Dessert

Last night, after (for realsie) proclaiming that I make the, “bestest food ever”, The Daughter requested dessert. She had happily eaten all her spaghetti and meatballs, so it was clearly sugar time.

Sidebar: My name is Bitches, and I am a foodie. Mama can cook. I feel it is completely false advertising when a fat woman sucks at cooking. That would be like picking up a chick wearing leather pants and a leopard print halter top at the bar one night, only to come home and find that her vagina is as sexless as Barbie doll poon. It’s just wrong. If your ass is big—it’s cool—so long as you can wail in the kitchen.

Sidebar on the Sidebar: TGIM’s friend—I shall call him Brandon…because that’s his real name…duh—goes on the best drunken rants in the history of alcoholism.  He is one of my favorite people to drink with and/or watch drink. When he found out that I like to cook, and that I learned to cook from watching Food Network, he went on a twenty minute monologue about how he FUCKING HATES The Barefoot Contessa. I mean, hates. But he knew everything about her. He had her Wikipedia page committed to memory, and he clearly watched the show. When I asked him why he watched, he looked at me like a total dumbfuck. “Have you seen the food she makes?” he asked. Well, yeah. I mean, that’s why I watch it. That bitch is a kitchen ninja. “Sure,” I answered. “She taught me how to make pot roast.” His response?

“Oh, my God. Her fucking potroast…she is a fat, pretentious bitch…and she thinks she fucking knows everything…’blah, blah, I used to write nuclear policy for President Ford’… God, I fucking hate her…but I would suck her cunt if she would make me that pot roast. I would suck that cunt whenever she wanted me to. Whenever. Just for that pot roast.”

(Ina Garten was a two-term White House nuclear policy analyst before making love to food on television. And—apparently—she has a delightfully suckable cunt.)

Of all the awful things I’ve ever written in my life, somehow “delightfully suckable cunt” was one of the only phrases that made me cringe.

Anyway…back to the story:

“Are you full?” That Guy I Married asked The Daughter when she was through with her meal. “Yes…no,” she replied. “I have enough room for dessert.”

(She saw he was laying a trap.)

As always, we were eating at the kitchen table, and he told her to wait until everyone was finished. “Then I’ll make you something.”

This piqued her interest. “What are you going to make me?”

And herein lies the probably. The Daughter—like her mother—is way too curious. Her dad? After years of actually working at it, he has perfected the art of vagueness. He never offers anything up. Never actually answers questions. I’m fairly certain I’m the only person he willingly tells anything to, and if he wanted to hide something from me he would have no problem whatsoever.

(We have this weird, fucked up relationship based on (1) mutual trust, (2) making fun of each other and (3) coitus. Most people don’t understand it.)

So she kept asking him what he was going to make her for dessert. He kept dodging the question. Finally, he was annoyed.

“I’m going to make you fried beaver tails.”

“Fried beaver tails? Really?” she asked. Please note this was said with sarcasm, and not with wonder.

“Yep,” he answered convincingly. “I’m going to bread them, and fry them, and serve them with some sauce.”

“We don’t have any fried beaver tails,” she reasoned. “Sure we do,” he responded. “They’re in the freezer.”

Being the realistically cynical six-year old she is, she got up to check. “I don’t see any beaver tails.”

“They’re on the right side, on the bottom, in a pink container,” I told her, describing a pack of two pork loin chops. She quickly found them. They were frosted over, so it was difficult to read the label.

“These are beaver tails? For real?” she asked.

“Sure, those are Bieber tails,” I answered. Her response was a look of incredulity.

“What, you didn’t know Justin Bieber has a tail?” TGIM added. Then he provided a detailed description of how Justin Bieber has two flat tails on the back of his ass that he uses like a nocturnal, semi-aquatic rodent with a tendency for building dams on rivers and streams.

And this is families should always eat dinner together, around the table, sans television: it’s a great opportunity to fuck with your children.