the boy has a different relationship to food than i have. in that he seems not to need it. sort of. case in point: on any given schoolday, he will break fast with a large mug of sweet, milky coffee, all the sustenance required for a day of beating (metaphorically) classrooms-full of disinterested, grunting teenage boys into submission. in theory, there is recess, and lunch, but apparently there is playground duty to be done at recess, and like, detention or something, everything, to attend to at lunch, so he goes all day without eating. he arrives home in the mid-afternoon, grumpy and hungry, and growling, “i haven’t eaten anything since last night.” but still, wearing this hunger like a badge of pride.

can it be that all the other teachers are not eating all day either? what is the teachers’ federation doing to earn their annual membership dues? what are they striking for if not for recess and lunchtimes for all?

yesterday, there was an extended period of rustling, organisational noises upon his return, and then he lumbered downstairs to announce, “i just bought $170 worth of groceries.” part of it, at least, had gone towards the 6-pack of toilet paper under his arm. “i bought us lots of treats,” he said. “i think it was because i was starving when i got to the supermarket.”

and so, there is a tower of tinned sardines in the pantry. there is bacon in the chiller, and vanilla coke; ice cream in the freezer; just one packet of timtams on the counter, because the other is already open, and stashed away in the fridge.

maybe the teachers’ union isn’t doing such a bad job after all. (oh yes you are, slackers!)

as for the rest of the household… you must have already surmised that we are obsessed with food. we build playdough cakes during the day. “this is pretend food,” i stress, “so we just pretend to eat it.” she holds a sticky bun a half centimetre from her mouth, and says, “eat, eat, eat.”