Category Archives: Food

Furry Dragon Beast #2


Sorry for the hiatus (more of that later.)! Last time we left Cricket she had managed to climb onto Hoot’s back and was flying on the back of her furry dragon beast!

…I rolled over and threw an arm up over his back and grabbed the biggest handful of flesh and fur I could and heaved. We teetered for a moment and then I felt Hoot crouch closer to the floor and then lift up slowly and I went with him!

And then I was falling and I grabbed Hoot’s tail for support and dug my fingers in as hard as I could and suddenly he was hissing and I could see giant fangs and smell dead people and fish. My dragon beast had turned. The world was now a dark place. The floor boards rose up and, as always, my face smacked into them. A wail built up and exploded out in a wonderfully cathartic expulsion of sound and then Mum was like a Greek Goddess at the first all-gender, ancient Olympiad, running naked through the house, wet hair flying out behind her, faster than any naked woman you’ve ever seen. My Greek Goddess scooped me up and snuggled me in-between two wet boobs. FUN! I slapped the left one as hard as I could. Mum seemed a bit frazzled. I don’t know why.

Wet, naked, boob feeding is a bit slippy so it turns out and as I navigated the slippery-dip a realisation slowly dawned on me. (I don’t think I’ve ever had a realisation before, let alone a dawning one.) Hoot and I understood each other! We had a conversation with real words, not just PORK RIB emergency words. We were simpatico. I can speak furry dragon beast!! Who knew?! I gave right boob a victory slap. (Like punching the air, but funner.) Mum laughed, which made me laugh. I’m so glad she thinks boob slapping is fun too. I do it again, but harder this time. Mum sighs and puts me down. She’s such an enigma.
‘Can I go get dressed, or are you going to lose it again?’
You may go get dressed, mother. I have important discoveries to discover with my confederate.
She put me on my play mat and turned to leave, looking somewhat suspicious I thought, which was completely unnecessary.
I look around for Hoot. He’s asleep with his chin resting on my bouncer. I roll to get closer. I’m not close enough. I roll the other way. Now I’m even further away. I roll back again. I’m back where I started. I roll the other way. I’m further away. This is annoying.
He doesn’t move.
I think a whisker twitches.
He didn’t even lift his head, but I can hear him!
Come and get me.
Why not?


Come and get me!


Not so bright, are you, kid? I’m not getting up.
Why not?
I’m busy. Besides I can get anywhere I want, what can you possibly do for me?
I think about that. I roll and I think. One way then the other until I have it.
            I have opposable thumbs.


Go on…
            With your legs and my thumbs we could, you know, conquer the world. We could open things. Things with food inside.
Hoot lifts his head. He turns it to look at me. He looks me up and down.
You’re going to need to lose some weight, kid.
            Ok! … How?
Throw more food over the side of the highchair.
Ok!… Hoot?
            Will you help me up?
Don’t push it.
And his head is back down on my bouncer and I think maybe I won’t push it, so I cry for mum instead and this time she’s running with clothes on, which isn’t nearly so exciting as Greek Goddess Mum with the bouncing boobies.



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Art and Life

Mum 60s

Mum in the 60s in her amazing boots.

I don’t know if it’s a case of life imitating art, or the other way around, but Grandma really IS coming to visit! I told Charlie and she threw her chicken, apple and cinnamon mush up over her shoulder and high into the air in excitement. Ok, so it may not have been because she understood that Grandma-Dawn (GD) was coming, might just have been because throwing things in the air is a hoot. Or maybe she thought chicken, apple and cinnamon mush has the same result as salt when thrown over one’s shoulder. Who knows what babies are really thinking?

Mum hasn’t seen Charlie since she was about three months old and obviously a lot has happened since then – she’s solving complex mathematical problems, she’s joined a band, she’s ompleted her first ultra-marathon, and she’s now an apprentice chef. Ok. Ok, she’ll look at a book with numbers in it, she bangs things together, she can smoosh across the floor in a weird, crawly, snakey type way, and she’s now eating actual food. What? That’s close.

The thing about Mum is that I’m starting to think of her as the Grandma from my new book (as yet untitled) and that’s confusing. The idea for the book did actually start with my Mum. Mum and Charlie have been texting each other from soon after Charlie was born and some of the texts are really funny and both Mum and I really enjoy them. It’s also been a great way for Mum to feel involved in the day-to-day goings on of Charlie’s life. I remember laughing over a funny exchange between Mum and Charlie about me saving some of my clothes from this era for Charlie to wear twenty years from now and Mum telling her about an amazing pair of boots she had in the 60s she wished she’d passed down to me, and I thought it would be lovely in a book. Of course you can’t really write a book of text messages and Charlie is a very easy baby so some artistic licence was needed and suddenly I’m writing a novel half based on Mum and Charlie and half pure fiction about a famous dancing Grandma and a baby who understands the English language. See my confusement?

It’s great fun though, looking at these two people I love so fiercely and then making them different – louder, softer, naughtier, funnier. Who knows what either of them will think with the finished product, but hopefully it’ll be a tribute to them both and something they’ll enjoy.

I still think I need to put all of Mum and Charlie’s texts into a book for them. I know all three of us will be glad I did down the track. Here’s an exchange between them from early February. How cute are they?

Charlie:     GD I ATE FOOD!!!! … It was awful!!
GD:              Oh no Darling! What did they give you?!! Poor poppet xxx
Charlie:     Carrot!!! I wanted cake and coffee. I’m not a farm animal. Stupid parents 😦
GD:              Indeed my darling. I’m with you!
Charlie:     Thought so. Good talk, GD.




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Cricket has told us the story of her birth and now moves onto the things at hand, like GRANDMA is coming!

Turns out Grandma is in New Zealand because she’s famous in the REST OF THE WORLD TOO!! Grandma was in a movie about dancing a long time ago, when gay meant happy and Facebook was called visiting. Grandma’s movie made everybody feel very gay so now it’s got all these very happy people who like rainbows and kissing obsessed with it.

Like Auntie Jack. Auntie Jack is Mum’s best friend and she has boy hair and big boobs and wears lots of eyeliner and her Mum’s ITALIAN! How EXOTIC! Her Mum isn’t called Grandma, she’s called Nonna, and she doesn’t give me cake, she gives me torta. WOW!! Sometimes Nonna fills in for Grandma because my Grandma doesn’t live here. I think this might mean that I’m exotic by proxy.

Auntie Jack came over today to help Mum with laundry and cooking and me, which means Mum makes Auntie Jack coffees while she runs around doing laundry and cooking and Auntie Jack flicks the occasional toy in my direction. Auntie Jack doesn’t have any kids so she doesn’t understand how someone as small as me can make so many loads of washing and eat so many vegetables. But she also SINGS! Not like Mum sings, she sings like she’s swallowed a dinosaur! – a dinosaur who can SING! It’s REALLY LOUD! When I’m grumpy she sings me Ave Maria and it makes Mum cry. I don’t know why Mum cries, it cheers me right up!

Auntie Jack flicks me my phone with the big buttons. ‘Knock yourself out, kid.’
Seems a tad aggressive. Maybe I’ll just make a phone call. I think I’ll call Dad and tell him how I pooped out a fully formed Baked Bean this morning. I think that’s newsworthy.
‘Is your Mum coming over after New Zealand?’
‘Yeah, I think so. We’ve barely spoken since she’s been there.’

WHAT???!!! GRANDMA IS COMING??!! I’m so excited I throw my phone in the air and then faceplant my xylophone. It really hurts.

Auntie Jack is sitting on the floor right next to me watching Mum cut vegetables and my scream makes her jump two feet in the air.
‘Holy mother of shitting shitballs, that’s loud!’
Mum is already at me, scooping me up before Auntie Jack has time to retract her swear.
‘Sorry Saff. Cricket, my girl, would you like a song?’
I make it a habit of never saying no to Auntie Jack’s offer of a song, even when it hurts my ears and makes my eyes bug out a bit. I stop crying long enough to request Let it Go from Frozen and use my phone to call Iris so she can listen too, but Auntie Jack does Un bel di from Madame Butterfly so I hang up. It still cheers me up though.
‘That sounds amazing Jack. You been practicing?’
‘A bit, yeah. Soph likes that one.’
Soph is Auntie Jack’s new girlfriend. She loves Auntie Jack’s voice even more than Mum does. She’s always telling her to go on the stage, but Auntie Jack just laughs and says that’s over with now.
‘You ok, Poppet?’
Yes, Mum, thanks for asking.
Mum goes back to chopping vegetables and I bang my phone against Auntie Jack’s leg because I like the slapping sound it makes. I’m also praying to the God of Arendelle that there’s no cauliflower up on the bench.

Was there cauliflower on the bench? When is Grandma coming? Can you stand the suspense?!


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I’m a Human Being – part two


We last left Cinnamon Cricket telling us the story of her birth. She was two weeks overdue and had decided she was never ever coming out…

But suddenly we were sitting in the womb doctor’s room and Mum was being told they were doing a caesarian the next day. Scarlett had looked up caesarian in the manual and she said it’s the opposite of being born serenely by a deer in a forest. That didn’t sound good to me. When we got home Mum sobbed into Dad’s best work shirt for three hours. Frankly, I thought it was a bit selfish of her. I mean, wasn’t this whole birth experience meant to be about me?

A caesarian is the exact and total opposite of a butter birth. In a hypno-butter-birth there’s supposed to be low lighting, no sound, and hardly anyone in the room when you slide out. The first voices you’re supposed to hear are your mother and father’s. You’re supposed to slide out of that canal with no pain and then be held against your mother’s naked skin with Bungee held higher than your heart at a 48.7 degree angle for three minutes, or as long as it takes for Bungee’s blood to drain into you and not be wasted in the rubbish bin. Then you’re supposed to go immediately (quicker, if possible) onto your mother’s bare skin boob with your bare skin body and get on that boob sucker and drink the colossal.

But we didn’t do that. Instead, Mum got into a white gown and was bundled onto a white bed with wheels and got wheeled into a very white room with LIGHTS AND BUTTONS EVERYWHERE! Then the doctor next to the womb doctor got out the biggest needle you’ve ever seen that goes in Mum’s SPINE and Dad got escorted out because apparently Dad’s can’t deal with seeing giant needles in their beloved’s spines.

Then it really got interesting. The womb doctor CUT MUM’S TUMMY OPEN AND I WAS IN THERE!!! By this time Dad was allowed back in and he had the camera poised and ready because the womb doctor told him it was all about to happen really fast… Except now I’ve got stage fright… and I’m not coming out. Ever. Now Mum’s tummy is open I can feel a VERY cold draft coming in and the lights are very bright and there are too many voices and I think maybe a life on the stage isn’t for me after-all. There’s only one thing to do. I spread my arms and legs out as wide as I can and hold on for dear life. Dear, sweet, womby, placentary life.

Scarlett had told me that on the outside you couldn’t take Placenta with you. I didn’t believe her obviously, because that would be ridiculous, how can you live without Placenta? I ADORE Placenta. Placenta is my only friend. But now I could hear the womb-doctor asking Dad if he wanted to cut the cord.

You what, now?

CUT THE CORD??! I thought they wanted a live baby? This is worse than a Shakespearian tragedy. Maybe they didn’t realise Placenta had to come with me? They’d never done this before after all.

Here’s what happened:

Stay tuned for part three!





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jitterbug-lowWhen we last left Cinnamon Cricket she’d put her sticky jam fingers on Hoot the cat’s purebred fur coat and he was none too happy about it. You can read it here if you need a refresher.

Their adventure continues…

…The mail is here and there’s a package from Grandma! Mum helps me open it and inside is a tambourine (OMG!!!), a postcard from New Zealand, and a square that says Jitterbug. WOW!

Firstly, Mum takes great pains to tell me about New Zealand because education and I start yawning to show I don’t care and almost fall off the change table trying to grab the jitterbug. Seriously, WHAT IS A JITTERBUG?! This results in two things happening: Mum assumes I’m tired and need to go to bed, and Mum gets the guilt-bug so bad she scoops me into the guilt-bug-hug. I really hope a jitterbug isn’t the same as a guilt-bug because my ribs can’t take two sorts of bugs that squeeze you to death. Part of the guilt-bug-hug involves Mum whizzing me from side to side and singing the SAME SONG in my ear over and over. This is supposed to comfort me when I’m supposedly upset about almost plummeting to my death. It was comforting when I was as big as a cucumber and had eyes like a baby mole looking into the sun for the first time, but that was AGES ago. I’m BIG now. Being whizzed back and forth with guilt-induced speed and ferocity means my eyes can’t focus on anything and I feel dizzy. And why, WHY would the same song over and over and over and over be comforting?! Clearly Mama ISN’T going to buy me a mockingbird so quit harping on about it.

Every time Mum whizzes me past the dresser I make a lunge for the JITTERBUG and I miss it every time, partly because the whizzing is so fast and partly because I can’t see anything. How can Mum get it so wrong? I don’t need to be a human rollercoaster, nor do I need a diamond ring, looking glass, or billy goat, I just need that JITTERBUG.

There’s only one thing left to do and that’s yell jitterbug at the top of my voice over and over again until Mum gets it. The only problem with that of course is that Mum doesn’t understand baby (this is a HUGE design flaw, God, you should really look into that) and even though I’m yelling JITTERBUG!, JITTERBUG!, JITTERBUG! with my best enunciation, all Mum can hear is Waaaaaaah, Waaaaaah, Waaaaaaah! This is beyond frustrating and I need to phone a friend.

The only friend I can reliably phone is Hoot because we have a secret code word. It came into being from the great pork rib incident of 2014. (Mum heard pureeing food for babies was no longer the done thing so she handed me a pork rib as big as my head when I was five months old. No longer the done thing is cause for much discussion and considerable stress in this house.) During the great pork rib incident of 2014, after I managed to extract a pork rib as big as my head from my left lung, Hoot and I discovered that while I don’t like pork ribs, he does, and if I yell PORK RIBS! at the top of my lungs Hoot understands it! It was an honest-to-god Christmas miracle, and now Hoot and I use it only in dire circumstances. There are only a set amount of times you can holler PORK RIBS! when there are no pork ribs and Hoot will come to your aid. It’s a Christmas miracle that must not be used lightly.


Hoot’s paws sound like elephant feet thundering down the hall. He wants those pork ribs bad. He takes the corner into my room so fast he crashes into the doorframe. Good thing he’s bendy.

Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs. Give me those delectable, beguiling ribbies of goodness before my purebred head of preponderant intelligence and charisma explodes in sheer need of piggy, ribby goodness.

In hindsight, this may not have been the PORK RIB emergency I first thought it was. Hoot is drooling on the floorboards just as I figure out that seeing the JITTERBUG is shaped like all the other CDs Grandma sends, it’s probably just a CD. Yeah, that makes sense.

Drama ensues! Stay tuned!

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Dear Management


The continuing adventures of Cinnamon Cricket and her cat, Hoot…

Hoot and I are in a staring competition. He’s very good at staring. I either fall asleep or cry because my eyes run out of eye juice and that doesn’t feel good. So far, I’m doing neither of those things. I’m winning! Hoot is a very pretty cat. He’s blonde all over with orange stripes on his head. I hope I have orange stripes on my head one day. Dad has orange so apparently there’s a good chance I’ll have orange too. Mum thinks this is fabulous news! Dad doesn’t, I don’t know why.

Hoot and I are learning each other’s languages! I’ve learnt that ears back means pat my head and he’s learnt that wah-wah-wah means run off and get Mum. He’s not very good at actually getting Mum yet. Hoot blinks and swishes his tail. I want to grab his fur because it feels like warm squish so I reach both my arms out to his face. His ears flatten! He wants me to pat him! Just as I’m about to reach an ear he runs off and I don’t even need him to get Mum! He’s such an enigma.

            Dear Management,

I’m lodging a complaint. The mutant’s hands are always sticky. Always. Sticky. This is unacceptable. I am a direct descendant of Wong Mau. My people were once worshipped in Burmese temples as embodiments of Gods. Gods. On what planet do you think sticky, mutant, jam fingers on a God is reasonable? This is not tolerable, human, and I demand recompense. Do you know how long it takes to lick jam out of purebred, blonde fur? Long, idiot, long. My demands for restitution are below. Until they are met I will be leaving you and the co-manager a strategically placed vomit at an undisclosed location within the domiciliary at precisely 4.04am every, single, day. It will have rotting meat, fusty furballs, and jam in it. You’re welcome.

  • The mutant must not be fed real food, ever again. Milk or die.
  • A hammock suspended above the fridge.
  • My own catnip farm (in my name).


Thiha Archibald Hootentoot the Third

Hoot doesn’t come back. We need to work on that. But the mail is here! And there’s a package from Grandma! Mum helps me open it and inside is a tambourine (OMG!!!), a postcard from New Zealand and a CD that says Jitterbug. WOW!

Stay tuned for more…


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Ride of the Valkyries

fc,220x200,whiteI’m wrestling. Mum’s got me in a half nelson, trying to get right boob in my mouth, but right boob is evil and must be stopped. I will gladly sing into it, but I will not partake of its vile juices. Not today anyway. I’ve twisted my head so far round I’m in danger of falling off Mum’s lap. Mum pulls on my arm to bring my head swinging back around and I screw my face up in such extreme agony (I learnt that from TV – Mum’s fault for lazy parenting) she thinks she’s broken my arm and pulls me up into a life-affirming, left-boob-loving, hug-of-extreme-deliciousness, and I win.

Hoot witnessed this tussle and doesn’t look impressed. (I don’t think he likes me very much.) I poke a finger into right boob just to make sure Mum knows there’re no hard feelings. It feels like a basketball made out of cement. She should really do something about that.

I can feel a poonami approaching. I know it’s a poonami because:

  1. I haven’t pooed in four days (I overdid the prime rump).
  2. Mum and Dad bought me a new sippy cup with a princess on it and I refuse to drink out of it and they haven’t noticed. Princesses are stupid. So are sippy cups. So are Mum and Dad.
  3. Hoot is agitated. (Hoot has a sixth sense about poo. Mum and Dad haven’t worked this out yet. They’re very slow off the mark sometimes. See 2.)
  4. Grandma sent me Wagner.

Wagner is like the biggest ski slope in the world and all along the sides of it are the best, most magical things you could ever imagine (like a giant jumping thing tied to another giant jumping thing, made out of cake) and as you ski down it you try and grab all the magical things that are whizzing past your head. It’s two parts bliss and one part terror. This is why Wagner is music to poo to. Grandma didn’t teach me that per se, but she did plant the seed by sending me Wagner in a particularly poo-incident filled week – the week Mum introduced lentils if I’m not mistaken.

Wagner wrote Ride of the Valkyries. It’s about tough women who carry dead men. It’s not for the faint of heart. If you are feeling a bit fainthearted, or you’ve had too much prime rump, it can be a sphincter-popping experience. Hoot LOVES it. He runs around the house like he’s a cheetah, but with his fur all puffed up so he looks like a cushion with eyes and a tail. D-da-da-daaaah-dum, D-da-da-daaaah-dum, D-da-da-DAAAAH-dum, d-da-da-DUM!! It’s hilarious!

When Grandma sent me Ride of the Valkyries Mum played it in my room and turned it up loud because of education. I shat my pants immediately. Except I wasn’t wearing any pants. Or a nappy. Everyone was feeling a little delicate after that. Except Hoot, he ran around like a cushion for ages and then fell asleep on Dad’s work pants. Pants are overrated anyway.

But I can feel a poonami building right now. This is four days of steak and sultanas and crushed garlic (mum left the jar out, I found it) and absolutely no water. I’m a desiccated Italian meatball locked in a hot car, minutes from exploding. Hoot knows it; he senses the countdown has already begun and is preparing his hind limbs for extreme slinkiness. Except Mum, without any cat senses, is putting new Wagner on, freshly delivered by the mailman, ready for education, and suddenly everyone is very confused. Because, instead of the prelude to Tristan and Isolde, Ride of the Valkyries comes blaring out of the speakers! Hoot puffs up into a cushion and then levitates in the air just as my sphincter pops and I burst into exploding-garlic-meatball-poo tears and Mum drops the coffee she’s carrying because Hoot’s claws are stuck into the flesh on her thighs and there’s blood coming out. What a kerfuffle!

Later, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I could hear Mum in the next room on the phone to Grandma. Here’s what they said: (I couldn’t hear Grandma of course, but I could work out what she was saying easily enough from what Mum was saying.)

             “Mum, I had to pick sultanas and clumps of garlic out of her labia. It smelt like a five day old corpse wrapped in a garlic sauce kebab.”

“Oh darling, of course the world’s most precious baby didn’t smell like that. Her little fanny is the sweetest thing in the whole world.”

            “I don’t understand why she doesn’t poo for days on end lately.”

            “Because you’re a terrible parent who gave Cinnamon princesses and garlic when all she should get is cake.”

            “Yes, but she’s now refusing one breast all the time, it’s so frustrating.”

            “That’s because of singing and world domination, it’s not hard to understand darling. Just let her sing and give her cake.”

            And then they talked about what to put on thigh welts and I fell asleep because of boredom.

            Dear Slave,

What can I say? You failed. As a mother, as a slave, as a wife, as a human. Wagner is for valor, haute monde, lion-heartedness – not wailing, rivers of shit, third degree burns, and four-day-old intestinal garlic gas. You’ve dimmed my luminous soul. You’ve crushed my lion heart. I may never get over it. To begin the healing process here is my list of demands:

  • Adopt out the mutant to a new home, or, if none can be found, an orphanage
  • Three kilos of lightly seared maguro tuna
  • My own TV
  • (I’m willing to forgo the last two if you organise the first.)

Truly, I will never understand all these issues you’re having with the mutant’s fecal matter. Just buy the thing a box, put some sand in it, show the thing the box with the sand, let the thing work it out. Honestly, the amount of drama in this household is getting overwhelming. It’s bordering on dog-like. There, I said it. Do we really need to get overexcited by everything? Do we really need to lose control of our bowels? Must there be drool everywhere? You really think I chose to live here so I could end up living with a pack of dog impressionists? Think again, slave, think again.

            I will be in my special place if anyone needs me. At the back, where your stinky, doggy arms can’t reach. You may leave the tuna at the entrance.


            Thiha Archibald Hootentoot the Third


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