My father comes from good hearty German stock. Mom married into his family and had an entirely new cuisine to learn to make: spaetzle, pork with saue kraut and goulash for starters. When I was a tot, Mom made goulash often. One day, she placed a plate of it on my tray for lunch. She busied herself in the kitchen while I ate, not paying really close attention to me. After a bit, she looked over at me and saw that all the goulash was gone. She was so proud that I had eaten all by myself, that she took a picture of me:
The funny thing was, though, when she went to change my diaper a few minutes later, she discovered that I hadn’t eaten it at all. I had spent all of that time stuffing it into my diaper and plastic pants.
Although I obviously don’t remember this incident myself, I remember with fondness the fun of having mom tell the story. My little brothers in turn loved having Mom tell them about their big sister that seemed more like an aunt than a sister because of the big age difference. My kids even like to hear about it. That is one of the best things about family stories. They don’t seem to get old with the telling.