Saturday morning, vegging on food network. Aarti pinched the meat between her chapati protected fingers. Why is it so hard for chefs who have their own TV show to not be really annoying. She pushed the bite into her mouth and pleasurably whined, "You guys!.....I'm seven years old all over again."
And, suddenly, so I am.
I'm sitting on the couch eating honey nut cheerios, sweet and crunchy, from my dad's star trek mug while watching the King and I. I'm watching my church's pastor give the family mass homily as I eat unconsecrated eucharistic bread my mom had made extra of for me, the honey, whole wheat flat bread sticking to the roof of my mouth. My hands are freezing as I rub the flakey ice off the outside of a plastic popsicle tube, melting the blue sugary liquid, the slurps looking like veins as they travel up the plastic. I'm chewing waffles that I helped make, wincing with each fluffy bite in anticipation of egg shells, looking across the table to see my sister has swallowed her loose tooth. There's a steaming baked potato in front of me, topped with steamed broccoli and melting cheddar cheese, dinner in one complete little combination. I'm eating purple salty hard boiled eggs (no yolks, they taste like side walk chalk, believe me, I know) because the easter food coloring leaked through the cracks. I feel sick to my stomach as I eat a tenth super-delicious, super-rich piece of my grandma's seven layer cookies. My mouth fills with joy as I place the flakey pie crust filled with thick chocolate pudding into it.
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