The Domestic
Her babies have shoved firmly down the food chain as they hunt her in different ways, from a piranha feeding-frenzy to sociopathic Lecter-style stalking
Lamb burgers with blue cheese
As a human, I have never really had the experience of being anything but on the very top of the food chain. Or, at least, I hadn’t until the advent of having children. For the last few years I have occasionally dropped from the top position to the second rung, and it is a strange experience indeed. Only mothers know exactly what it is like to be sitting down to the dinner table, eyeing up the delicious meal in front of us, only to become aware that a few feet away another person is staring at us with the same ravenous anticipation. It’s unsettling.
Because of the way the baby’s eyes follow me around the room, Himself now calls me the Hamburger, given I provide for the baby the same delicious fascination that a big juicy hamburger gives me. Of course, understanding that doesn’t make the feeling of being hunted any less weird.
I’ve noticed that my three babies all have distinct strategies when it comes to their prey — me. The first baby was an omnivore and greedily ate anything that strayed near him: bottle, boob, a cigarette butt he once found on the ground in the park. He wasn’t picky.
The second baby was like a tiny, bald cannibal. He stalked me around the bed at night with the tenacity and ingenuity of Hannibal Lecter, despite not yet even having acquired a modicum of head control or tensile strength. He would claw at clothing, the same way I claw at the packaging when my Deliveroo order arrives. I had to grudgingly respect his rabid dedication to getting what he wanted, even though it often stood in the way of what I wanted, which was simply to relax without fear of being devoured by my young.
The latest baby has a completely different style of hunting. Somehow, again despite being just one adorable, roly-poly baby, he makes me feel as though I’m being attacked by a school of piranhas — in the nicest possible way, of course. He is just a very athletic eater — which is where he takes after me, I suppose.
Just as he can devour a boob in just seconds flat, I can dispatch a burger in mere minutes. Also, like me, he is a particular guy, partial to some quirks. For example, we both like perfect conditions for our meals. If I am eating a meal that is heavy on accoutrements — like this burger, for example — there is no way I can countenance so much as a single essential component being missing. I would rather scrap the entire burger experience, than tolerate a burger in a sub-par bun or without the exact combination and correct ratio of condiments.
The baby’s deal-breakers are different of course, but he is just as wedded to them. In preparation for his every meal, for some reason, he must aggressively pummel what’s on the menu: me. Who knows to what end? Tenderising? Then, when he’s satisfied that he has mauled it enough, he will latch on to the boob while keeping his unblinking eyes trained on the prey — again, me — lest I try to what... I don’t know, escape? Read my phone? Then the piranha-like feasting begins. I’ll spare you any further visuals.
Instead, I recommend making this whopper lamb burger for a twist on a barbecue classic.