‘E’ Is For Eating

I’m a very picky eater. I have a lot of hangups about foods that have a certain texture, odor, or look. There are a lot of things I won’t eat. More things that I won’t eat than I will eat, really.

My husband has threatened to take away my Southern Girl card because I don’t typically eat many Southern staples. Grits, macaroni and cheese, any fried vegetable–no. Biscuits and gravy, eggs of any type, mashed potatoes–no. Lunch meat that isn’t shaved deli turkey, most veggies, cream of wheat–no. I won’t eat American cheese at all, or any kind of cheese on a sandwich or hamburger. My husband is always amazed when we go get subs and all I get is turkey and mustard on mine. Get where I’m going here?

Your Thanksgiving plate.
My Thanksgiving plate.

So, one time my husband and I went out with our two best friends to eat at a local Mexican restaurant. At that point in time, every time I had gone into that particular restaurant, I had gotten treated like I was crazy by the staff. Word to the wise — you will be (rightfully) shamed if you ask for fries and ketchup there.

That particular time, I searched the menu looking for something that I would eat. I decided to change things up from ordering chicken nuggets off the kids menu, so when I found “Rotisserie chicken” listed, I decided to go with that.

When the server asked what I wanted, I told him, “I’ll have the rotisserie chicken, please,” in a very dignified manner, since I wasn’t ordering off the kid menu or making a hundred changes to a dish, and started to hand him my menu.

“You want what?”

“The rotisserie chicken. It’s on the menu.”

Everyone started snickering, like I was making a joke, but I wasn’t, of course.

“It’s on the menu,” I said sharply. I opened up the menu and pointed to the “Rotisserie Chicken” option. “This is what I want, but I don’t want any rice or beans.” I eat neither (unless the rice happens to be covered in stew beef) and planned to eat chips and salsa with the chicken.

“You want a whole chicken?” the server asked, giving me a look.

WTF? It’s a rotisserie chicken. I had them before at the dinner and a show things we had gone to at the beach — they weren’t that big. Was I catching some grief for being overweight?

“Yes,” I said, and I’m sure that I looked kinda pissed at that point. He wrote it down.

A few minutes later, the manager came over.

The manager said “okay” and left.

We all caught up with each other a bit, and at one point, my friend noticed one of the guys that worked at the restaurant leave and come back a short time later with a Food Lion bag. She said that they probably went to buy one of those ready-made chickens for me, which I thought was joke.

And then the server brought out the food. My plate was filled with what appeared to be a whole chicken cut up.

I looked at my husband. “The one I had at the Dixie Stampede was not this big.” This made my husband and friends laugh even harder.

Finally, after wiping away the tears from her eyes, my friend cleared things up. “That was a rotisserie Cornish hen you had at the Dixie Stampede. This is a whole rotisserie chicken! They probably put it on the menu as an option for a family!”

We all laughed so hard over that chicken. I ate a single breast from it and had plenty of leftovers to take home.

It has been three years since that happened, and I still get crap over that chicken.

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I’m All About That Turkey, ‘Bout That Turkey, ‘Bout That Turkey

My Facebook feed is full of people talking about Thanksgiving. Either they’re listing what they’re thankful for, posting recipes that they plan to make, or are talking about how they can’t wait to eat. My husband hasn’t posted to Facebook, but he’s already talking about the various foods that he plans to gorge himself on at the three Thanksgiving meals we’re attending.

All the while, I’m like —

Food-wise, Thanksgiving is about one thing for me — fried turkey. I’m sure a lot of y’all are thinking, “Yeah, I can’t wait for turkey, either!” but when I say that Thanksgiving is about one thing for me food-wise, I mean that quite literally.

I’m a picky eater. I’m so picky that it’s much easier to list the foods that I do like than list what I don’t like. I like about three vegetables, your standard meats, and processed crap (which I’m trying to stay away from). I don’t do mushy foods, foods with lots of textures going on (I keep trying, though), foods heavy on the spice…the list could go on. As such, Thanksgiving isn’t such a big deal for as far as food goes like it is for everyone else. (For the record, yes I’m thankful for stuff, and yes I enjoy the family time…as much as an introvert can enjoy interacting with 60 people in one day can, anyway.)

Just so you know, I cook plenty of stuff that I don’t eat. In fact, two of the things that I’m famous for making are things I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole — macaroni and cheese and cheesecake. So, my family doesn’t go deprived because of my lack of a diverse palate. All that creamy cheese? Blech. Cream cheese taste? Blech. (Nothing hurts my soul more than seeing yummy dessert videos from Tasty and then seeing them dump all the cream cheese into whatever they’re making.)

With that I give you doodles of my husband’s Thanksgiving meal vs. mine.

My husband’s plate:

My plate:

Probably not foodporn.

I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I have the saddest Thanksgiving plate ever. They aren’t wrong.

You’re up…what’s one food you love and one food you hate that’ll be served at Thanksgiving?

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School Days, School Days

And just like that, I’m down to one kid for the bulk of my mornings and afternoons. Little Man went back to school today — he’s now a fourth grader.

I could talk about how I can’t believe that my baby boy is close to being in middle school, but then I’d get all teary-eyed. Not that you could see me, but just know that I would. Any milestone or event that thrills my husband manages to leave me feeling bittersweet, with a strong lean towards bitter.

Before I have to wipe something out of my eye, let’s talk about what Little Man going back to school really means for us.


We are late people. Doesn’t matter where we’re going, you can guarantee that we’re going to be the last ones rolling up. It kills me not being wherever I’m going five minutes early, but no matter how much we plan to leave on time, things happen and we’re late. This drives me nuts, but this is how it’s been since we added on a second kid.

I don’t know if there are records for tardies at school, but if there are, we’re definitely contenders for the trophy. (Or maybe it’d be a stern look and a lecture about how we’re being detrimental to his education.) We rarely manage to get out the door on time, and it’s not for lack of trying. Little Man is one of the slowest kids on earth. I’m pretty sure that Slowly, Slowly, Slowly Said the Sloth was written about him. He gets out of bed slowly. He uses the bathroom slowly. He gets distracted by a dozen things on the way to the table, and when he does manage to make it to the table, he chews very slowly. Even when we get him out of bed 20 minutes earlier, he still thwarts that.

On top of the slowness, there’s always something — the lunch box, the belt, glasses, etc. that gets left behind. Or maybe Baby Girl has to poop the second she gets strapped in her car seat. Despite our best efforts, we’re still often the ones driving like maniacs to shove him out of the car before the tardy sign is put out.


Pokemon cards make me want to cry more than watching my babies grow up. Every kid has an obsession that their parents can just barely tolerate, and Pokemon is it for me. Little Man tends to develop tunnel vision with his hobbies or interests, and every so often his focus lands on Pokemon cards. When that happens, I listen to nonstop chatter about which Pokemon is best, which one has the least points, what each Pokemon evolves into, etc. I try my best to seem interested, but every time he starts on about Pokemon, a part of me dies a little.


In the remaining few weeks of the past school year, most parents were complaining about all of the projects due or having to pay for lost books. Not my husband and me. Instead, we were griping about having to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Let’s put it like this — if Little Man stopped eating PB&Js, Jif and Smucker’s would feel the impact. The kid would eat PB&J for every single meal if you let him. He’s mostly a great eater and will try just about any non-spicy food, but when it’s up to him, it’s PB&J.

You wouldn’t think that making one type of sandwich for 100+ days would wear on you so much, but somehow it does. And it’s not just me — when we’d pack Little Man’s lunchbox at night, my husband and I would race to be the one to get the snacks just so we wouldn’t have to make the godforsaken PB&J. That might sound a bit dramatic, but I swear, the fart noise the squeeze jelly makes gets to you, somehow, after hundreds of times. One day we’ll see that as an enhanced interrogation technique.

(I was going to do a doodle of someone being tortured with jelly here, but then I thought it might be in poor taste.)

We could just let LM pack his own lunch, but it’s one of those parent things we mostly want to do just because. We could also insist on different sandwiches, but the boy is rail thin, and lord knows I don’t want him going on a hunger strike. So welcome back, PB&Js.

2017-2018 school year, here we come.

What’s something you don’t look forward to about school starting back?

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