I don't understand gingerbread houses. I mean, are they supposed to be eaten? I'm not judging here, but rock-hard royal icing that's been chiselled off stale gingerbread doesn't say "treat" to me. I mean, I could totally see myself eating something like that in a PMS frenzy, but I would immediately proceed to be angry about it. Plus, I suspect that the type of people who really pour their hearts and soul into making these things are not the sorts to sit around, prying off old gumdrops with a butter knife and muttering darkly about a lack of proper chocolate on premises. So these things must be mostly decorative, right? So why are they made out of food? Do you people not have mice in your world?
Something else I don't understand - all the articles I see everywhere with tips for what to do with leftover mashed potatoes. Leftover. Mashed potatoes. They're all words I understand, but not together like that. Around here, if there are mashed potatoes left after the meal, when you retrieve them from the fridge, there is this...sound. Like the rumble of a faraway herd of feet, it buzzes in your ears, building in intensity, until your hand, still holding the tupperware container, is suddenly enveloped in a cloud of boys and mouths. "OH, are you eating that?" someone asks, and by the time you open your mouth to answer, the cloud is gone, leaving you holding an empty container. A single abandoned spoon spins on the floor. And your mashed potatoes are gone.
So I'm not really in the market for clever ways to use them up, is what I'm saying here.
Sophia has taken to saying, "What's this?" A lot. Sometimes it means "What's this?" Sometimes it means, "Oh, I see you are wearing a sparkly necklace that would look lovely draped over my head!" Sometimes it means, "Look! I see a brother, relaxing on the couch, thinking he can read his book in peace and quiet. Funny brother!" Sometimes it means, "I see that you are eating something yummy. Let's discuss." It's useful that way. So as you can imagine, she says it a lot. And although she's perfectly happy when she says it, something about her tweety intonation makes it sound like "What the-" to me, and I keep thinking she's about to launch into a profanity-laced diatribe. Fortunately, she hasn't. So far.
On Thanksgiving afternoon, Mom and I went with Tre and Max to see the new Harry Potter movie. On the way there, Mom and I were discussing a cough I can't seem to shake and whether or not it was caused by GERD(Mom's take: EVERYTHING is probably caused by GERD. Coughing, sleeplessness, sub-prime mortgage crisis. It's all GERD's fault. My take: Did you just call me old? I think you just called me old). From the back seat, Tre spoke up.
"Hey, you know, I'm not TWO," he said, putting on a perfectly annoyed teen tone. "You don't have to SPELL it around me. I know you're talking about gerd. Wait - what?"
I laughed so hard I nearly drove off the road. That kid, man. He cracks me up.