Posts Tagged ‘food’

Just wondering what the thought process was behind the new McDonald’s frappé?

Not that I don’t understand why they’d make an icy creamy coffee drink in the summer?  That, I get.

But, why in the world did they decided to call it the frappé?  As in pronounce it  “frap-pay, preferably with a roll of your tongue and a tip of your beret.

Have you seen the ads?

Frappé.   All Day.

Well, I suppose they found a way to make it rhyme.

Let’s assume they’re simply trying to fancy the place up a bit.  Am I so dense as to actually feel better about myself when I order McDonald’s 4,392 calorie frap-PAY instead of the accent-less frappe at, say, Friendly’s?

Frappe rhymes with crap.  Frap-PAY?   French.  Skinny.  Ooooh.  I’ll take three, please.

I can’t wait to see the reaction next time I walk into the Lynnway McDonald’s and order myself a six-piece McNuggéts and a Coké.

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Awesome.  Thanks.

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I love this season.  But, I also hate this season.  Because, my children turn from gentle early-ish risers to ohmygodchilditsthecrackofdawnstopcallingmefromyourcribandgobacktosleepNOW risers.

It’s brutal.

Husband’s been a little extra busy at work lately and regularly leaves before sunrise.  He dresses quietly by the light of our bathroom, kisses me goodbye and heads out.  Then, I snuggle back into bed “knowing” I have at least an hour or so before the kids get up.  At least, I had that last month.  This month?  Not-so-much.

Snuggle in, eyes closed.

Just.   starting.   to.   drift.   off.

Maaaaaaahhhhh-maaaaaaay!  I want to get up.

No.  Please, no.

Head into Little Brother’s room.  He’s standing up in his crib, peering around at me, little brown eyes hopeful.

Hi, Mommy!  I want to get up.

No, J.  It’s much too early.  You need to go back to sleep.  Lie back down.

And, he does.  I tuck him back in.   Head back to my room.   Climb into bed, close my eyes…

Well, that used to work.  We could actually settle him back down and buy ourselves at least 1/2 hour more sleep, sometimes more.  Unfortunately, Little Brother’s brain is developing (well, I mean of course that is actually fortunate that his brain is developing but you know what I mean), and he’s figured out how to manipulate the situation to get his way.   So, now?

Climb back into bed, close my eyes and…


I storm in.  Open the door.

I’m serious, J!  You need to go to sleep!

…and then he’ll drop a little hammer on my heart.  He has a few hammers from which to choose.  Depends on his mood.

1.  But, I’m sooooo hungry! —  For some ridiculous reason Little Brother has recently decided to only eat one meal a day.  Of course, I still present him with three squares.  He just ignores two of the three.   Awesome.   Luckily, Big Brother is growing like a weed and would eat 100 meals a day if I let him.  He’s never met a leftover pb&j that he didn’t like.  So, when Little Brother complains of hunger from his crib?  Well, of course you’re hungry, little monster.  You had two blueberries for dinner last night.  But, I’m your mother and I can’t let you starve so, fine.  Get up then, little hungry bird.  Good morning.

2.   I miss Daddy so much! — Which is such a farce.  I mean, he loves his Dad terribly but this is a total ploy.  His Dad is home at a very reasonable hour almost every night.  We’re very lucky.  But, Little Brother knows his Dad isn’t home in the mornings.  He also knows his Mom is a total sucker when he plays the “I Want My Daddy” card.  So, fine.   Get up then, sweet boy.  Good morning.

3.   But, I’m poopy! I swear the child has learned to crap on command.  This is his last resort.  Because he knows I’m a total freak about dirty diapers and there’s no way I’m leaving him in there smelling up his room and sitting in his feces.  And, by the time I go in there, pull him out of his crib and change him, I know we are both far too awake to get back to sleep.   So, fine.  Get up then, stinky.  Good morning.

Gotta run.  Off to Target for room-darkening curtains.

And maybe some ear plugs.

Is it nap time yet?

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In the check-out line at my local Market Basket.    My bagger today isn’t Jesus, but instead a woman.  Let’s call her Sally.

Sally (eyeing my purchase of Diego Swimmy Diapers):  How old’s your little one?

Me:  He’s two.

Sally (who looks no older than 25):  Ah.  Mine are 6, 10 and 12.

Me:   Hmm.  Goes fast, I bet.

A few beats of silence.

Sally (eyes my Johnson’s Baby Bath Oil):  You want to be really careful using this stuff with your two-year old, though.

Me (Alarmed.  Was there a recall?  Is it hazardous if swallowed?):  Oh, really!?  How come?

Sally:  It’s just not very good protection for the little ones.  They could get a really bad sunburn.

Good Lord, woman.  I’m not using it as sunblock on my baby!

Me:  Oh.  K.  Well, thanks.

Where’s Jesus when you need him?

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Husband and I got a sitter on Saturday night and decided to go out for a pre-Mother’s Day dinner.   So, after going through the regular exchange:

Me:  Where should we go?

He:  I don’t know.  You pick.

How about x?

Nah.  Too dark.

How about y?

Tables are too close together.

How about z?

Annoying bartenders.

How about you pick?

There’s a storied spot here in Marblehead.   It’s both a bar and restaurant but it’s always been known for “wicked stiff drinks”.  I hadn’t darkened the door of the place since my bachelorette party (Don’t remind me…is that tequila I taste?)  when the food part of the building was really just considered a nice tack-on in case you actually wanted to have something in your stomach and, therefore, a better chance of actually leaving the bar standing upright.   But, we’d been hearing a lot of reports lately that they had a new chef and the food was good.   So, we decided to check it out and off we went.

We enjoyed some grown-up bar drinks (in pint glasses) at the bar downstairs, chatted with a great bartender, then headed up to the restaurant.  Sat at a high-top table, liked the looks of the menu, liked our server, liked the atmosphere.  Right up our alley, really.

And then…he arrived.

Jimmy.  Or Mickey.  Or Sully, perhaps.  Something like that, undoubtedly.

Whoever he was, he was the quintessential loudmouth.  Sitting with two other guys at the bar but his Boston-accent-laden side of the conversation was the only one anyone heard.  And it sounded something like this:

Did you see that f*ckin’ pitch? (pause so someone else could speak…briefly)   Oh, yeah, he got f*ckin’ crushed. (pause)  No f*ckin’ way that was a f*ckin’ out!  That guy needs f*ckin’ glasses.  Blah, blah, blah, f*ckin’, blah, blah, blah, f*ckin’, blah.

Grrrr.   It certainly didn’t ruin our meal but it was annoying and rude and I wish his knucklehead friends had just told him to pipe down.  But, they didn’t.  And on he went.

Husband often tells me I have “rabbit ears”.   That I basically choose to listen to annoying things that others could simply tune out.  For example, I can’t stop myself from listening intently to someone enjoying his gum a little too enthusiastically.  Or someone tapping a pen on a desk.  Or lightly snoring.  Or eating something while on the phone with me (“hey, you want to just call me back when you’re finished?”).

Or dropping the F-bomb loudly and repeatedly at a restaurant.  I mean, come on.

Yesterday, I was reading the blog of a woman whose posts I follow regularly.  She had gone to dinner with her sister and her sister’s new baby and, after the baby had spent some time fussing, a man seated nearby felt compelled to make a comment to them.  And, he wasn’t exactly delicate with his opinions of a crying baby in a restaurant.  It escalated.  I believe they finished their meal but the night was ruined for them.   She was more than a little irritated with the man’s gumption.

But, I had to admit that I sort of sided with the grumpy man in the restaurant.  I feel strongly that, when in a public place where a semblance of decorum is expected (like restaurants, retail stores, etc), it’s a parent’s responsibility to be aware and considerate of the people around them.  And to not allow your child to disrupt someone else’s evening.  Granted, some whining, some crying, some volume — all expected.  Kids are kids.  Kids are allowed at restaurants and allowed at retail stores.  Certainly.  Give ’em a chance.  But, if it gets to the point where the child is overtaking the atmosphere of the restaurant…it’s time to go.  Call it a night.  Get ’em out of there.  Run, Forrest, Run.  Your server and  your fellow patrons will thank you for it.   I know I would.

I’m sure many will disagree.   Like I said, just my opinion.

Anyway, this leads me back to that trash-mouth man in the restaurant Saturday night.  Sure, it wasn’t like we were dining at Le Cirque.  Of course, he had every right to be there enjoying himself with his buddies.  And, frankly, he probably spends a lot more money and certainly a lot more time at that establishment that I do.   It’s probably a heck of a lot more “his place” than mine.  But you know what I wish?

I wish his mother was there.  I wish she was there to hear his language.  That she was there to shush him politely a few times.  Then, to speak a little more sternly, maybe even firmly grabbing his forearm.   Then, that she was there to look him square in the eyes and say  “Stop it now.  I mean it.

And then, when he went on and on and on…?

I wish she’d been there to receive my high-five as she dragged him out by his ear.

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Gathered my wits and ventured back to Market Basket today.  I’ve previously shared my opinions on my local Market Basket, so those familiar will know that it’s kind of a big deal excursion.  You really never quite know what you’ll run into at the ole’ MB.  Let’s just say it’s…well…it’s diverse.  And crazy.   I’m talking “Cabbage Patch Dolls-circa-1980 crazy” but if Cabbage Patch Dolls cost .18 cents instead of $82 dollars.   You get me?

So, there I am.  Bobbing and weaving and ducking my cart through traffic like Super Saver through the mud at Churchill Downs.   It’s every man (or Mommy) for himself, I tell you.   And, you never know when things might take a turn for the worse, resulting in a hair-pulling fight over the last “5 for $2” package of angel hair.

And, when you go to MB, you have to really go for it.  Load ’em up.  Because you know it’ll be a while before you recover from the experience, your memory finally lapses and you decided to go back again.   Today’s haul cost nearly as much as Big Brother’s public school kindergarten tuition (don’t get me started) so you can imagine my relief as I piled my final item into my cart and headed for the check-out.

Almost made it.   I can see my car from here.   I.  can.  do.  it.    I will make it.   Maybe with just a little help from…

Him.  Yes.  Him.

Jesus.  At my service.

Well, Hallelujah.

(And, yes, I took a picture.  He had no idea.  Really.   Or, actually…now that I think about it…hmmm.)

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Mealtime Magic

Dear Moms and Dads,

Struggling with new and nutritious dinner items for your kids?   Has your mealtime lost the “magic”?   Kids lost interest in the same old – same old beef, chicken and pork products?

Well, search no further.

New!  Innovative!  And laced with green glitter!

It even comes complete with a small silver spoon for busy kids (and grown-ups) on the go!

Dig in!

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One of the little benefits of having children is that they can eventually start to do things that you don’t really want to do anymore.  When I was growing up in Vermont, I proved to be a very handy lawnmower, wood stacker and dog food pourer.  So now, my time has come.  Big Brother is finally at an age when he’s actually starting to be useful.  And, while he’s still too young to mow our lawn or stack wood, you can bet he feeds that dog.   And he loves fetching things around the house for me — a diaper for Little Brother, a pair of shoes, Dad’s dry cleaning bag and other such tasks.  I’d say, though, that I have found him to be most useful in the area of reminders.  As my Mommy brain goes a little more J-e-l-l-o each day, his five-year old brain is sharpening.  So, we often leave the house with a recited list of errands.  Or enter the grocery store with a little chant of critical items.   And, it’s very, very helpful.  He’s saved me from near disaster many times.  “Mom!  You forgot to pick up the dry cleaning!”   or  “Mom!  Did you forget the taco sauce?”

A couple nights ago, the boys and I enjoyed a sunny late afternoon playdate with my wonderful college friend J. and her three kids.   We met at her house, ran the kids around outside and then, as the sun started going down, we all headed back into town for dinner at a local pizza place and ice cream across the street.   For the most part, the kids were stellar.   All five of them well-behaved at the restaurant — eating their dinners, sitting in their chairs, having fun but not to the detriment of other diners.   We were hard to miss with our piles of children but, thankfully, (luckily) we were also the picture of two functional Mommies enjoying a meal with our kids.  Until…

Packing up to leave, throwing away various paper plates, stacking trays and returning the ketchup to the counter.  Big Brother shouts to me from across the restaurant.

Oh!  Mommy!

Shhhh.  What?

Mommy! Racing across the restaurant now, undoubtedly attracting attention of many diners.   Jumping up and down in front of me now.

Mommy! VODKA!  VODKA!  We need VODKA!

(Oh. my.  goodness.)

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Sometime in the beginning of January, I bought a little bit of garlic.  A medium-sized plastic tin full of pre-peeled cloves.  Very practical, I thought to myself as I loaded them into that week’s grocery cart.   Well done.   And, for just $1.44?  A steal, no doubt.  Yay, me.  Ever the thrifty one, yup, that’s me.

Husband arrived home that night and noticed my new purchase in the refrigerator.

Wow. He calls out to me, as I sit in the adjoining room.  That’s a LOT of garlic!

Truly surprised that a) he would even notice but also that b) he thought it too much, I answered,

Well, not really.  I cook with garlic all the time!  I’m sure I’ll get right through it.  You just don’t know how much I actually need garlic.  You’ll see.

Alright. But, I can just tell in his voice that he doubts me.  That he thinks I’m being wasteful…again.

I’ll show him, I thought to myself.   I will.

So, today (two months later), when I went to make a baked ziti and reached for a little garlic powder before I remembered that…oh, yeeeeah.  I’ve got that real garlic somewhere in here and…

Sigh.  Oh, go ahead.  Mark the date and time.  I hereby admit, he was right.

Nuts.  Hate when that happens.

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“Shhhh, J.  No yelling.”

“Mommy, look!”

“Shhhh!  What?!”

“Over dare!”    (Pointing and practically leaping from his highchair)

“What?  Where?”

“Over dare!  Over dare!  Mommy, is that Santa!?”

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