Mommy diary: Food Wars vol. 1

In our house we recently stopped eating wheat products because Mommy loves her white bread. f I didn’t get that shit out of the house I would never stop eating it. My absence of willpower in the face of any processed carbohydrate makes me have nightmares that one day I will end up dead, weighing in at 450 pounds and found clinging desperately to a golden loaf of Wonderbread.

The only problem, of course, is that I have children. Children can sense down to the molecular level whether or not the food placed upon their plate contains any gluten whatsoever, and if the answer is no, they won’t eat it.

I have tried circumventing this by feeding my children nachos. All children love nachos, right? Not my kids. My children have some kind of personal vendetta against nachos. They won’t eat the meat, they won’t touch the sour cream. They go so far as to scrape the cheese off of their corn chips before taking the daintiest of bites and then pulverizing the remainder. My kids are more likely to not melt down in the middle of the toy aisle at WalMart than they are to actually eat their nachos.

Take tonight for example when I optimistically made nachos thinking just giving them what they like to eat in nacho form would get them to abandon their erroneous and misguided prejudice against this delicious Mexican invention. It didn’t matter. Within seconds they were complaining. Within minutes they were “full”.

“Full” of shit, maybe. Little fuckers.

Look, I adore my spawn, but this picky eating crap is going to be the death of me. I slave away making incredible food and they’re all like, “F’ you mom, I want McDonalds”

“Can I have some white bread?”

No! You can’t have some white bread! White bread will fucking kill you and make you fat and ugly before doing it! Here! Have some freshly grated cheddar on your simmered for an hour in it’s own juices beef! Have some fucking organic salsa, you cocksuckers!

Now I want to be able to say that I do it all for my kids, but that sort of self-deprecating pap is utterly repugnant. I don’t do it for my kids, I do it for the applause. If I was a single mom I’d feed them Velveeta and Captain Crunch and call it a fucking day, but I don’t because their father comes home and eats whatever the hell those little bastards wouldn’t touch and he can’t stop ooh’ing and ahh’ing like a third rate porn actress and I love every minute of it.

So F’ you kids, I didn’t cook that shit for you, anyway.


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