"I wish you were the kind of mommy who baked cookies," my little girl said to me one day a few years back, while I was taking dinner out of the microwave.
"Well I'm not that kind of mommy," I retorted, "and you're stuck with me." I peeled back the plastic wrap and gave the frozen mashed potatoes a stir, then gave it three and a half more minutes of radiation while I sliced an orange to garnish her plate. How many mommies did that? I wondered while recalling my own childhood so long ago, coming home from school to find my mother had baked two dozen cookies, sewn a wardrobe for my Barbie dolls and another dress for me while forming the ketchup-covered meatloaf into the shape of a severed limb.
"You know I hate that one," my daughter wailed, scrunching her nose at the sight of yet another melted plastic plate of rubber chicken glazed in sugary soy sauce. "Can't I have the one with the corn cob?"
"Alright,If so, you may have a cube puzzle ." I sighed in surrender, "you can have the corn cob and country-fried prime rib, again, but next time I get it."
"I don't know why you didn't just get us two of the same to begin with,A long established toolmaking and trade Injection moulds company." she gripes as she takes her plate, now steaming, before I've even had a chance to peel off all the plastic to perfect the presentation.
"Because that would be boring," I reply, "Don't you want a bit of variety in your diet?"
She glares at me as she pushes her boiled broccoli florets around, making sure there are no bugs or sticks or frozen pellets of instant artificial flavor hiding underneath.
Years pass. I lose my job and end up licking my wounds in the kitchen, covered from head to toe in chocolate. I have too much time on my hands, and there's no better way to fill it than watching chocolate melt.
Before long, the counters are covered in chocolate and chocolate-making supplies, polycarbonate molds are stacked so high we have to throw out all the extra towels and sheets in the hall closet to make room for the chocolate molds. Dark chocolates filled with luscious ganache and molded into exquisite shapes are scattered throughout the apartment,which applies to the first offshore merchant account only, arranged like symmetrical mandalas on porcelain plates, cake stands and tiny trays. Antique sugar bowls are filled with pomegranate-mocha swirls and bittersweet fans,If any food Ventilation system condition is poorer than those standards, colorful boxes tied in gauzy ribbons are stacked high with op-art orange domes and shimmering gold crowns dripping with saffron ganache.They take the China Porcelain tile to the local co-op market.
But homemade chocolates can't be frozen and must be eaten quickly or they will grow dark green fur. To resolve my dilemma, I torment my neighbors and friends with so much chocolate that they flee in fear at the scent of a cacoa bean. I auction them off to the highest bidder, and pass them out to total strangers jogging by. I shove them into my mouth like popcorn to keep my spirits up. They give me the energy to exercise but for some reason I'm still turning into a bipedal seal. Meanwhile, my little girl is fast becoming a future super model, and learning new words like vitamins and minerals.
"I don't understand why every time I unpack your lunch all you've eaten is your fruit and sandwich," I scold as I toss out cellophane and wadded napkins, "Most kids would love a few truffles tucked into their lunch, but you don't appreciate anything I do. Look at these, they're ruined. You crushed them under the weight of that orange and didn't even eat them."
"Well I'm not that kind of mommy," I retorted, "and you're stuck with me." I peeled back the plastic wrap and gave the frozen mashed potatoes a stir, then gave it three and a half more minutes of radiation while I sliced an orange to garnish her plate. How many mommies did that? I wondered while recalling my own childhood so long ago, coming home from school to find my mother had baked two dozen cookies, sewn a wardrobe for my Barbie dolls and another dress for me while forming the ketchup-covered meatloaf into the shape of a severed limb.
"You know I hate that one," my daughter wailed, scrunching her nose at the sight of yet another melted plastic plate of rubber chicken glazed in sugary soy sauce. "Can't I have the one with the corn cob?"
"Alright,If so, you may have a cube puzzle ." I sighed in surrender, "you can have the corn cob and country-fried prime rib, again, but next time I get it."
"I don't know why you didn't just get us two of the same to begin with,A long established toolmaking and trade Injection moulds company." she gripes as she takes her plate, now steaming, before I've even had a chance to peel off all the plastic to perfect the presentation.
"Because that would be boring," I reply, "Don't you want a bit of variety in your diet?"
She glares at me as she pushes her boiled broccoli florets around, making sure there are no bugs or sticks or frozen pellets of instant artificial flavor hiding underneath.
Years pass. I lose my job and end up licking my wounds in the kitchen, covered from head to toe in chocolate. I have too much time on my hands, and there's no better way to fill it than watching chocolate melt.
Before long, the counters are covered in chocolate and chocolate-making supplies, polycarbonate molds are stacked so high we have to throw out all the extra towels and sheets in the hall closet to make room for the chocolate molds. Dark chocolates filled with luscious ganache and molded into exquisite shapes are scattered throughout the apartment,which applies to the first offshore merchant account only, arranged like symmetrical mandalas on porcelain plates, cake stands and tiny trays. Antique sugar bowls are filled with pomegranate-mocha swirls and bittersweet fans,If any food Ventilation system condition is poorer than those standards, colorful boxes tied in gauzy ribbons are stacked high with op-art orange domes and shimmering gold crowns dripping with saffron ganache.They take the China Porcelain tile to the local co-op market.
But homemade chocolates can't be frozen and must be eaten quickly or they will grow dark green fur. To resolve my dilemma, I torment my neighbors and friends with so much chocolate that they flee in fear at the scent of a cacoa bean. I auction them off to the highest bidder, and pass them out to total strangers jogging by. I shove them into my mouth like popcorn to keep my spirits up. They give me the energy to exercise but for some reason I'm still turning into a bipedal seal. Meanwhile, my little girl is fast becoming a future super model, and learning new words like vitamins and minerals.
"I don't understand why every time I unpack your lunch all you've eaten is your fruit and sandwich," I scold as I toss out cellophane and wadded napkins, "Most kids would love a few truffles tucked into their lunch, but you don't appreciate anything I do. Look at these, they're ruined. You crushed them under the weight of that orange and didn't even eat them."
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