Monthly Archives: November 2012

Mouth Party in the Pantry


My Gramma (the one I liked, I mean… the other was my “Grandmother” – said with an Oliver Twist sort of accent) made the most amazing gooey awesome mouth-party brownies on the face of the earth. These were not boxed brownies. They were not pot brownies. They were not even the bizarre yet delicious zucchini brownies I made this summer. They were Switzerland and the beaches of Kauai all in one.
I liked these brownies so damn much that I ate them whenever the opportunity presented itself. We would stay with my Grandparents for a few weeks each summer, so my time was limited. Otherwise, you’d be watching me on live television as the jaws of life cut my 400 pound self out of my house.

At dinner, someone would say “please pass the rolls.”

I’d helpfully pipe up, “I’ll get the jam!” and sprint from the table.

The golden love nuggets were kept in the pantry, next to the jam. I sat in the pantry for a few minutes and ate one. mmmmmmmmmm.

“I have to pee.”

The bathroom was right across the hall from the pantry. Two more brownies. And dinner was only half way through.
“Oh, I forgot to wash my hands!”

Back into the pantry. Really. That’s where I spent most of the vacation.

By the time my Gramma brought those delicious suckers out for us to eat dessert, I was full (almost). It was an addiction like no other. I dreamed about the brownies. They invaded my mind like a lost lover. Of course, being twelve, my lost lover was some boy who made eye contact with me one time. If I had just been more brave. Maybe he was my soul mate. We’ll never know. Because, I didn’t bite into him like I did those brownies!

In high school (I was in a boarding school) my Gramma sent me a care package for my 16th birthday. I was so excited, but I heroically saved the box for the actual day. I’m not sure if that was an exhibition of self-control, or just a desire to wait because we all know that birthday calories don’t count and I was gonna eat that whole damn box.
It was here.

My birthday.

I was gonna eat the shit out of those brownies. My two best friends were in a fight with me. My boyfriend was a sex-brained arsehole. My parents completely forgot it was my birthday. Those brownies were going to drastically improve my day. I tore the packing tape off in anticipation. Oh the smell. They looked perfect.

I lifted one to my mouth.


Did the brownie just move?

What the hell?

I felt like I was in that scene in The Lost Boys where the rice becomes maggots and the noodles become worms. I dropped my beloved to the floor and watched in horror as a hundred ants bounced off of it. Did I tell you I was in Jersey? It’s not the garden state. It’s the ant state. The ants had penetrated the care package, not to mention my soul. I believe at that point I had a toddler sized meltdown, but I don’t remember. I suffered some sort of brief brownie craving psychotic break. When I came to I found myself trying to salvage crumbs from the dearest love of my life, who had been ripped from my teenage world like the victim of a drive-by shooting.


I’m not proud.

I ate at least 50 ants that night, and cried as I threw the rest of the golden box of love into the trash.

In a perfect world, I would now post the aforementioned recipe in this blog, and you would all understand the levels I would sink to in order to consume such perfection. But, alas, my Gramma has been dead for over fifteen years. Some part of me just always thought she would be there. Making me brownies. Laughing at my jokes.

Restocking her pantry when I wasn’t looking.

You can stash your pie crust in there!


I survived another Thanksgiving!

I wonder how I always lose food in between my boobs.

Just had to have another nibble of pie crust, but I managed to miss my mouth (yes, I had beer first.  But, this is still a problem for me.  I’m not a graceful beast).

I excused myself from the table and went to the bathroom (right next to the dining table) where I locked the door, reached into my bra and attempted to remove the sugary bits (by now, somewhat glued to my skin) into the toilet. Much to my delight, in walked my daughter, demonstrating the apparently non-functioning door lock. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t taking a post turkey dump; unfortunately for me, I am pretty sure the position I was in was equally disturbing for any passerby, bent over at the waist, head over the toilet bowl.

No, I don’t have an eating disorder. Yes, I do have boobs. And they catch food from time to time…more the older I get. I’m not sure if this is my body’s way of storing calories in case of emergency or simply an effect of too much skin. Either way, I kind of like storing pie crust in my bra. Other than the inevitable itching factor. Pie crust smells nice.


I guess if the 2012 prophecy is true, you might want to be my friend. When apocalyptic survivors are busy hunting for food, I’ll simply be reaching into my own bra. It’s like a food-storing camel-back, on your front. You should get one.