Everyone, excepting the baby, learned something new about food this Easter Sunday. Not for lack of trying on the baby’s part, for she will try to eat anything presented to her; however, there is only so much food that is palatable for a nine month old.
For my part, I learned that peanut butter cookies dunked until soggy in coffee are a new dangerous favorite for me. Dangerous because although I have self-control in many areas when it comes to food, this does not seem to be one of them. It is quite possible that I would continue to submerge the crunchy cookies until I either went mad from the amount of caffeine I was ingesting or I threw up from the amount of sugar I was introducing into my system. This was the first time I have made this type of cookie since being married six years ago: they were a favorite of my Dad’s and I used to make them when I lived at home with my parents, but I tend to shy away from hard cookies as I prefer soft, chewy ones. It was sometime yesterday evening in the midst of my sugar-induced euphoria that I declared the peanut butter cookie, accompanied by a hot cup of coffee, to be my new favorite. I shall have to be careful and only bake them for very special occasions so as to avoid blatant displays of self-indulgence and gluttony.
My little boy got his first chocolate car. He loves cars and trucks and his Nana couldn’t resist buying him a chocolate racecar. Of course he attempted to drive it and seemed a bit confused when he was told it was for eating, but he soon got over it and happily gnawed off the front bumper.
And then came my husband’s food related learning experience. The poor man has been teased about his garbage disposal approach to eating for many years now. He takes it in stride because he knows it to be largely founded in truth and I believe that he takes some pride in this title. (Only one of our male friends can wolf down a plate of food faster than my husband, and my husband speaks of him with a kind of reverence and admiration). My husband not only has the ability to eat absolutely humungous portions of food, he also finds a wide range of food to be palatable and does not balk from trying new delicacies. Yesterday was no exception. While the rest of the family was recuperating from dessert in Nana’s living room- where I’m sure I was still dunking cookies- my husband wandered into the kitchen in search of more coffee and something to munch on. A short time earlier Nana had placed her cat’s food on the counter next to the percolator so that the baby wouldn’t get into it. As my husband made his way toward the countertop the kitchen was cloaked in a quiet, dusky darkness. I suppose there really is no need for me to say anything further except that my husband not only chewed and swallowed one modest handful, but two, and was on his way back to the living room to see if anyone could tell him what he was eating before the cogs in his brain started to turn and he blurted, “I just ate cat food!” to himself and everyone present as he crossed the threshold of the room.
The customary jokes followed, and my husband expressed his delight at the sheen his coat of fur was sure to get; I was told not to be surprised if I found him curled up on the windowsill licking himself, and he was warned about tracking litter around the house after trips to the cat box. After much laughter and silliness the family eventually succumbed to the return of post-dinner lethargy. All in all, my husband, food connoisseur that he is, declared the whole fiasco to be a success of sorts as he imparted his wisdom that cat food actually doesn’t taste too badly.
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