Advice for Remy, Day 32. Sometimes you'll have to do unpleasant things for the ones you love. I don’t mean like assassinating their enemies, or anything like that. Today’s example is much worse. Since you started eating we’ve cooked you some lovely dishes, but your favourite seems to be something incredible unpalatable to your mum and I. Your little sweet potato fish pie has established its fishy self at the top of the Remy food tree, filled as it is with sweet potato, leek, sweet corn, egg yolks and, of course, plenty of stinking white fish, poached in whole milk with a couple of bay leaves for that subtle baby-pleasing flavour. Now for some people this would be lovely - a real treat. However, as our house currently smells like a dirty dockyard at 5am, I’m firmly not in that camp. Having had a little bit of a delicate stomach of late, the act of extracting little bits of cooked fish from a pan of simmering milk was almost too much to take. And that smell really sticks. To everything. EVERYTHING. Stirring the bowl - hands smell of fish. Moving the pan - hands smell of fish. Chopping veg, washing up, watching TV - fish, fish, bloody fish. I’ve washed my hands more times in the last two hours than a paranoid serial killer. And I can still smell it. And I’ll soon have to dispose of that milky fishy soup, which will probably be more than my gag reflex can take. But, you love it. For some ungodly reason, you gobble down that monstrous fishy mush like a champion, grinning widely so little flakes of haddock can be seen peeping from your lips. And that makes it alright, as we can see just how much you love it. Just don’t ever ask me to eat any. That would end badly for all concerned.
