I can’t tell you what my home looked like when I was 12. I can’t even tell you my favorite childhood meal – I don’t think I had one. I genuinely love food. Except broccoli and sheep brain. And guts. That’s disgusting and turns me green and dizzy, and green does not suit me well. I avoid wearing green on my clothes too. And seriously, who likes guts? Lever, okay. With wine in the oven and some spring onions. But guts? Seriously? Look me in the eyes… that’s what I thought.
I can’t tell you yet what my very soon to be home looks like either. Two days left in Germany and Babylove and I fly there. With a little luck and a freshly rested pilot, we’ll make it safely to Singapore. Then we’ll build something with love and… blablah. That’s not my voice, sorry, I jut had a phone call with a Taiwanese friend and he attacked me with cuteness lasers. Now I see everything marshmallow and pink. Horrible. Anyway, what was I saying? Yes, I was saying – then we’ll build something, but not literally of course. I expect Singapore to have enough vacant houses and flats for us to find one suitable. Although, I may give a shot at crafting – I stumbled upon a nice dollhouse made of carton yesterday night (I have so many cartons here since the guys of the container came around to take our belongings). I literally burp ideas now. I have sometimes no control over my brain, I swear. And I need to write stuff and to tell things in the dictaphone. Love bought it for me – not that he grew tired of my epiphanies, but probably of the bruises on his arm every time I grab him when I burp.
But you can guess what my home no more looks like now. You can even guess what we’re eating everyday since I have neither pans nor pots to cook. Not even a microwave. The oven is there though. I sometimes daydream of putting Babylove in and roast him. I am quite sure he would taste good (I’m his mother, I give him proper food and proper physical exercise) and I am very certain that he would stop complaining about our diet of the past days. Okay, salads and seeds may not be his favorite childhood meal…
Now that I come to think of it – and BL’s screams sounding much like my younger brothers’ used to -, I sort of remember that roasted babies was mine.