The Meat In The Sandwich

Last night Tracey cooked the family up a pot roast and we enjoyed it with roast potatoes and greens. Noice. Unusually, there were leftovers, mainly because she cooked up half a beast. As we sealed it in a container and put it in the fridge it was decided we could bypass the Vegemite tomorrow and the meat was earmarked for lunches. Yummy, yummy lunches.

“Can we have toast?” Miss9 asked me the next morning while I raced around the kitchen getting not much done.

Tracey had already buttered the bread and filled their lunch boxes with everything else they needed. All I had to do was add the meat, cut ‘em, wrap ‘em and divvy ‘em up. She was having a quick shower while I supervised the kids eating breakfast and getting dressed.

“Yep. Just cook it yourself,” I said, pointing at the toaster oven and grabbing out the container of meat.

“I don’t want it cooked,” said Miss9.

“Then I think you mean bread,” I told her. “Toast is cooked bread. Yes, you can have some bread. Butter it yourself.”

“I don’t like butter,” said Master8.

“Then don’t butter it yourself.”

“I feed the doggy?” asked Miss3. At least someone was being helpful.

“Yep. And give her some water,” I suggested. Miss6 appeared in the kitchen and I felt my blood pressure rising. “Why aren’t you in your uniform?”

“I can’t find it.”

“Soooo…what? You’ve given up? That’s it? Just going to school in your undies?”

I ferreted through the clean washing pile which was awaiting folding (ha!) and dispersal to the various wardrobes and drawers which harbour our children’s clothes.

“Here,” I said, pulling out a shirt.

“That’s not mine!” she said in a tone which left no doubt what she thought of my organisational skills.

“It is today.” I returned to the kitchen to find in my brief absence someone small and annoying had left a fresh mess in the sink. “Who’s bowls are these? How many times have we told you kids to rinse your bowls after breakfast?” I asked, turning on the tap and shoving the bowl into Miss9’s hand for her to wash it.

“But Dad-“

“No, don’t ‘but Dad’ me. How many times have we told you to start thinkin-“

“Bruuuuuce!!” came a scream from the bathroom.

“My bad!” I yelled back, turning the taps off. Miss9 was looking smug. “You’ll rinse those off after you’re dressed.” She rather sensibly agreed and went off to the bedrooms.

“Daddy, water,” Miss3 was saying from around my knees. She was holding up the jug we use to fill the dog bowl.

“Good girl,” I said and began to fill it.


“Sorry!” I called to Tracey, handing a half filled jug to Miss3 who tottered off past Jazz.

Something instantly struck me about our dog. Usually she’s fluffy white from tip to tale, but her whole snout was covered in dirt. She’d been digging. Or burying something.

But what?

I pondered this as I turned back to my task of finishing the sandwiches.

“Where’s the meat?” I asked out loud, looking behind the bread and the staring at the fridge trying to remember if I’d got it out. I was sure I had.

“I fed doggy,” said Miss3, grinning up at me.

So Vegemite sandwiches for lunch it was today. Still tasty but Vegemite only qualifies for the one yummy.

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