Over at my blog in which my friend and I write about cooking like once a quarter, a new post about a quick marinara that at least one toddler approves of.
An oddly dressed stranger comes over when mom isn't home, insisting that mom is a friend who'd want the kids to let him in to play. Two subverbal, possibly violent friends accompany him. Kids learn the important lesson that when you invite freaky strangers in (over the protest of their boring scold of a goldfish) it's fun to engage in hazardous stunts and wreck the house with them, because strangers also magically clean the house up the second before mom comes home. For it is fun to have fun, and the linkage of action and consequence is nothing but fishbowl superstition.
A mother bunny quashes her offspring's every aspiration, teaching him that dreams are for other bunnies, that she will outflank any attempts to build a life of his own, and that he is better off just sitting home in their suffocating burrow, eating. A favorite of Roger Waters' mother.
C's interpretation, as explained tonight: I sat on her rug, biting my tongue, drinking her one. We talked until two, and then she said, "it's time for bed."
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