“Ohmygod” comes to visit for a play date.

It is some while since she has graced our family with her presence. Prior to the drive home from school I take the girls aside to remind them of the frequent aural agony of traveling with the boys. I stress the short nature of the journey, both in time and miles.

During the 7 minute drive to the accompaniment of Hanna Montana, sung with great gusto the boys cover their ears in the back of the car.

On arrival home, the children stampede into the house.
“Geez what is that godamawful stink!”
“Chicken Jalfrezi…..a very, very mild curry.”
“How come you eat Asian food?”
“Well “Chicken Tikka Marsala” is said to be our National dish these days. I expect you can probably smell the garlic though.”
“Yuk! Garlic is for Nazis.”
I have no terms of reference with which to comment, so I say nothing.
“Are we gonna eat that?”
“We shall, for supper, but I think you'll be back with your own family by then.”
“Aw can't I stay for supper?”
“I don't think that's in the plan.”
“What plan?”
“Er….your parents' plan.”
“How do you know what their plan is?”
“Um……I don't…….I'm just……..thinking ahead.” I'm not entirely who I'm trying to convince.
“Can I have a snack?”
“Yes, would you like Satsumas, pretzels or carrots and dip.”
“Can I have a cookie?”
I smile, “I don't think your mum would allow cookies before dinner.”
“She would.”
I'm not convinced but opt for the truth, “sorry, we're a cookie free zone at the moment.”
“No cookies!”
“I'm afraid not. I need to pop out to the shops.”
“How can you not have cookies?”
I assume this to be rhetorical and move on.
“Would you like a drink with it? Milk or water?”
“Water? Milk? Geez dontcha have any soda?” She steps towards the fridge to swing open the door, “what is all that stuff?” I look over her shoulder at 'stuff,' to try and determine what, if anything, might be odd?
“Which stuff?”
“The green stuff. Is that English food?”
I look at the bok choy, leeks and spinach.
“Er not particularly I don't think.”
“Is that why he passes wind all the godamned time?”
Such a euphemism catches me off guard, especially from this particular quarter, “quite possibly, I suppose.”
“You oughta give em American food, that'll fix him.”
“Thank you, I'll bear that in mind.”
“How come you talk so funny?”
“I expect it's the accent.”

I hope!

Post Script:-

This piece is fictitious, or rather a compendium of Friday afternoon play dates.

I think the trick is to avoid cooking whilst we have visitors as few Americans appreciate British Cuisine, let alone the residents!

“So, what do you fancy for supper then?” I ask nonchalantly. I immediately have her undivided attention.

“Hmm,” she muses, “curry?”
“I can make it today but it will taste better tomorrow.” At the mention of supper, her little sister bounces into the kitchen, all ears, to check whether our choices
fits into her narrow menu.
“True. What have we got? Homity pie?” Senior son follows his sister like a shadow. His little brother is a reflection, hovering in case he needs to duck for cover.
“Yours for the asking dear,” I beam.
“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Hominy?”
“No, not hominy,' hominid!'”
“No, she means homonym, don't you mum?”
“Actually neither. It's just 'Homity' pie, it's vegetarian.”
A universal scream of agony emanates at the mention of 'vegetables.'

“Er not much progress on the food front in six months then?” adds the wanderer, as junior staggers from the room amid retching noises. The other two run off wailing, one copying the other though I'm not sure who is copying whom?
“I know! How about fish pie!” she says to me, now that we are alone. I drift off into visions of glossy béchamel sauce coating the back of a wooden spoon, fluffy potatoes with crisp brown peaks, succulent flakes of tender white fish, a hint of Bayleaf and powdering of allspice. “Well?” she queries as I fail to respond. I drag myself away from rising visions of anchovies, kippers, roll mop herring and fish cakes, “could do, but I'll have to nip out to the shops.”
“Tell you what, you whiz off and I'll manage the little tikes.”
“O.k., you keep the two big uns and I'll take the screamer.”
“Oh no, that's not fair!”
“It's o.k. I can manage one screamer in the shops, it's when I've got all of them that it damages my nerve endings.”

With the plan in place I take him 'with the lungs' and his pair of shoes out to the garage, “no fishing, I hate the fishing, fishing is bad.”

At the supermarket, at the fish counter I stand close to my youngest son as he lies on the tiled floor flapping like a beached salmon. I give my order to the clerk. I am impressed that the chiller cabinet works effectively and that as a result, the odour of fish is virtually undetectable. I ignore the cries of “I am dying, the smell is killing my nose, oh no, my nose is falling off, agh, agh, agh.”

As he hands me my brown wrapped package, the clerk nods in the direction of the salmon, who is still rolling and flapping on the floor, “is he gonna be o.k.?”
“Oh yes, he'll be fine, he doesn't have to actually eat it, just stay in the same room. This is like a trial run.”
“Howdaya mean.”
“Can he stay in the same shop within a two yard radius of me whilst I buy the fish?” The checker tweaks his white brimmed hat but says nothing as we depart.

A complete success really.