Today in Coulter's backpack there was a flyer for Keeping Fremont Beautiful along with a trash bag for picking up litter. Included on the flyer was standard safety information (go with a parent, wear gloves, etc.) Also included, was what I might consider slightly less than standard safety information and I'm now wondering if Fremont has some kind of drug problem that I wasn't aware of. Now here I am trying to explain to my 6 year old reader why we should be wary of kitty litter.
I'll admit to being a little naive about the whole drug scene. I've never seen, tasted (is that the right word?) or even smelled pot; drinking diet coke is about as strong as gets at the Fritz house and well, I think we all know how I feel about smoking (or, as my friend's son calls it, "cigaretting." ) I know that drugs are out there (duh!) and I know that I have to tell my children not to do them (again, duh!) but it's just that I'm not quite ready to explain to Coulter that we need to be careful of, and I quote, "Meth Lab Litter." For my friends who are equally unaware, I would just like to share with you some possible Meth Lab Litter: abandoned coolers, paint thinner, pool acid, hot plates,battery acid, hydrogen peroxide and yes, kitty litter. Oh. My. Gosh. Kitty litter?
But today? The drug talk today? Uhm, yeah, no thanks, I'm not up for it. I need more sleep and more prayers before we dig into meth. Plus, I don't have the best track record when it comes to serious talks. Last year Coulter overheard me talking about one of my students at Children's Home. When I tried to back-track, I told him that Hooper's parents were on drugs and that they didn't know how to love Hooper. The next day he went to pre-school and told the Hooper that was in HIS class that his parents were on drugs and that they didn't love him. Needless to say there were a couple of phone calls over that one! Another "serious talk" was when I tried to talk to Coulter about moving to Nebraska. He cried hysterically and screamed, "I’ll never go!" I think it was about 3 weeks before we could talk about it again. Perhaps the worst, though, was the night I even introduced Satan by telling Coulter (who was having trouble sleeping) that if he just kept praying that Satan would get mad and make him really sleepy. I went in an hour later to find him totally freaked out about the devil. It's possible I should have thought that one through just a little more.
So, no drug talks today. Today, I will lie. Tonight I will sleep. Tomorrow I will pray and then maybe one day I will explain why we shouldn't play in the abandoned cooler full of kitty litter.
.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Jesus, Santa, and the Easter Bunny
A couple of nights ago I was putting my 2 1/2 year old daughter Emma Claire to bed when she leaned up and whispered "Mom, does Jesus live in my heart?" Please don't judge me on the theological technicalities of this, but I simply said, "Yes, honey he does and He will sleep with you tonight." (Then silently I may have added "so for the love of his Father please, please, please go to sleep.) Then she leaned up again and said, "So then, where does Santa live?"
Uhm...yeah. Now y'all know how much I love Santa but it worries me just a little that it's April and we're still (or, depending on how you look at it, already) talking about Santa. It's kind of funny because Easter is this week and she has no clue about the Easter Bunny, quite simply because we never talk about him. For all she knows Santa is headed back down the chimney this week. My son Coulter on the other hand, who's almost 6, is fully aware of the Bunny and I'm not sure how I feel about it because while I'm all about gifts and lists and checking it twice in December; this is Easter. It involves nails and crosses; death and Resurrection. This is heavy stuff. The baby Jesus is all grown up and being crucified and I simply can't figure out how a bunny plays into all that. But, I say nothing because if I "out" the Easter Bunny then I'm afraid I'll have bad karma and some punk kid will tell Coulter that his parents are really....oh, never mind....I can't even say it. So, come Sunday morning there will be a basket full of chocolate and a lego set and maybe even some Reese's eggs for Mom.
Another reason for my ambivalence about the Easter Bunny, and, more to the point Easter, is the fact that Easter is hard to understand; and, at least as a parent, it's hard to explain. I remember when Coulter was three. He started asking questions about Jesus dying on the cross. I stuttered and stammered and did what any good Mother would do: I passed the buck and encouraged him to talk to Pastor Brian about it. And then one day he came home from pre-school and he had a little book about Easter that he had colored. He showed me the pictures and said, "Mom, the bad people killed Jesus on the cross. They killed him. But then he aroooooose from the deadness and Mom, that was the good part."
That was the good part, indeed. He arooooose from the deadness. I will never forget him saying that and yet I forget all the time that I don't need to trust myself as a parent; I only need to trust in our Creator (well that, and to give thanks for the Pastor Brian's and Ms. Lisa's of the world.)
Emma Claire doesn't know about the Easter Bunny and she doesn't know about the deadness, but she does know that Jesus rode into the city on a donkey while people waved their palms and shouted "Hosanna!" She also knows that the donkey at 1st Lutheran in Fremont went potty on the carpet last year. I gotta say that this information has really diverted our attention from the meaning of the donkey and the processional. It's Holy week and we tend to go from parade to parade; from Sunday to Sunday. I think I'll have a little talk with her tomorrow about the cross. I want her to know that she's wearing a beautiful pink dress to celebrate the life of Jesus; to celebrate Jesus' victory over death. I'll probably leave out the nails; the whippings and the blood but hopefully I'll be able to give just enough to plant the seed that Easter is about more than chocolate eggs and bunnies.
Recently I told you about a friend of mine who had miscarried. Ready for a miracle? A week later, they found a heartbeat. Victory over death. I have another friend who is battling cancer with more humor and grace and humility than anyone I know. I complain more about a stumped toe (hey, it really hurts!) than this guy does about chemo and I know that God is going to use his story of healing in a mighty way. He needs a transplant. He needs a miracle and this Easter, that's what I'm praying for. Life. Victory over death; that's what we're celebrating and I guess in the end it doesn't matter how we do it. Celebrate with bunnies and eggs. Celebrate with giant chocolate crosses and pretty pink dresses. Celebrate that Jesus lives in our heart (even if that does leave Santa and the Easter Bunny quite homeless.)
Uhm...yeah. Now y'all know how much I love Santa but it worries me just a little that it's April and we're still (or, depending on how you look at it, already) talking about Santa. It's kind of funny because Easter is this week and she has no clue about the Easter Bunny, quite simply because we never talk about him. For all she knows Santa is headed back down the chimney this week. My son Coulter on the other hand, who's almost 6, is fully aware of the Bunny and I'm not sure how I feel about it because while I'm all about gifts and lists and checking it twice in December; this is Easter. It involves nails and crosses; death and Resurrection. This is heavy stuff. The baby Jesus is all grown up and being crucified and I simply can't figure out how a bunny plays into all that. But, I say nothing because if I "out" the Easter Bunny then I'm afraid I'll have bad karma and some punk kid will tell Coulter that his parents are really....oh, never mind....I can't even say it. So, come Sunday morning there will be a basket full of chocolate and a lego set and maybe even some Reese's eggs for Mom.
Another reason for my ambivalence about the Easter Bunny, and, more to the point Easter, is the fact that Easter is hard to understand; and, at least as a parent, it's hard to explain. I remember when Coulter was three. He started asking questions about Jesus dying on the cross. I stuttered and stammered and did what any good Mother would do: I passed the buck and encouraged him to talk to Pastor Brian about it. And then one day he came home from pre-school and he had a little book about Easter that he had colored. He showed me the pictures and said, "Mom, the bad people killed Jesus on the cross. They killed him. But then he aroooooose from the deadness and Mom, that was the good part."
That was the good part, indeed. He arooooose from the deadness. I will never forget him saying that and yet I forget all the time that I don't need to trust myself as a parent; I only need to trust in our Creator (well that, and to give thanks for the Pastor Brian's and Ms. Lisa's of the world.)
Emma Claire doesn't know about the Easter Bunny and she doesn't know about the deadness, but she does know that Jesus rode into the city on a donkey while people waved their palms and shouted "Hosanna!" She also knows that the donkey at 1st Lutheran in Fremont went potty on the carpet last year. I gotta say that this information has really diverted our attention from the meaning of the donkey and the processional. It's Holy week and we tend to go from parade to parade; from Sunday to Sunday. I think I'll have a little talk with her tomorrow about the cross. I want her to know that she's wearing a beautiful pink dress to celebrate the life of Jesus; to celebrate Jesus' victory over death. I'll probably leave out the nails; the whippings and the blood but hopefully I'll be able to give just enough to plant the seed that Easter is about more than chocolate eggs and bunnies.
Recently I told you about a friend of mine who had miscarried. Ready for a miracle? A week later, they found a heartbeat. Victory over death. I have another friend who is battling cancer with more humor and grace and humility than anyone I know. I complain more about a stumped toe (hey, it really hurts!) than this guy does about chemo and I know that God is going to use his story of healing in a mighty way. He needs a transplant. He needs a miracle and this Easter, that's what I'm praying for. Life. Victory over death; that's what we're celebrating and I guess in the end it doesn't matter how we do it. Celebrate with bunnies and eggs. Celebrate with giant chocolate crosses and pretty pink dresses. Celebrate that Jesus lives in our heart (even if that does leave Santa and the Easter Bunny quite homeless.)
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Miss Myra's Identity Crisis
O.K., so here’s the deal. I think I’m having some sort of identity crisis (that’s identity; not to be confused with mid-life.) First of all, they are two totally different things and second of all, I am nowhere near what I consider to be mid-life, thank you very much. No, it’s identity; it’s who am I and what do I want to be when I grow up kind of stuff. Ridiculous!
Every day, without fail, in my new community of Fremont, somebody, and usually lots of somebodies ask me what I do. I mean, come on! That’s a fair question. This is easy. I’ve got this. “Right now I’m staying home with our children; helping them to get established and feel safe in their new home.” That’s what I should say because that’s the truth and yet I don’t say that at all. I stutter as if I’ve somehow forgotten what I do. I’m nervous that saying I stay at home will give them the idea that I’m a “traditional” stay at home mom and that’s not true, because eventually I will need to go back to work. I’m hesitant to say it, not because I’m ashamed of it, nothing could be further from the truth. I can’t imagine how much harder this transition would be (not to mention how much hungrier we all would be) if I were working outside the home. I can’t imagine loving on my children in any other way and I feel so blessed with this time together; no, I’m hesitant to say it because I feel like a hypocrite; as in I’m not a “real” stay-at-home-mom. Furthermore, if I do manage to keep it simple with, “Well, at the moment, I’m staying home,” then the obvious follow-up is, “What did you do before?” Again, there are voices in my head are yelling, “teacher! teacher! just say teacher!” And yet, I’m not a traditional teacher, so that doesn’t seem to fit either. This morning on a six mile run, I spent about 2 miles explaining to one new friend and a handful of total strangers that I was a Kindermusik teacher, private piano teacher and music instructor at a school for special needs children and orphans. All the while, the voices in my head were screaming, “NOBODY CARES!” If I were simply afraid of giving the wrong impression (say, by telling them that I’m a teacher when I’m not a real teacher (as in certified) and, come to find out a Masters degree in Music Education from the University of Nebraska doesn’t even qualify me to substitute teach in Nebraska) then I could leave it at, education. “What’s your field?” “Oh, yes, my field…..well, I’m staying at home (again, not our home, but the little yellow home) with our children but formerly I was in the field of education.” And yet for the six or so weeks that we’ve been here, I’ve yet to say anything even remotely that intelligent.
I’m resilient though, so after my little train wreck of an explanation, I bounce back and keep going. I tell them I’ve been writing a blog (again, nobody cares) and that I’d like to become a writer (they don’t believe me) and while no-one has actually hired me or paid me to write anything, I’m in the process of writing a book and am planning to be the next Elizabeth Gilbert. (O.K., so I leave the last part out. I don’t want them to think I’m confused and conceited.) Plus, it’s going to be hard enough making friends with my “Smoking stinks….no butts about it” t-shirt and stop smoking at public schools campaign. As a side note, I know some of you are concerned about my t-shirt idea but what if I save their life, hu? What about that? Because maybe after seeing my t-shirt the moms outside my son’s school will read a book or get on the internet and discover, that “Oh my gosh! Smoking can kill you.” Who knows, maybe they’ll even read my book. Although, I promise that my book is not going to be about smoking….well, I mean maybe just one chapter.
(Side note: Please do not interpret my sarcasm and total frustration with the smoking moms as being insensitive to the fact that it’s almost impossibly hard to quit smoking; my point is simply that they don’t have to do it at the school. I have a friend who smokes and her two children (ages 5 and 3) don’t even know, so all I’m saying is that the smoking moms need to STEP AWAY from my children.)
So what do I tell people? (By the way, I’ve moved off smoking and am back to my life’s calling.) Short of saying nothing, which I’ve proven is next to impossible; I really don’t know what to say. If it wasn’t such a small town, I think it would be fun to make stuff up, like I’m a lawyer or a dog trainer, ooh, or a dog walker; yes, that’s good, only it is a small town and I’m fairly certain lying is not the answer. I don’t know the answer right now (which I suppose would make a good answer,) but I do know that I’m feeling a little lonesome for Miss Myra because everyone knew what Miss Myra “did.” I’m lonesome for her because children here don’t run up and give me hugs. They don’t want to sit in my lap; they don't ask me to swing them. They don’t draw me pictures and bring me presents. As further evidence that Miss Myra has gone missing, I, honest to goodness, made a baby cry the other day, which totally made me want to cry. Miss Myra would never make a baby cry. This is crazy! Stop crying and stop asking me what I do because I don’t know!
A week or so before we moved, a friend posted a quote by Walter Brueggemann: “Only embraced endings permit new beginnings.” I love that quote (even if I’m quite content to ignore it) and was reminded of it today while listening to Coulter tell his Dad that he loves his new school.
Say WHAT?
“I love my new school. They have really special days. They have ‘you don’t have to bring your back pack (which, and this is sooo weird, they call your book bag) day, and they have young authors day and, well I don’t know what else, but I know they have really special days.”
I’m staying home right now to be with my children. I’m staying home right now to help them feel safe and secure and loved; to help steer them through this transition. I’m staying home because my husband is selfless enough to make this sacrifice for our family. So the next time someone asks? Today, I’m a stay at home mom and while there is no pay-check, I know it’s paying off because today Coulter said he loved his new school. Today Coulter said in his almost 6 year old words that he’s embracing the endings and welcoming new beginnings. Lord, Jesus, help me to do the same.
Every day, without fail, in my new community of Fremont, somebody, and usually lots of somebodies ask me what I do. I mean, come on! That’s a fair question. This is easy. I’ve got this. “Right now I’m staying home with our children; helping them to get established and feel safe in their new home.” That’s what I should say because that’s the truth and yet I don’t say that at all. I stutter as if I’ve somehow forgotten what I do. I’m nervous that saying I stay at home will give them the idea that I’m a “traditional” stay at home mom and that’s not true, because eventually I will need to go back to work. I’m hesitant to say it, not because I’m ashamed of it, nothing could be further from the truth. I can’t imagine how much harder this transition would be (not to mention how much hungrier we all would be) if I were working outside the home. I can’t imagine loving on my children in any other way and I feel so blessed with this time together; no, I’m hesitant to say it because I feel like a hypocrite; as in I’m not a “real” stay-at-home-mom. Furthermore, if I do manage to keep it simple with, “Well, at the moment, I’m staying home,” then the obvious follow-up is, “What did you do before?” Again, there are voices in my head are yelling, “teacher! teacher! just say teacher!” And yet, I’m not a traditional teacher, so that doesn’t seem to fit either. This morning on a six mile run, I spent about 2 miles explaining to one new friend and a handful of total strangers that I was a Kindermusik teacher, private piano teacher and music instructor at a school for special needs children and orphans. All the while, the voices in my head were screaming, “NOBODY CARES!” If I were simply afraid of giving the wrong impression (say, by telling them that I’m a teacher when I’m not a real teacher (as in certified) and, come to find out a Masters degree in Music Education from the University of Nebraska doesn’t even qualify me to substitute teach in Nebraska) then I could leave it at, education. “What’s your field?” “Oh, yes, my field…..well, I’m staying at home (again, not our home, but the little yellow home) with our children but formerly I was in the field of education.” And yet for the six or so weeks that we’ve been here, I’ve yet to say anything even remotely that intelligent.
I’m resilient though, so after my little train wreck of an explanation, I bounce back and keep going. I tell them I’ve been writing a blog (again, nobody cares) and that I’d like to become a writer (they don’t believe me) and while no-one has actually hired me or paid me to write anything, I’m in the process of writing a book and am planning to be the next Elizabeth Gilbert. (O.K., so I leave the last part out. I don’t want them to think I’m confused and conceited.) Plus, it’s going to be hard enough making friends with my “Smoking stinks….no butts about it” t-shirt and stop smoking at public schools campaign. As a side note, I know some of you are concerned about my t-shirt idea but what if I save their life, hu? What about that? Because maybe after seeing my t-shirt the moms outside my son’s school will read a book or get on the internet and discover, that “Oh my gosh! Smoking can kill you.” Who knows, maybe they’ll even read my book. Although, I promise that my book is not going to be about smoking….well, I mean maybe just one chapter.
(Side note: Please do not interpret my sarcasm and total frustration with the smoking moms as being insensitive to the fact that it’s almost impossibly hard to quit smoking; my point is simply that they don’t have to do it at the school. I have a friend who smokes and her two children (ages 5 and 3) don’t even know, so all I’m saying is that the smoking moms need to STEP AWAY from my children.)
So what do I tell people? (By the way, I’ve moved off smoking and am back to my life’s calling.) Short of saying nothing, which I’ve proven is next to impossible; I really don’t know what to say. If it wasn’t such a small town, I think it would be fun to make stuff up, like I’m a lawyer or a dog trainer, ooh, or a dog walker; yes, that’s good, only it is a small town and I’m fairly certain lying is not the answer. I don’t know the answer right now (which I suppose would make a good answer,) but I do know that I’m feeling a little lonesome for Miss Myra because everyone knew what Miss Myra “did.” I’m lonesome for her because children here don’t run up and give me hugs. They don’t want to sit in my lap; they don't ask me to swing them. They don’t draw me pictures and bring me presents. As further evidence that Miss Myra has gone missing, I, honest to goodness, made a baby cry the other day, which totally made me want to cry. Miss Myra would never make a baby cry. This is crazy! Stop crying and stop asking me what I do because I don’t know!
A week or so before we moved, a friend posted a quote by Walter Brueggemann: “Only embraced endings permit new beginnings.” I love that quote (even if I’m quite content to ignore it) and was reminded of it today while listening to Coulter tell his Dad that he loves his new school.
Say WHAT?
“I love my new school. They have really special days. They have ‘you don’t have to bring your back pack (which, and this is sooo weird, they call your book bag) day, and they have young authors day and, well I don’t know what else, but I know they have really special days.”
I’m staying home right now to be with my children. I’m staying home right now to help them feel safe and secure and loved; to help steer them through this transition. I’m staying home because my husband is selfless enough to make this sacrifice for our family. So the next time someone asks? Today, I’m a stay at home mom and while there is no pay-check, I know it’s paying off because today Coulter said he loved his new school. Today Coulter said in his almost 6 year old words that he’s embracing the endings and welcoming new beginnings. Lord, Jesus, help me to do the same.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Would You Like Fries With That?
Last week I was reading about successful blogs (you know, the ones with more than 20 readers each week) and the writer said that anything worth doing was worth doing every day. While I understood her point, I can think of quite a few things that are worth doing but that I don’t necessarily want to do every day. Furthermore, while I personally find the lives of my children endlessly fascinating, I’m not sure anybody else would want to read about the latest and greatest of the Fritz Four on a daily basis. That said, I have been trying to post at least once a week and today, in order to avoid an altogether too honest account of the fact that we’re still in the little yellow house that Coulter describes as“ really dusty and with lots of nails” or that I need to look for a job and the going rate for piano teachers in Fremont is great if you’re a parent (uhm, not so great if you’re a teacher,) I offer you the ever so random (and perhaps not the least bit interesting) story of McDonald’s and the Whopper:
When it comes to fast food, I’m, oh, how should we say, just a wee bit snobbish? It’s not that I’m uber healthy; it’s just that I don’t like to eat food that doesn’t taste good. I could easily eat an entire bag of Hostess mini-powdered donuts, but ask me to meet you at McDonalds and I’m gonna turn up my nose. I’ve been known to take a sack lunch when Mc Donald’s was on the menu and the truth is I’m ashamed that Mc Donald’s is ever on the menu because it means that at some point my husband or I (and because it’s my blog, I’m gonna go with my husband) introduced my children to The Happy Meal. Of all the foods that my children won’t eat, it’s astounding to me that they willingly and eagerly eat hamburgers from McDonalds and chicken nuggets that have been pressed together to look like crowns from Burger King. I’m no health expert, but I get the strong feeling that it’s not real meat, and I mean how many chickens have you seen walking a runway? I’m sure one could argue that powdered donuts aren’t real food either, but I’ll take my chances. A seriously low point was when Coulter was about three. I had made actual, real-beef hamburgers for supper. He took a few bits and then innocently looked up at me and said, “Mom, maybe next time you could get the recipe from McDonald’s.”
Equally astounding to me is that a junk piece of toy could garner so much excitement. Again, not trying to be an expert or anything, but I don’t know how many more plastic super-mans and talking chipmunks that our land-fill can take. And how is it that after months of gathering dust in a toy bucket, you finally managed to get those suckers shipped off to Goodwill, when all of a sudden your child goes berserk-o because he can’t find Alvin.
Now, just like I’m open to eating a good donut (or two,) I would be a total hypocrite to imply that I never eat fast food. I love Chick-fil-A and Braums, although you rarely see the former and never see the later in the Midwest and I will also admit to an occasional cheese coney from Sonic, but that was way in my past and quite frankly, I’d rather not think about it, let alone talk (or write) about it.
So this past weekend, while visiting friends in Sioux Falls and cleaning out the last of our ever so lovely, completely huge home with cherrywood cabinets and beautiful landscaping (o.k. so one tree is dead, whatever…are you feeling my “the grass is always greener” pain?) Wait, where was I? Yes, visiting with friends for what was our last “real” weekend in Sioux Falls, I worked very hard to eat at my favorite places, but my husband, working ever so diligently in the aforementioned home, which seems to get bigger and lovelier with each passing day, didn’t have that luxury. He texted me and asked me to pick him up a Whopper with cheese and onion rings. No problem.
I pulled into an approximately 15 car line and waited. While waiting, I couldn’t help notice the 2 for 1 fish special on Fridays. Hmmm, I will readily admit that I don’t fully understand the fish on Fridays Lent thing, but I’m pretty sure that McDonald’s was not what God had in mind. While I was waiting I remembered that my Freshman year in college, my best friend and I gave up fast food for Lent. (I'm thinking we had an affinity for Arbys and Taco Bell. Even as a college student, I wouldn't touch a Big Mac.) I guess it's not a totally relevant point, but I share in an effort for full fast food history disclosure (and because she reads my blogs!) Anyway, we finally make it to the window.
“May I take your order, please?”
(I checked my text from Greg because he had been working very hard and I really didn’t want to mess this up.)
“Yes, I’d like a Whopper with cheese, onion rings and a diet coke, please.”
Silence
“Um, we don’t have Whoppers and we don’t have onion rings. Would you like a Big Mac and fries?”
More silence. Dangit, I think I'm at the wrong place.
“Yes, that would be just fine. Thank you.”
By the time that we made it to the pay-window, pretty much the entire place was filled with laughter. The poor guy that had to take my money looked like this was just possibly the best day at work, like ever! He was holding it in, just barely. It reminded me of Saturday Night Live actors who totally loose it during their skit. Seriously, who knew? Mc Donald’s doesn’t have Whoppers.
My sister-n-law, who is the real health expert of the family (with, like a degree,) loves to cook with fancy, organic ingredients. She lives in Pierre, SD, which, in case you’ve never been there is not exactly the culinary capital of…well, anywhere. She often says that she’s a Brie cheese girl living in a Velveeta town, and lately I can relate, although for the record Velveeta ranks right up there with powdered donuts in my book. For me it has less to do with food (and certainly less to do with cooking) and more to do with feeling like I’m at McDonald’s trying to get a Whopper only to find out that they I may have to settle for a Big Mac. (And in case, as I strongly suspect, I’m really off my game today and you weren’t able to catch the analogy then I will be more direct: I’ve arrived in Fremont looking for cherrywood and as it turns out, I may have to make do with oak. Literally. That wasn’t an analogy. I want a house with cherrywood cabinets. And don’t get me started on the Jacuzzi tub that I was looking for. An alarming number of homes here don’t even have bathtubs in the master bath. Some kind of deal about it being a waste of space! I’m not even kidding.)
O.K, so now I’m hungry. As it happens, there are no powdered donuts in the house, but, like any good Mom, I do have a secret stash of chocolate and lucky for me I didn't give up chocolate for Lent. Today’s menu: Reese’s peanut butter Easter eggs (which I’m guessing ranks right up there with chocolate crosses and filet-o-fish Fridays!)
When it comes to fast food, I’m, oh, how should we say, just a wee bit snobbish? It’s not that I’m uber healthy; it’s just that I don’t like to eat food that doesn’t taste good. I could easily eat an entire bag of Hostess mini-powdered donuts, but ask me to meet you at McDonalds and I’m gonna turn up my nose. I’ve been known to take a sack lunch when Mc Donald’s was on the menu and the truth is I’m ashamed that Mc Donald’s is ever on the menu because it means that at some point my husband or I (and because it’s my blog, I’m gonna go with my husband) introduced my children to The Happy Meal. Of all the foods that my children won’t eat, it’s astounding to me that they willingly and eagerly eat hamburgers from McDonalds and chicken nuggets that have been pressed together to look like crowns from Burger King. I’m no health expert, but I get the strong feeling that it’s not real meat, and I mean how many chickens have you seen walking a runway? I’m sure one could argue that powdered donuts aren’t real food either, but I’ll take my chances. A seriously low point was when Coulter was about three. I had made actual, real-beef hamburgers for supper. He took a few bits and then innocently looked up at me and said, “Mom, maybe next time you could get the recipe from McDonald’s.”
Equally astounding to me is that a junk piece of toy could garner so much excitement. Again, not trying to be an expert or anything, but I don’t know how many more plastic super-mans and talking chipmunks that our land-fill can take. And how is it that after months of gathering dust in a toy bucket, you finally managed to get those suckers shipped off to Goodwill, when all of a sudden your child goes berserk-o because he can’t find Alvin.
Now, just like I’m open to eating a good donut (or two,) I would be a total hypocrite to imply that I never eat fast food. I love Chick-fil-A and Braums, although you rarely see the former and never see the later in the Midwest and I will also admit to an occasional cheese coney from Sonic, but that was way in my past and quite frankly, I’d rather not think about it, let alone talk (or write) about it.
So this past weekend, while visiting friends in Sioux Falls and cleaning out the last of our ever so lovely, completely huge home with cherrywood cabinets and beautiful landscaping (o.k. so one tree is dead, whatever…are you feeling my “the grass is always greener” pain?) Wait, where was I? Yes, visiting with friends for what was our last “real” weekend in Sioux Falls, I worked very hard to eat at my favorite places, but my husband, working ever so diligently in the aforementioned home, which seems to get bigger and lovelier with each passing day, didn’t have that luxury. He texted me and asked me to pick him up a Whopper with cheese and onion rings. No problem.
I pulled into an approximately 15 car line and waited. While waiting, I couldn’t help notice the 2 for 1 fish special on Fridays. Hmmm, I will readily admit that I don’t fully understand the fish on Fridays Lent thing, but I’m pretty sure that McDonald’s was not what God had in mind. While I was waiting I remembered that my Freshman year in college, my best friend and I gave up fast food for Lent. (I'm thinking we had an affinity for Arbys and Taco Bell. Even as a college student, I wouldn't touch a Big Mac.) I guess it's not a totally relevant point, but I share in an effort for full fast food history disclosure (and because she reads my blogs!) Anyway, we finally make it to the window.
“May I take your order, please?”
(I checked my text from Greg because he had been working very hard and I really didn’t want to mess this up.)
“Yes, I’d like a Whopper with cheese, onion rings and a diet coke, please.”
Silence
“Um, we don’t have Whoppers and we don’t have onion rings. Would you like a Big Mac and fries?”
More silence. Dangit, I think I'm at the wrong place.
“Yes, that would be just fine. Thank you.”
By the time that we made it to the pay-window, pretty much the entire place was filled with laughter. The poor guy that had to take my money looked like this was just possibly the best day at work, like ever! He was holding it in, just barely. It reminded me of Saturday Night Live actors who totally loose it during their skit. Seriously, who knew? Mc Donald’s doesn’t have Whoppers.
My sister-n-law, who is the real health expert of the family (with, like a degree,) loves to cook with fancy, organic ingredients. She lives in Pierre, SD, which, in case you’ve never been there is not exactly the culinary capital of…well, anywhere. She often says that she’s a Brie cheese girl living in a Velveeta town, and lately I can relate, although for the record Velveeta ranks right up there with powdered donuts in my book. For me it has less to do with food (and certainly less to do with cooking) and more to do with feeling like I’m at McDonald’s trying to get a Whopper only to find out that they I may have to settle for a Big Mac. (And in case, as I strongly suspect, I’m really off my game today and you weren’t able to catch the analogy then I will be more direct: I’ve arrived in Fremont looking for cherrywood and as it turns out, I may have to make do with oak. Literally. That wasn’t an analogy. I want a house with cherrywood cabinets. And don’t get me started on the Jacuzzi tub that I was looking for. An alarming number of homes here don’t even have bathtubs in the master bath. Some kind of deal about it being a waste of space! I’m not even kidding.)
O.K, so now I’m hungry. As it happens, there are no powdered donuts in the house, but, like any good Mom, I do have a secret stash of chocolate and lucky for me I didn't give up chocolate for Lent. Today’s menu: Reese’s peanut butter Easter eggs (which I’m guessing ranks right up there with chocolate crosses and filet-o-fish Fridays!)
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