slurred lisp he has, he prayed :
"Thankth God for my ninner. For my juith, for peath and cornth, for 'tato, and ..." he paused and looked at his rissole.
"For ....."
He raised one eyebrow at the rissole and eyed it closely.
"For...."
His brow creased, deep in thought over what word to use to exactly describe what was before him.
And then it came to him :
"Thankth God for thith BITHCUIT!"


I guess my rissoles need some more work.