Marguerite
Active Member
I meant to post this yesterday but I got distracted...
At the restaurant yesterday we really had a great time. We all dressed up as much as we could. easy child 2/difficult child 2 wore her birthday present from BF2 - a Diana Ferrari designer dress (looked fabulous on our model girl) and difficult child 1's girlfriend wore a dress and make-up, which meant she was stopping traffic - she's inherited the best of her grandmother's Polynesian genes and really does look like the most popular model of one of Australia's most famous (infamous?) painters, Norman Lindsay.
So we were already attracting attention.
It was a sumptuous buffet lunch, featuring the best of Australian cuisine (which is generous with scope and range as well as flavour; multicultural in style). Time for dessert and as soon I I returned with a mini-pavlova there was, as girlfriend described it, "a staccato of stilletto heels" heading for the dessert bar.
difficult child 3 just wanted ice cream - no chocolate mousse, no pavlova, no cheesecake or profiteroles. Just ice cream. And you had to ask for it specially, so he waited and finally got someone's attention.
When he returned to the table we were all happily tucking into sweet, luscious gourmet fare and difficult child 3 removed the lid from his small cardboard bucket of ice cream. He was just as ecstatic about HIS first mouthful. "Oh, this is just as I like it - it tastes just like the ice cream we get at home, my favourite - No Frills." (I buy the cheapest generic brand, in bulk).
When we laughed (how could we not?) he wanted me to explain. "Here we are sitting in one of Sydney's top restaurants, and you praise the ice cream for being cheap and flawed," I told him.
"But it IS just how I like it - not creamy, and full of ice crystals!"
We just collapsed. And of course, all these announcements were made at difficult child 3's usual volume - LOUD.
It reminded me of the time difficult child 3 came and gave me a big, spontaneous hug and said, "I love you Mum. I don't care that you're really fat, I love you anyway."
Marg
At the restaurant yesterday we really had a great time. We all dressed up as much as we could. easy child 2/difficult child 2 wore her birthday present from BF2 - a Diana Ferrari designer dress (looked fabulous on our model girl) and difficult child 1's girlfriend wore a dress and make-up, which meant she was stopping traffic - she's inherited the best of her grandmother's Polynesian genes and really does look like the most popular model of one of Australia's most famous (infamous?) painters, Norman Lindsay.
So we were already attracting attention.
It was a sumptuous buffet lunch, featuring the best of Australian cuisine (which is generous with scope and range as well as flavour; multicultural in style). Time for dessert and as soon I I returned with a mini-pavlova there was, as girlfriend described it, "a staccato of stilletto heels" heading for the dessert bar.
difficult child 3 just wanted ice cream - no chocolate mousse, no pavlova, no cheesecake or profiteroles. Just ice cream. And you had to ask for it specially, so he waited and finally got someone's attention.
When he returned to the table we were all happily tucking into sweet, luscious gourmet fare and difficult child 3 removed the lid from his small cardboard bucket of ice cream. He was just as ecstatic about HIS first mouthful. "Oh, this is just as I like it - it tastes just like the ice cream we get at home, my favourite - No Frills." (I buy the cheapest generic brand, in bulk).
When we laughed (how could we not?) he wanted me to explain. "Here we are sitting in one of Sydney's top restaurants, and you praise the ice cream for being cheap and flawed," I told him.
"But it IS just how I like it - not creamy, and full of ice crystals!"
We just collapsed. And of course, all these announcements were made at difficult child 3's usual volume - LOUD.
It reminded me of the time difficult child 3 came and gave me a big, spontaneous hug and said, "I love you Mum. I don't care that you're really fat, I love you anyway."
Marg
