Today, I ate Oxtail soup. It was nice. In fact it’s one of my favourites. When I was small my appetite was as random as it is today. I was in my mum’s words, ‘picky’, or ‘fussy’. I can’t disagree to be honest. And for this little memoir, I need to rely on my dad’s recollections more than my own because I barely remember this, however, a conversation full of reminiscences recently had us almost in tears with laughter.
One particular occasion found me being unceremoniously carted up the stairs, pushed into my room and told, “you’ll get nothing tonight!” Yeah, right…we’ll see… All because I didn’t like the taste of Oxtail Soup. The pleading went on for some considerable time at the dining room table, as mum and dad both, and with surprising patience, coaxed me to eat the soup. Dad even said that I was being unreasonable and ungrateful because did I realise, “how long it took your mum to catch up with that Ox for the tail?” I recall murmuring something about it being cruel having to chop off some poor cow’s tail for soup! Dad said it was okay though because it would grow back. I didn’t believe him and apparently, continued with a stubborn pet lip.
Dad tells me the conversation went a little as follows:
Dad: “The tail will grow back!”
Robert: “I don’t like it!”
Dad: “How do you know? You haven’t even tasted it!”
Robert: “Don’t like the smell either!”
Dad: “Come on the taste’s better, come on, it’s lovely…”
Robert: “Even if does taste nice, I’m still not eating it!”
Dad: “Right! you’ll stay at this table and eat it even if it’s cold! Now come on!”
Robert: “I’m not eating anything that’s hung around a cow’s arse!”
So Dad tells me…