Outside the office where I work stands an impressive mulberry tree. I recently took some fruit home for dessert. Kit rather enjoyed it. And by that I mean that he enjoyed adorning himself in mulberry pulp in his impatience to get them into his mouth. When he had finished distributing mulberries about his person, he checked thoroughly under the plate and on the floor to make sure none had escaped his voracious onslaught.
The next day, when I offered Kit some mulberries for dessert, to my surprise, he declined, asking me, “Where do mulberries come from?”
“Instead of telling you, why don’t I show you?” I asked, “We can go on An Expedition.” Kit pulled an expression that looked a lot like disgust, and was dubious about this, but finally his love of a Good Expedition won out, and he agreed. (To Kit an Expedition is any time you need to leave the house for an Important Reason, requiring Special Equipment, such as my wallet and keys, or special clothing, which is any clothing at all in his case. Everyone who has ever parented a small child knows that leaving the house with them is, indeed, Practically Always An Expedition.)
“What shall I pack?” he asked me the next morning.
“You’ll need your thongs to stop the fallen mulberries from staining your hind paws. And you’ll need a container to put the mulberries in – not your hat; that will get stained – and we need to wear gloves to pick them or our paws will turn blue. Oh, and we’d better pack the camera to record The Expedition,” I replied.
“Seriously, Mum?! The camera? When are you going to get a smart phone? What century are you from?”
“The last one,” I replied, and snuck the camera into my backpack when Kit wasn’t looking.
We rode to work on Milly, my bicycle. At least I rode, and Kit performed the role of ‘Back Seat Driver,’ from his position in Milly’s basket. An Oscar worthy performance that mostly involved screeching, “Faster!” every time I had to ride up a hill.
We arrived at work in plenty of time to pick some berries. After securing Milly to a fence, I pointed out the tree to Kit.
“That,” I said, “Is a mulberry tree,”
Kit looked incredulous. He looked from me to the tree and back again, his little mouth agape.
“How did the fish get up there?” he enquired.
“Sorry. What?” I asked, banging the heel of my hand against my ear, “I thought you just asked me how the fish got up the tree.”
“You don’t need to pretend!” he said hotly, “I know where mulberries come from.”
“And where, exactly, would that be?” I asked, by now completely mystified.
“They come out of a mullet’s bum!”
“Who told you that?”
I think you can guess his answer:
“Dad”.
