Back in the day, I had a pretty colorful vocabulary. More like mind blowing.
There are certain things that dredge up my colorful past.
I've replaced my bent towards those expletives with such words as...
RATS!
GAH.
ARGH!
and it's close relative, "FARGH!"
GRRR!
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR.
Poking dutifully into my sailor background was this:
The Fargh-ing Easy Bake Oven.
See how useful those words can be?
The EBO (Evil Baking Organism Easy Bake Oven) is only slightly more palatable when it is pictured with something extraordinarily cute.
I'd managed to contact Santa to let him know that Little B didn't really need an EBO. Luckily, Mimi was still here to protect Little B from all kinds of colorful vocabulary by stepping in to man the oven.
Mimi carefully sawed through the Red Velvet Cake cardboard so she & Papa could have a snack and validate my daughter's desire to be an astronomer/gymnast/chef when she grows up.
Like stubbing my toe, directing a play, and cleaning dog vomit off the couch, the EBO breaks through the prison in which I've incarcerated my old swearing self, and arouses in me the desire to use some very, very, bad, bad words (see above).
How is this possible, you ask? Wasn't Mimi holding down the cheap plastic fort?
Yes, friends, you are correct, but you must understand that the crap in these mixes borders on poison. Not to mention that they cost as much as a new pair of TOMS. (And I'd rather have the shoes.)
I actually spent two hours trying to concoct a vegan recipe that Little B could use and eat.
Notice the nifty stack of cards under the brownie one? None of them came close.
Maybe that's because I was using these...
Please note that the 'dash' measuring spoon is the approximate size of Barbie's pinky fingernail.
I even got out my good vegan cookbooks and tried little versions of REAL recipes. Still sloppy mini-blobs of unbaked batter emerged.
After the sweat ceased to bead upon my brow after the 15th batch of mini brownies, my child turned to me and said...
Little B: Mama, this isn't fun.
Me: No, honey. No, it is not.
Little B: You can't even see inside. Can we take this back?
Me: (recovering from my fall off the kitchen stool) Yes, we can. We can take it back and buy you a real toaster oven that you can see inside and you'll have an extra $20 to spend.
Little B: Seriously, I think I'd just rather use the real oven.
I would add more of the conversation, but I think I had already gone out to the garage, grabbed the box and shoved all of the plastic junk back inside and found the receipt in my purse. I may have even been buckled up in the car pulling out of the drive way.
Strangely enough, Little B hasn't made a single request to bake anything since the day of the coup.
Good riddance, EBO. Good riddance.