Tuesday, 2 February 2016

Regae revaeb, aka The Family Toothbrush

Warning:  Long post.  The funny bit is at the end, but you need a bunch of background to get there.  Heh.

My eager little Beavers took me camping last weekend.  It had the potential of being the Best Weekend Ever, and definitely moments of the Worst Weekend Ever, but overall was just a nice balance between the two (such is life). 

We” packed up our bags on Friday afternoon.  I was smart enough to print out the packing list and make two piles on Thursday night:  one of Vaughn’s clothes and one of Ailsa’s.  I had stayed home on Thursday with the ongoing lingering effects of this terrible flu/cold and a wicked bad sinus headache/migraine, so didn’t do much, but felt fairly prepared when I went in to work on Friday.  The plan was that I’d work during the morning, teach my class at 12:15, then go straight home, shower, pack, pick up extra mittens at Winners, pick up the kids at school at 3, load up the car, and go.

Ha ha… ha…

I waited, sweaty and cold, for the bus to come by after Attack.  It didn’t.  The sign stated that it came every 15 minutes at that hour.  Let me be clear:  it did not, and does not, ever.  I was shivering from head to toe, and my half-hot-chocolate/half-coffee (post-Attack treat) was cold by the time the bus arrived 45 minutes later.  It filled to bursting, drove slow, stopped too long at every stop… and I got home at 2:28.  I sprinted into the house, hopped into the shower to try to get feeling back in my body (and to stock up on extra heat for a cold weekend in the woods), and raced off to pick up the older Hufflings at school, for about 3:04.

As soon as I got to the office, Ailsa said, “I have to go to the bathroom”.  The combination of Distracto and her snowsuit put us to 3:25.  And we still had to buy mittens.  Winners had grownup mittens only (on sale!  Yay me!).  We went home.  The kids emptied their backpacks while I ran around like a madwoman, packing my own back, running down the list three more times, and putting fire blankets, pillows, and the three sleeping bags I retrieved from the top shelf of the garage…with a ladder…in the cold… in big black garbage bags.  We were ready to go!  The kids were wonderfully helpful in loading the back of the minivan I had borrowed from my parents:  sleds, backpacks, garbage bags, my duffel bag, my backpack full of mittens and hats, and we were off!

To the gas station.

Filling up the tank, I recognized Rusty, the kids' Beaver leader at the next pump. “How late are we?” I asked. He was still planning on dashing home to quickly eat (it was 5 by now), so I figured we were on track, so we hit the road!

To Loblaws.  (more mittens) 

At Loblaws, the kids begged to stay in the car, so I ran in to grab more on-sale mittens (2 for Ailsa, 1 for Tamsin for next year, and 1 nice warm pair for me), plus some candy for the drive home.

At this point, it was 5:20.  Back in the car, I pulled out Mom and Dad's GPS, and punched in the address. Not found. I punched in the postal code. Not found. I gave up and used my phone. We drove until 6, in the dark, down an unfamiliar highway (I was sure that we were going the wrong way), till we found a Tim Hortons. Soup is a nice quick meal... unless you have 2 kids and are on the way somewhere, in the dark. Back and driving, my phone told me that we still had an hour and 40 minutes to go. Sigh.

At 7:25, Vaughn pointed out that Ailsa was asleep, and that it was 5 minutes before bedtime. Still 45 minutes away. And my phone had been on continuously, so was burning hot against my thigh.

We finally pulled off the last of the main roads at about 8:05. Still 7km to go, and the last bit was turny and windy, and my phone wasn't responding very well. But we made it! We pulled into the parking lot of Tamaracouda, to see Rusty, the leader from the gas station, directing traffic. “How far behind you were we?” I asked, expecting at least 30 minutes. “About 10.” Score!

After some initial confusion, the three of us got settled into Cabin 3 with 2 other moms, 1 dad, and 3 little girls. And 8 bunks (do the math). Luckily, one mother-daughter combo wanted to share a bunk. Good for them! We met at the dining hall (5 minute walk) for mug-up (nice big glass of milk and cookies), then back to the cabin (6 min) to get ready for bed. Everyone grabbed their toothbrushes and... toothbrushes! 

Somehow, even though it was at the top of the list, “toothbrush” slipped through the cracks. As did “soap”, “washcloth” and “towel”. Luckily, I am nothing if not vain resourceful, and as I had brought my makeup bag (containing a travel toothbrush and small toothpaste), we all had access to the Family Toothbrush. This was fodder for all sorts of fun jokes, like, “No, Ailsa, your day is TUESDAY,” and “I wonder what Chris and Tamsin are doing without the toothbrush this weekend”. So fun.

With everyone clean(ish, without soap, washcloths, towels, etc.) and in their jammies, everyone climbed into their bunks and fell asleep.

Just kidding!

It was about 10:30. Each kid had their own story, complete with giggling and squealing and loud shouty noises. The last one seemed to go on forever, but the light was finally turned out, and I said, “Goodnight, Vaughn and Ailsa.” And Ailsa yelled, “Mommy! I have to go to the bathroom!” (Remember that nice big glass of milk?) 

So, out of bed, into boots and coat, off to the bathroom (3 minutes in cold and dark). Back in the nice, warm cabin, the kids are still squirming and giggling. At about 5 am (I'm guessing), Vaughn has to pee. At about 6 (still guessing – it's dark, but starting to brighten), Ailsa has to pee again. I resolve to cut off liquids at 2 pm the next day. Suddenly, there's a knock at the door, Rusty pokes his head in, and our day has started.

The day was pretty wonderful, I have to admit. Beautiful, perfect, not-too-cold weather.  Breakfast was eggs and toast. We went snowshoeing (just as much fun as it had been at Brownie camp, in 1983), then went to the dining hall (7 minutes away) at 11. Good! So hungry! All that fresh air and exercise! ….for crafts. Apparently, Beaver camp does not include snacks. As a compulsive snacker (who did not realize how snacky I really was until there were no snacks), it was a rough go till 12:30, but it was worth it: deeelicious hamburgers. Two of them. Nom nom nom.

The afternoon's schedule was full of napping and much-needed quiet time. 

Just kidding! We went sledding! 

It was a long walk to the hill, and a long walk up, and a reeeeally long walk back to our cabin, where I insisted that the kids have quiet time. Vaughn cuddled up with me and actually fell asleep for about 15 minutes, but Ailsa was interrupted by two of the other miscreants coming back in, squealing and giggling. Vaughn snoozed on for another 2 minutes, till his buddy popped in looking for him. Well, it was something.

They played outside a while longer, then off we went to the dining hall (11 minutes) for another craft.  The kids were surprisingly into it, and made themselves nice little pillows. Dinner was a LOT of rice, corn, gravy, and what looked like chicken souvlaki would look like if I made it by boiling the chicken skewers without seasoning them at all. Still, I didn't make it, I didn't clean it up, so I ate it and liked it. We walked back to the cabins (14 minutes) to get dressed warmly enough for the campfire, and I bundled Vaughn's gear off with Ben's dad – they had planned a party in their cabin, and I said he could sleep over.

Once fully dressed and wearing our fire blankets over top, Ailsa had to go to the bathroom. We eventually made it to the campfire, roasted 2 marshmallows each, and went back to the dining hall for mug-up, this time, nuclear-hot hot chocolate with marshmallows, skits, and then back to our cabins (15 min) to brush our teeth with our Toothbrush, kiss Vaughn goodnight as we went to Ben's cabin for the night, and get settled in for a good night sleep.

Just kidding!

Although I had made sure that both kids stopped at the bathroom before bed, I decided to take a peek up on Ailsa's bunk just before the lights were turned out. Beside her, an empty water bottle. AAAAARGH!

I dragged her back out into the cold,out to the bathroom, amid sobs of “But I don't have to gooooo....”, made sure she went again, and went back again to get tucked in and have the lights turned out. Sleep was elusive, though, as the bed-sharers squabbled for about half an hour over who was taking up too much room, and more rustling. But I finally fell asleep for the rest of the night.

Just kidding!

At 1 am, Ben's dad returned a sad and shaky Vaughn to me. He had tossed and turned, talked in his sleep (he does that), fallen out of his top bunk, and thrown up on the floor. SO... here he was.

A good mother would instantly worry about her child. She would check him for concussion* and be concerned for his current and future health. 

None of this even occurred to me.  First, I was just so tired.  But mostly, have you ever seen the movie Airplane!? There's a scene in which Dr. Rumack, played by Leslie Nielsen, explains to Elaine that any passenger who had eaten fish would get violently ill in the next short while. The pilot (Peter Graves) overhears this, and his eyes slide over slowly to look at his plate, which holds only a fishbone.

That was me and ... the Toothbrush.

All this to say, I DID do unintentional concussion checks on Vaughn, by asking him periodically whether he felt sick or thought he might throw up again (on me).  I was mostly just waiting for Ailsa and I to throw up, as we had obviously been literally rubbing each others' germs around our teeth and gums for the past 29 hours.  However, he wasn't warm, seemed lucid, and we actually enjoyed a really good night sleep until Ailsa woke up to pee, around 7.   

The morning flew by:  breakfast (French toast!  yeah!), then sledding, then packing up to go home.  We made good time, and both kids were unconscious within 5 minutes of starting the car.  
All this to say that the days were amazing, the nights were hell, and I can't wait to go back next year!  

With extra toothbrushes.  (the soap is still optional)

*Note:  Vaughn is still super smart.  I don't think it was a concussion.  Stop judging me.

Monday, 7 December 2015

HO Ho ... ho ... humbug.

This weekend, we picked up the Christmas photo card -- no small feat, as first I had to take a decent photo of three Hufflings, preferably all looking the same way and smiling nicely.  This of course took three separate shoots to do, and the outcome was not three Hufflings all looking the same way and smiling nicely, though it definitely captures their character -- made a list of who will be receiving them (it's an elite group this year, what with the insane cost of stamps and all) and pulled out the recipes for the baking we’d like to do.  At this point, it feels like we’re done, but I can’t help thinking that we maybe haven’t actually sent any cards or baked any cookies.  Or shopped.  Huh.

At least the tree is up.  
Saturday’s fun included getting the living room ready for Christmas, which is a ritual in itself, before the tree even goes up.  This is how it goes down:  First, mandatory Christmas music plays.  ALL TOYS get put away in their designated spot (upstairs or downstairs, just not in my living room), donated, or thrown out.  This is actually a lot more fun to do than it sounds to most people.  I looooove to declutter.  Any non-Christmas books also get put away - upstairs or downstairs, just not in my living room!  The end tables get moved out, the couch gets moved, the 57 toys under the couch go through the keep/donate/throw out exercise, I sweep again and again, and Chris brings the xmas bins from the garage and the lovely, pre-lit tree in its old, dilapidated cardboard box, onto the back deck. 
This year, I cut through the 8th layer of packing tape holding the box shut (it is, after all, 8 years old) and take out the tree, one piece at a time.  Top piece (still on the deck):  shake shake shake, so extra loose “needles” fall out now while it's outside, bring it in.  Middle piece:  shake shake shake.  Bottom piece:  shake sha--- wait, is that mouse poop?  The bottom of the box is full of mouse poop.  On inspection, the last tree piece has several fluffy nests wending through its branches (also full of mouse poop).  I shake and shake, get the vacuum (Chris’ recommendation…which I was surprised by, because he has a very strong reaction to mouse poop and its alleged murderous properties, which is why I refer to any mice that he sees as “hantamice”), vacuum for a while, wonder how good is good enough... when I see a bunch of wires all chewed up.

My scream of BAH!  HUMBUG! was heard by the children inside the house, on the other side of the sliding glass doors.  My lovely tree is not only a hantatree,* but it is a fire hazard.

Vaughn was gearing up to get upset when I said that we had to throw out the tree, but cheered right up when I typed in “Canadian Tire” on the google.  He and Chris went out to pick it up at once.
The new tree is lovely and pre-lit, too.  It's 7.5 feet tall, and combines real-feel tips with less-real-feel tips, but was on sale, and was the last one in the store, so that's alright.
The old tree was dragged to the curb, clearly marked with a sign saying "Please leave for garbage:  Fire hazard, full of mouse poop and chewed wires."  It felt strange to leave such a sign, as most things we put out front are gone within 30 minutes, to be rehomed.  Chris even had to talk a woman out of taking it.
All this to say, even if nothing else is ready, even if the rest of the house is a bit of a disaster, and if the living room has a magnetic attraction for every non-Christmas toy or book to reappear every 15 minutes, ruining my imaginary holiday kingdom, and if we're out of Bailey's... wait, where was I going with this? 

* Am quite disappointed in myself for not somehow working Hanta Claus into this one.

Monday, 23 November 2015

This post is irrelevant

Sometimes I read books that have nothing to do with real life, either because they're fantasy, they're fiction, or they're true but from such ancient history that they can have no real value or meaning to anyone anymore.  After all, we don't live in the time of Austen.  Of Bronte.*  Of Shelley.  Of Ingalls Wilder.  (to name the last four authors I've read, anyway)

My kids will (probably) never have to draw water from the river, or build a log cabin with their hands.  They won't carve arrow tips.  They won't wear extra petticoats for warmth and/or modesty, or play with a pig's bladder for fun because their only other toy is a corn cob.  They won't have to face the dichotomy of getting married or becoming a governess.  They use snail mail only for thank you cards, Christmas cards and letters to Santa.

For that matter, any story written before 1990 has serious issues with its relevance to the life of a modern child.  I mean, why would you ever read a story about people who don't even have cell phones?  How could their experience possibly impact my own?  What relevance does it have?

The greats are great, and important, perhaps just because the stories they told were the first of their kind.  The experiences are completely unlike any that most of us will ever have.  But does that mean they're irrelevant?

Every day, this overpopulated world is full of more imitators and entrepreneurs with more time and more opportunity and better tools and more education.  But these classics still hold up today, awe-inspiringly so, in terms of wit, style, and brilliance, often despite -- or because of -- their simplicity.  These men and women didn't have the luxury of spell-check or a delete key.  Their stories were written by hand, crossed out and written again, without being able to cut and paste that paragraph onto the next page.  They were written, painstakingly, for a reason, to share their unique experiences (or unique take on shared experiences) with others, to caution, to moralize, to celebrate, but to share.  Every great artist could paint and sculpt and keep it to himself.  Every great singer could sing alone in their room.  But my historical authors, every one, were leaving their own mark, whether by letter written, book, or poem, published or not.

Isn't social media just the expansion of this human cry?  Every stupid Facebook post or thoughtless Twitter tweet, every (uh oh:  ignorance about to be exposed) ... um...photo? on snapchat or imgr or whatever-the-kids-are-into-these-days, and yes, every self-important blog post...all of these, every one, are all really just the artist/writer/originator/person, crying out into the darkness in the best way they know how:

I was here.  And I mattered.

* will happily accept pointers on how to get those two little dots on the e using an Alt combo

Monday, 16 November 2015


Vaughn doesn’t get too much air time on this blog, lately, but he’s an amazing, interesting, complex kid. 

He’s reading… not just words, but BOOKS.  He’s reading English voraciously, French daily (with a beautiful French accent).  He does his math homework incredibly quickly-yet-correctly, and easily meets any math challenge we give him, or at least has the idea of how to solve the problem.  He loves science experiments, and over the summer, spent hours on the driveway with cups of water, vinegar, baking soda, cornstarch and food colouring.  He makes tiny, detailed drawings, often of ships, tanks, weapons (sigh), but also of cats and people and Pokemons.  He is dentally advanced (or possibly just isn’t taking care of his teeth), as he’s lost 7 teeth so far – last week alone, he lost 2.  The tooth fairy is being scarily generous, and with a few more teeth out, I believe he’ll be able to buy a fairly decent used car with his earnings. 


Now that he’s lost two on the same side, he has a “straw hole”.


Of the three kids, he is the most cautious around animals (well, around everything, really) but wants a dog so badly.  He’s nervous around dogs, which is why it is especially endearing that he is keeping track of all the dogs that have licked him – because it means they’ve made him part of their pack.  As of Saturday, he is now in SEVEN different dog packs.  Wow.  He has, however, since we first talked about getting a dog, refused to pick up poop.  Just a few months ago, I asked him again, and he said he would NOT.  I said, if you won’t pick up poop, then we’ll never get a dog. 

He paused, considering (his pauses are great), and said, “I will pick it up, but I won’t enjoy it.” 

To which I replied, “No, you also have to enjoy it.” 

“NOOOOOO!” he screamed, grinning.  (He gets me.) 

He is not all sunshine and roses, however – far from it.  He is sensitive about certain things, and insensitive to others (by “others” I mean “Ailsa”), and can be stubborn and angry and carry a dark cloud over his head…until you make him laugh.  He stomps up to his room in true teenage fashion for almost any reason, and is only truly happy when he is tormenting his little sisters.  In fact, his real, gleeful laugh is a clear indication that he is being a stinker to at least one of them.  He loves them (but usually will not admit it), and, with Tamsin especially he is (sometimes) very tender and kind. 

But anyway, to bring us back to the cryptic post title above (has anyone figured it out yet?), his brain works in strange and brilliant ways.  With it being mid-November, dining-room table talk is revolving around Miss Tamsin’s upcoming birthday celebration…and Christmas (he’s started three lists so far).  Vaughn has also started putting thought into his own birthday, which is coming up soon (seven weeks is sort of soon).  This morning, we were eating breakfast, and he said, “Do you remember your last Christmas with just you and Daddy?  And I was in your belly?”  (This, of course, from photos and stories we’ve told him)  “My birthday is just a little bit after Christmas, so it’s like I’m Jesus’ little brother.”


(There are several flaws in his logic, but the only one of which we got into this morning was the 2000-year age gap.)

Thursday, 12 November 2015

You drop the beats, I'll drop the pretense that I'm successful at being a human being

I got off the bus last Wednesday morning, awkwardly and fumbling as usual.   Walking up the fairly-deserted Sparks Street towards me was a well-dressed 20-something man, doubtlessly on his way to work, too.


As he approached, I suddenly heard a distinct rap beat, and I smiled, thinking -- ok, judging -- how much swagger he must have, strutting down the street at 8am on a Wednesday, with his own rap songs for everyone around him to hear.  More swagger than I could ever have, that's for sure.  Good for him!


He passed me by, and, a few steps later, I realized that I could still hear the beat, which had clearly resolved itself into "She's Crafty" by the Beastie Boys, a bold choice for an 8-am strut to work by anyone's standards.  A few more steps, and it was still there.  Wholly more disturbing than the thought that Mr. Swagger had apparently turned around and fallen into step (strut?) right behind me was the sudden sinking revelation that I was possibly...probably...definitely-and-of-course blasting Beastie Boys (albeit inadvertently) on my walk to work. 




Despite the sick beats, without any swagger whatsoever, I stopped to desperately root through my bag, looking for the source of the (awesome yet embarrassing) music.  People passed.  ... Not my iPod...not my smartphone... not my BlackBerry... it was somehow coming from my Kindle.    More people walked by me.  Maybe they looked over, I don't know.  My head was down, my face was red.  I finally fished the Kindle out and looked at it blankly as the song continued.  It's an older model, no touch screen, and an awkward keyboard, even without these anxious, sweaty hands that tried really hard to Just Make It Stop.   Um... Home?  Menu?  Settings?  Experimental?  Ah!  Good.  By this time, the song was into its second chorus.  Let me say that I've never really listened to the verses of this song before, and have happily bopped along to "She's Crafty!  She's just my style!" at home and in the car, but now that I've looked them up, well, they're not exactly the most appropriate choice for my morning commute.


Anyhoo, to sum up, Humpday started with yet another slight embarrassment...again and as usual.  Instead of wailing, “Why do these things happen to meeeee?” (Wise people don’t ask questions they don’t want to know the answer to), I like to think of it as a sign of personal growth and take pride in the fact that at least I am never surprised when stuff like this happens, but I am getting tired of the slow-dawning feeling of disappointment.  (Not again.)  I am doing better at suppressing the face palm, however. 



* I've heard that some people walk around with just one device that has the same capability of my four (or that my phone can do all of those things by itself).  To those people, I say:  Hey, I didn't replace my GPS when it was stolen out of my car.  So that's .... something?  kaff

Tuesday, 10 November 2015

Depressing Post Title: You Can't Spell "Friend" Without "End"

I ran into an old friend today.  Ok, it was an ex-friend.  The kind of friend that you have so long that you don’t really have anything invested in the friendship except that you’ve been friends for so long, and you’re constantly questioning why you’re friends with this person, but to stop being friends, well, feels like a failure.
I have no idea what caused the final split.  It wasn’t like an ex-boyfriend, where there is a definitive, solid reason (or, in some cases, manifesto) for why you shouldn’t be together anymore, but more like coming away from conversations with feelings of confusion, disconnectedness, and, my absolute favourite activity:  judging.  The friendship had fallen apart, years before, with her quietly, yet clearly unfriending me (this was before Facebook, so it was particularly jarring), but we reconnected and seemed to patch things up, without ever talking about why we had come apart in the first place.  The more recent – and final – time was a little over three years ago.  Up to that point, we talked, emailed daily, and saw each other once in a while, but anyone who knows me knows that I can give a lot, as long as you’re not asking for time.  I can be supportive, funny, judgy-against-your-enemies, commiserating… I can bake, lend you stuff, but I can’t give you coffee dates or shopping afternoons or wine dates or dinner.  Time doing that makes me feel guilty for not being with my husband, my children, my house, going to the gym, knitting mittens or stockings…you name it, which makes a night out stressful.  (See also, Failing at Everything.)  I like to think that what I have to give is, well, the written word and/or occasional skype date… when I have time.
Ok, so maybe reading that over shows me that I’m a terrible friend.  But maybe that’s just the kind of friend I want for myself.  I love getting letters, emails and texts.  I don’t delete emails from my friends – I keep them and read them over, and laugh at what you’ve said, at my response, at your response.  I write and rewrite my letters and responses.  I choose my words carefully.  That is the time I have, and that is the friend I am. 
So, three years ago, this ex-friend and I were having a mild conflict during an email discussion, and I tried to de-escalate.  “I’ll talk to you Monday,” I think I wrote. 
I waited that Monday…Tuesday… thinking that if I meant something to her, or at least our friendship meant something, that she would eventually reach out.  She never did.  I still think of her all the time, and she shows up in my dreams, and it’s fine, until I wake up.  I’m always wondering how she’s doing, how her son is.  I’m not on Facebook, so I really have no window into her life.  It still hurts. 
So today, when I saw her at the gym, I was stunned and shaken.  I walked up and said, SO awkwardly, “Hey.”  Her nonchalant “hey” makes me think that she had seen me first, but didn’t want to talk to me.  I walked away (awkwardly).  Later, in the changeroom, I was still shaking.  I overheard her and her friend talking about me – no, not talking about me, but referring to me – and when I turned around to say, “Please talk to me – tell me to my face what you want to say,” she was gone.  When she got out of the showers, I waited till she was not naked (I’m cool like that), and walked up again, asked about how her son was doing, and she asked about my kids.  It felt weird and awful, like trying to talk to someone who has no use for you but is trying to end the conversation quickly.  I left, nauseous and shaky and awkward.
I’m sad that she’s out of my life, without actually missing her.  I’m sad for the experiences we shared together, and not knowing what went wrong, without wanting her back in my life.  It’s a strange place to be, but I feel that, after a week or so of obsessing over this, I might just be able to let her go.
In the meantime, is anyone out there looking for a lousy friend?  I’m (sometimes) available.

Wednesday, 4 November 2015

Party of Five...Halloweenies, that is!

Of COURSE the kids love Halloween - they're 50% Halloweenie, after all!

This year was no exception - the kids chose their costumes fairly early on (two of them "may" have been helped along with subtle hints, as it would be a shame to have, say, a beautiful, hand-sewn lion costume only worn by one Huffling, or a princess froggie only worn by one ... um.. my niece).

Harry Potter was a given for Mr. Vaughn, as he is keenly into the 4th book, and is eagerly looking forward to watching the 3rd movie (trying to deflect that one as long as possible - they start getting scarier and scarier).  He knows quite a few spells, and I am never safe from someone sneaking up behind me and yelling "Expelliarmus!"...which inevitably makes me jump and drop whatever I'm holding... because it's magic, duh.

I, as usual, completely missed the point of Halloween, which is apparently to dress provocatively and live out one's illusions of sexiness.  I was a ... um... sexy?... killer whale, posed here with a priest.  Note that I was not convincing enough in pushing my old nun costume on Chris, which would have entailed showing a good expanse of ankle.  I also wanted him to wear lipstick.

He said no.

"I don't want to dress up like a woman," he said.

"You wouldn't be dressing up like a woman," I insisted.  "You'd be a man in a nun costume wearing lipstick, which is much funnier."


Because Halloween was so hectic, with trick or treating and, well, trick or treating, we waited till the day after to make our Halloween Feast!   The Domestic Goddess resurfaced quietly to impress the kids, the husband, and horrify the poor, unassuming houseguest, Uncle Rob.

First, I slayed a monster, and cut off his feet at the ankle:

"Feetloaf AGAIN?"

THEN, I cooked his brains until they were a nice medium rare.
Mmmm.... brains.  This was surprisingly hard to cut into, emotionally.  Tasty, though.