Last week, I made an apple crisp. Maybe you know that apple crisp is better with ice cream. Off I went to the grocery store--fruit, vegetables, eggs, milk, ice cream. Two litres is usually enough but when ice cream is on sale, ten is better. That evening, I felt like a superhero letting my children have a little bit from each bucket. The Cookie Dough ice cream must not have complemented the Smartie ice cream in the way he expected, because after a few bites, Jonah piped up, "This tastes like chicken and barf." Of course, we laughed...hard...before I reminded everyone that talking about gross things at the table isn't okay. My reminder didn't register. I know because a few minutes later, I was chatting in the driveway with my Relief Society President who was dropping something off, when one of my children yelled, "Where's Beth?" Hannah's helpful reply could be heard through the open windows, "She's in the bathroom digesting chicken and barf."
What do you mean? I didn't hear anything. Could it have been the neighbours?
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