Here's a caveat on the last post; I realized I made it sound as though I am a Nazi ogre of a parent, setting my daughter up for all manner of eating disorder by forcing her to eat foods she hates. Really, we only insist that she have three bites of whatever green and vegetable like item is on her plate. I have been told that children, when left to their own devices, will actually choose a well balanced diet over time. This is patently false in the case of C, who would choose to eat exclusively meat and dairy products, with a sprinkling of fruit here and there, preferably dried. And if given the opportunity she would eat only sweets. She harbors an abiding hatred for any kind of vegetable except for artichokes, and I think that's because they look extra cool and also because you can dip them into an enticing mixture of lemon and melted butter.
I have read that to develop a taste for a certain food, you have to taste it a set number of times, like 23 or some other random figure which I can't remember. I don't know if this is true, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed in the hopes that one day the children will do something other than stare glumly at the healthful food I set in front of them.
Okay. I hope I've cleared that up.
Also, even though I know you're never ever supposed to mention anything to do with your own lame lack of posts, I will anyway. Jeez I wish I could be more regular! Partly because I've lost most of the few lovely people who used to stop by. My fervent thanks to those of you who still check over here from time to time. I still read your blogs too, when I am not studying for some damn test, or ruining my eyes painting brocade onto the garments of figures that are three inches high. Because yes! I am still painting maquettes! Instead of working on this giant terrifying project which is hanging ominously over my head like a guillotine! Okay, now I will stop feeling sorry for myself. At least publicly.
In book news, I've just reread Disgrace, by J. M. Coetzee, which I deeply admire. It's one of those novels that has an unreliable protagonist, to me an unsympathetic character, repugnant in some ways. I don't usually care for that form, I loathed The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch. I was ready to hurl it across the room before I finished. But Disgrace is subtle and morally complex in a way that leaves me thinking about it long after I put it down. I don't know much about South Africa post apartheid, though I have some friends who lived there for awhile. But clearly, David Lurie's journey toward some sort of weary peace is a metaphor for the recent history of that country. I'm hosting book club next week(!) and I look forward to a discussion. Partly because I've been trying to get this book in for a couple of years, and I finally managed to guilt the other member into choosing it.