Feb

1

Garbage in, garbage out

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I wouldn’t have guessed it was possible to overdose on bread to the point of needing a full-body detox and possibly a carefully orchestrated therapy session complete with that rabbity-toothed motherfucker from Intervention, but here I am after a weekend of bingeing on baked goods: doughy, puffy, and possibly forming my own yeasty crust.

Oh, is it grossing you out to hear about my personal yeasty crust? Well too bad, because where were YOU when I decided that making pizza, naan, and oat bread in the same 24-hour period would be a good idea? Where were you when I learned that while Indian food is all fine and good, fresh naan with peanut butter and jelly is something akin to a taste receptor orgasm? Where were you when I shoveled half a loaf of bread in my mouth at 11 PM last night, even though I was stuffed beyond reason, reasoning that it was easier to simply eat the slices rather than put them away?

I’m going to die of gluten poisoning—distended and bloated on the side of the road like a decomposing raccoon—and it’s all your fault.

In other food ridiculousness, I engaged in an epic battle with Riley on Sunday morning over a waffle. The same damn waffle he eats every day, except this time I snuck some butter—not margarine, mind you, but delicious, drool-triggering butter—on top of it and a tiny microscopic bit hadn’t melted enough and he was all WHAT IS THIS WHITE STUFF I DON’T LIKE IT. And then he refused to take one more bite of his 100% inoffensive WAFFLE coated in SYRUP and I pretty much lost my shit, because while I am used to his obnoxious pickiness when it comes to food apparently I draw the line at barely visible butter freakouts, and then his father and I did the thing I swore I would never do as a parent: we forced him to sit at the table and finish his breakfast.

Naturally it was wholly unpleasant for all parties and by the time the last bite reluctantly slid down his gripe-hole the morning was pretty much lying in ruins. Everyone was mad at each other with the exception of Dylan, who was oblivious to the drama since he was so busy eating his own waffle and about fifteen maple sausages to boot, what the hell. (“MO SASSAGE PEEZ. MO SASSAGE PEEZE. TANK YOU.”)

It seems I have to re-learn this lesson every now and then: fighting about food isn’t worth it. Not to me, anyway. JB and I don’t put up with a lot of bullshit when it comes to disciplinary issues, but food is generally off the list of things I’m willing to do battle over.

Except for Wafflegate, apparently, and if nothing else that certainly served to remind me that in the grand scheme of things, who cares if the kid won’t eat his Eggo? God knows it’s not like a bread product will ever go to waste in my house.

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