Then don’t come to any parties at my house.

Seriously.

I saw the title of an article that said, “How to Have a Healthier Dinner Party” which of course I didn’t even glance at.

Because to me, a party is all about eating something different than you normally would. Something special, maybe a little decadent.

Of course if there is some sort of dietary restriction going on, then accomodations are immediately made and taken into account in the meal planning.

I have a former friend (our sons no longer go to school together, and so all have drifted apart) who was so into healthy eating that for her son’s 8th birthday party, she had unbuttered popcorn, and grapes as appetizers.  I think she did have a cake, but I was surprised that she couldn’t let go just a little bit for her son’s friends, not all of whom eat like triathletes in training.

Will I have some healthy options? Of course.  Not everything will be drenched in butter or filled to the brim with fat calories.

But will the whole meal be about being perfectly healthy and fat free?

Nope.

I’ll save that for every other day.

I’ve never left a party gushing about how amazingly healthy all the dishes were.  Maybe I’m weird.

Hmpfh, no wonder she and I are no longer friends!

My son recently spent some time with some relatives and slept over for a few days.

Over the course of those few days, I couldn’t help but notice how clean my kitchen was.

You see, I don’t make my son most of his meals or snacks during the day, I want him to learn how to make his own meals.  Most of the time he will just boil some pasta and have some spaghetti, or will make himself a sandwich, or oatmeal, or something of that nature.  Nine year olds are not usually known for their demand for culinary artistry.

Besides, I figure he will thank me when he is living on his own and not having to subsist solely on Cup o’Noodle.

But a fact that has always hovered in the back of my mind came to light when I realized that my kitchen counter could indeed make it through the day without being littered with bread crumbs or spilled tomato sauce or smudged butter.  Not to mention the floor immediately below the main preparation area.  Practically sparkling! Not a spilled oat in sight!

He came back today and even though I missed him, I did not miss the time I spend cleaning up after his, ah, kitchen adventures.   I mean, I have to call it an adventure, because mere cooking does not somehow propel pasta in a five foot radius from the counter.

But I suppose that is the price I have to pay if I want him to take over all of the dinner-making one day.

Hello my dears, apologies for my absence last week.  Things got a little confusing for a bit, and then sickness hit both myself and my husband at the same time.

The overwhelming consensus was that the leopard-print polyester shirt intended for teens was a big bunch of fugly, with 53% disapproving.  Another 26% felt that it was criminal to charge that much for something that looks like a bargain-bin find at the Salvation Army.  Only a small 9% total felt it was fine, or could possibly look cute on someone less than 14 years old.

As the big holidays creep ever nearer, I want to know what you do in the kitchen.

54% of you have been stood up by a repair person once or twice and 36% say more times than you deem to be proper. I’m sorry, but that is WAY too many. Only a blessed 9% minority have never had it happen.

Today I’m all about Thanksgiving.

Well, 45% of you think that we shouldn’t be putting three year olds in academic settings in the first place, never mind potty-training rules.  Another 32% believes that schools should be a little more understanding of children and their varying rates of physical development, which are totally out of their control.  15% think that the schools should not have to deal with untrained children, and 7% think that if a school is willing to accept someone’s money, then they should be able to deal.

Today during the Super Bowl I ate many more calories than was seemly, and I blame the spinach dip.  Although I have only myself to blame, as I am the one who made it and brought it.

It seems Jennifer Aniston has been eating baby food in order to “give her body a boost” according to The Daily Mail.

Good luck with that, Jen.  You see how well it’s been working for this fellow baby food eater.

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In what was my least popular poll to date (it seems you all are either not music people or you really hate Mondays) the Bangles eked out a win with twenty-five percent voting for “Manic Monday” as their favorite song about Mondays.  Tied for second place with twenty percent of the vote were “Blue  Monday” by New Order and “I Don’t Like Mondays” by the Boomtown Rats.  I’m going to have to go for New Order on this one.

Today, I want to know what you think about cheese.  But not just any cheese, my chickens.  No, I’m talking about cheese being made from human milk.  Gael Greene at The Daily Beast wrote about one chef who attempted to put it on the menu at his restaurant, but wound up serving it at his home instead.

When I was a wee lass in elementary school, I had a few strikes against me.  I was taller than all the boys, I was smart, when I played sports my parents made me wear these kind of glasses (Complete with head strap, of course. Good grief, why am I admitting this publicly?), and most importantly, I brought horrible lunches to school.

This was back in the day when options were extremely limited, since at that time nobody carried ice packs in their lunchboxes.  And when I say lunchboxes, I mean lunchboxes, as in made of some kind of metal.  We had none of these pansy soft-sided things the kids use today.  Our lunchboxes could be used as impromptu seats or weapons, depending on the circumstances.

Anyhoo, I was the kid that nobody would trade with.  I mean, who wants to trade for a room-temperature apple?  My mother had recently completed her nursing degree and so foisted upon me the most healthiest of lunches imaginable.  Dude, we are talking whole wheat bread when nobody but nobodyate whole wheat bread.  Except maybe geriatrics looking to try out the newfangled Atkins diet, but certainly not your local fourth grader. Wonderbread was king, and I was the Duchess of Dullsville.

Keeping that in mind, I make sure that my son does not suffer the same lonely lunch fate that I did.  No way was my kid going to watch everyone else trading food and be stuck with an orange as his best shot.   I make sure that it’s healthy, but I always manage to pack some sort of treat.

The other day the Munchkin said to me, “Mom, you pack the best lunches in my whole class. Everybody always wants to trade with me.”

I almost had to wipe away tears as visions of a young me vainly attempting to trade a natural peanut butter and orange marmalade sandwich (on cardboard wheat bread, natch)  for a Twinkie flashed before my eyes.  The look of utter disbelief on the prospective tradee’s face stays with me to this day.

And they say you can’t live through your kids.