I need to have a serious talk with Santa. Year after year, he brings my kids gifts that drive me up a wall. I’m sure his intentions are pure, but he sure makes some stupid gift choices. I really don’t understand these rookie mistakes. I mean, the guy’s been delivering presents to good little boys and girls for what, like a bazillion years, right? And speaking of good little boys and girls, I’m not entirely sure his “checking it twice” method is working. I’m pretty sure I have a kid or two who should’ve been on the naughty list.
This year, Santa brought Brooklyn a little play kitchen. It was quite the hit with her as she’s been cooking up a storm non-stop since Christmas morning. On the one hand, it seems like a good idea. Start em early. Train em up. Get em in the kitchen making 5 star dinners for you by the tender age of 8. However, (and this is where the rookie mistake comes in), while Brooklyn has been practicing her sautéing, flambéing, and caramelizing, guess who has had the privilege of consuming these tasty morsels? That’s right. But please, let me explain.
Santa also made the huge mistake of delivering a ginormous pack of Play-Doh for my little kids. Which means, the culinary masterpieces I’ve been sampling are all made from the famous squishable dough.
“Do you want to try this, Mama?”
As I eye the yellow pancake with red and white balls piled atop it, I gush, “Oooo, that looks delicious! What is it?
“It’s coconut cherry pie!” smiles a delighted Brooklyn, so happy I’m going to partake of the treat over which she’s slaved for the past ten minutes.
“Om nom nom nom,” I smack my lips as I take huge bites of the air around the Play Dough creation. (One time, I actually took a bite of the Play Dough itself. I don’t recommend it. The kids, on the other hand, found it hilarious and will never let me forget that I did that.) “What a fabulous cook you are, Sweetie! Thank you!”
“No, you didn’t eat it all. There’s still some more left.” Brooklyn wrinkled her brow in concern at my obvious disregard for all the starving children in Africa, so I took a couple more mouthfuls of Play Dough scented air.
“Ummmm, I’m full,” I sighed contentedly, reclining on the couch, my hand on my tummy.
“I’m going to make you some more!” Brooklyn happily announced as she skipped off to her kitchen.
“I can’t wait,” I replied with only the barest hint of sarcasm.
This has gone on during every waking hour for the past week and a half. I’ve consumed over 42,586,273 calories in pretend food since Christmas. I’ve eaten pears, apples, ice cream cones, edamame (What can I say? Brooklyn’s got weird tastes.), pizza, pie, tacos, cheeseburgers, cookies, sushi (again weird kid), and beans. She’s been using the Play Dough so much that it’s now all an unappetizing shade of gray-brown. It’s starting to dry out a bit making everything al dente as well.As Brooklyn brings me another plate of delectable treats, she grins from ear to ear. She’s just so cute and excited that I forget all about the little flakes of Play Dough drying in the carpet.
Oops, I have to go. My appetizer is here. It’s a torchon of foie gras with fig jam and brioche. Hmmm, maybe Santa knows what he’s doing after all.