The secret supper society

Sideways Dad knows all about elevenses; he knows all about second breakfast and high tea and nibbles.

Aragorn: Gentlemen, we do not stop 'til nightfall.

Pippin: What about breakfast?

Aragorn: You've already had it.

Pippin: We've had one, yes. What about second breakfast?

(Aragorn turns and walks off in disgust)

Merry: I don't think he knows about second breakfast, Pip.

Pippin: What about elevenses? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? He knows about them, doesn't he?

Merry: I wouldn't count on it. - From "The Fellowship of the Ring"

Sideways Dad knows all about elevenses; he knows all about second breakfast and high tea and nibbles. He understands giraffe-like grazing, as he understands the more destructive behaviour of our in-house herd as they trample a path to the fridge.

He knows all about raiding the larder, all about the fabulous disappearing-muffin caper. He even knows about what appears to be a uniquely Alfred-like institution: the chocolate-bar walk, where the chocolate miraculously finds its way out of the sweetie basket and into someone's tummy - without the intervention of a second party.

Aragorn, Pippin and Merry might not have heard of that other fabulous Alfred institution: second supper. It came about when the boys hit adolescence. Suddenly, about nineo'clock each evening, we started noticing bread in the toaster, peanut butter on the toast, tea bags in the cup. There was a slightly frantic guzzling in the house, as though sundry individuals were fattening up for a long winter.

Suddenly we were running out of brown bread; we needed to replenish the Earl Gray. I was forever finding mugs and plates scattered around the house, like the erratic markings of some secret in-house society. Which, of course, is what it was - the society of secret peanut-butter eaters and tea drinkers or, to give its full (internationally recognised) acronym, SPBTD.

My wife and I admit that second supper took us slightly by surprise. We've had a little cabinet lekgotla. We've redeployed our resources. There are now top-shelf stashes of peanut butter and mayonnaise in the pantry, just in case the second supper situation spirals out of hand.

We are prepared, as others might be for a nuclear holocaust. The difference is that we have fewer tinned goods.

I don't think the second-supper ritual extends as far as actually opening a tin of baked beans in tomato sauce and shovelling it onto toast. Or frying up some chickpeas with garlic and a variety of peppers. Second supper is a slap-it-together type of thing, so our tins are safe - for the time being.

Despite the lekgotla and despite the redeployment, the second supper ritual can still spin us off our mealtime course. Bread disappears very quickly in our home, with nary a crumb left. Milk goes pretty quickly, too. Juice is a big mover. So is tea. Sometimes a horrendous shortfall is revealed.

"We've run out of bread, Mom," I hear from another room in the house, the accusation layered on the sentence as thick as syrup (or peanut butter, for that matter).

There is a temperate reply, but I sense that what the other voice in Mom's head wants to say is: "I'm not surprised - you guys eat two loaves a day."

Alas, she doesn't allow her snide self to get the better of her. She makes a plan. She soothes and helps. Usually this takes them in the direction of the fruit basket.

"Why not have an apple ... dear."