Apparently, I’m not the Suzy Homemaker I thought I was.
Here I was so proud, having paired up two breadsticks, twirling them together to make them twisted and baking them ahead of time. Oh yeah, it was game on tonight, as usually I’m scrambling at the end of the meal to put the biscuits or breadsticks in, tonight I remembered, and they were made, in the oven, and they were going to be legen~wait for it~dairy!
Only, not in the way that I thought they were going to be.
“Babe. Have you tried your breadsticks yet?!?” My loving, adorable, beautiful husband calls to me from across the table.
“No, why?” I respond, trying not to talk with my mouth full of fettucine alfredo.
“There’s a strange aftertaste…” as I nibble mine.
“Really? I don’t t-….” I stop chewing.
Whoa. Wait. Whoa. They aren’t supposed to taste like that.
“What the..” and it takes every ounce of me to not spit it out.
My dear, sweet children didn’t say a word. That is, until I noticed. Then it was game on. “Yeah, mom, I spit mine out,” says my daughter.
“I only took one bite, it was weird,” says my son.
My teenager plopped hers dramatically alongside her plate, destined to not even try. So did I, for that matter.
It had the strangest after-taste. Almost burnt, but not, because they were only slightly brown. I haven’t a clue as to what may have caused them to taste bad, as I did nothing different, but they were downright awful, and immediately tossed.
My four-year-old, who always gets angry he can’t be included in some of our talks, pipes up, “Yeah, it tasted funny.”
And his comments didn’t stop there. Actually, it was quite laughable, because he was so excited to have been a part of our conversation regarding the extraordinarily bad breadsticks, that no matter what we talked about, he brought up how bad they were.
“So how was your day at school, guys?”
You’d hear ‘good’ or ‘busy’ or ‘boring’ from my school-aged kids. Then came my four-year-old. “I spit out my breadstick, ‘cuz it was yucky!”
Yes, baby man, I know. Thanks for that.
“I read this book in class today,” my daughter tells me.
“My soccer practices will be mondays and thursdays,” my teenager reports.
“My yucky breadstick kinda wooks wike an awien (looks like an alien),” he snorts, proud of himself.
Thanks for that too.
And the icing on the cake, the cherry on top? Was when I left the room and return only to find the kids all saying “Eww! Yuck! Gross!”
Here I’m thinking to myself, Great! How much more abuse can I take over these breadsticks!? They suck, I know already! only to find them pointing to my toddler, giggling, and my teenager is holding a mushed up carrot.
“Moooom! She had a carrot in her ear, and it was dangly!”
I swear, I can’t make this stuff up.
