The Young Mr has been unsupervised some of this week (he’s old enough but not always as mature as one might prefer) and I have left him notes to help him with some basics, as he does prefer to rise long after I’ve left for work. In the bathroom, BRUSH YOUR TEETH is affixed to the mirror (should’ve added + HAIR). In the kitchen, another note is taped to the Christmas Cactus above the sink.
My coworkers, many of whom have known the Young Mr since he was in a stroller and had nicknames like Possum Baby and Seal Monkey (he just shivered a small death when you read those names), found this note hilarious. The kid has a reputation as a one-human plague of locusts: he once ate a third of a pound of ham in a 20-minute span while his father and I went to the grocery store. He will eat a large head of lettuce in the hours between when he gets home from school and I get home from work. Entire tins of Altoids vanish suddenly, and all I get is a sulky, guilty look.
So I found this blog post, What’s For Supper? very interesting, as I had been thinking of late, How would I feed the kid in the 18th century winter?
Fortunately, there would have been vegetables. And whether the beds were hot with manure or straw, there would have been some greens. At the farm we had salad in January; would it make it to February, or March? Don’t know, but I love the idea of spinach. Parsnips store well (scrub hard) and are delicious, and apples, too.
I think we forget we did not invent the larger world: it was big before we got here, with ships circumnavigating the globe and caravans crossing mountains long before container ships began losing sneakers on the ocean.