Posts Tagged ‘food’

Sweets with My Sweets

Channeled my inner Martha Stewart on Valentine’s Day and made hand-rolled lollipops and little chocolate stars with Ross and the boys.  Everything came out surprisingly well and we got to spend a little extra time creating a Valentine’s Day memory or two.
Oh.  And now I get to hear “Can I have a lollipop?” every 4 1/2 seconds.  So, that’s a real bonus.

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…because guess who’s NOT cooking tonight?


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I’ve mentioned before that Big Brother has become something of a fussbudget when it comes to dinner.  And, I’m not exactly serving up brussels sprouts and organic chicken.   I’ll feed the kid Kraft mac & cheese, a chicken patty, spaghettio’s, whatever.  Just eat it, punk.   Nutritionally, he’s fine.  He loves all fruits and most vegetables, gets a boatload of protein from countless lunchtime pb & js.  But, the main course is killing me.
And his latest?  After I’ve indulged him by letting him request the night’s main course (I know, I know…I’m creating this monster), and he’s settled in his chair, he’ll proceed to eat everything else on the plate and then tell me his main course is cold.  “Mom?”  (“Yes, W.”)  “My mac is cold.  Will you reheat this for me?”
And, I do.  Once, sometimes twice.  But, it’s really starting to bug me.  The act is getting old.  So, when the request came a few nights ago, and subsequently the first reheat, I place the warmed meal in front of him.
“Is it too hot now, Mom?”
“I don’t think so, W”
But still, just in case, he talks to Little Brother (who will happily eat anything) and plays a bit.  Waiting for it to cool.  A minute or so later he deigns to lift his spoon.   And, for something like the nine milllionth time in nine million days he rolls his eyes and says to me…
“Oh no, Mom.  It’s cold again.”
Well, I lost it.  In a fit of total frustration, I raced over to the table.  Took the spoon out of his bowl, slammed it back down onto his placemat, yanked the bowl away, marched back towards the kitchen, threw the bowl in the micro and with my back turned to them said….(not quietly)
“You know what, W?!?   Next time, you won’t get a choice!  Next time, I’m serving you POOP!
Yup.  I said that.  I did.
And after about two beats of stunned silence later, from the table I hear,
“Mwaaahhhhhhhhhhh! Noooooo, Mom, please don’t serv…”
Oh my goodness.  Does my child actually believe that I would serve him feces?  Seriously?
Back at the table, wrap my arms around him.  “Oh, W.   Stop.   I wouldn’t do that.  I was kidding!  Really.  I promise, honey.  No poop for dinner.”
Sniffling.  Collecting himself.  “You wouldn’t?”
“Oh, no.  Of course not.  I mean, imagine the logistics of that.”

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I had lunch yesterday with a girlfriend of mine.  One of those friends with whom I can discuss anything, say anything, do anything.  We lived together in Boston once upon a time and, while our other two roommates were off at their own jobs, she and I spent all day long in pajamas, playing hooky from work, watching ridiculous television, eating like pigs, laying around like sloths and laughing….our…asses…off.   She does that to me.   Every so often she makes me belly laugh so hard that I can’t breathe.  Isn’t that the best feeling?   We all need more friends like that.

Anyway, the point is, we can talk without any screening.  Which makes me somewhat hopeful that I wouldn’t actually have the following conversation with anyone else.

Me:   So, how’s she doing?
Friend:  Oh, terrible.  She’s so lazy.  I don’t even know if she has a job.   She has no motivation.  Living with her parents.  It’s pretty bad.
Me:   Oooh, do you think she’s ON DRUGS?

I mean, really.  It was barely out of my mouth before I realized how I sounded.  OLD.  O-l-d, OLD.  Christ.  It rattled me.

I think I need to get out of my Mommy cocoon, score a joint somewhere and collect myself.

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Know what this means?

It means there’s no grilling going on Chez Us.   None.  So, my oven’s working overtime.
I’m thinking about going out there with my hairdryer.

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Big Brother’s recent class assignment: bring in a copy of a favorite recipe from home. Big Brother reported to me today that he told them he planned to bring in “my Mom’s delicious cookie recipe.”

My cookie recipe? K.
Open package
Break apart
Throw onto cookie sheet
PTA, here I come.

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