D is for Dib-orce Court

A few months ago, my husband decided that he was going to eat only (or mostly) organic food. In support this new, healthier* behavior set, I made a conscious effort to not bring into the home, the usual, artificially enhanced crap, to which our entire family is readily drawn. ::Worse culprit: Momma’s Candied Crack, aka Keebler’s Rainbow Chip cookies. They’re Toxically Delicious.::

Even though I very much enjoyed my position as a beneficiary of my husband’s quest for farm fresh meats, poultry, vegetables and cheese, I found that the organic cookie left a bit to be desired.

Okay. A lot to be desired.

Okay. It was your basic asspatty;* a bleak mixture of oatmeal paste and water, sprinkled with raisins, then baked into a paltry, powdery puck. ::Seriously, how healthy can a food item be, if the shock of the first putrid bite causes a person to reflexively choke? Somebody could get hurt. Die. Even.::

But I digress. In order to support my husband’s momentary interest in healthful living, without putting every one else's life at risk, via a mother's, toxin-withdrawal-induced rage, I resorted to dubious measures.

Thus began my secret, all consuming love affair with these:



Because my husband was not familiar with the product or packaging, my dirty little secret went undetected, for several days. Then one day, upon arriving home from work, I was greeted at the door by the grim face of A Husband Betrayed.

So, how long has this been going on?

What?

The ice cream bits, hidden in the freezer.

Oh My God.

Did you really think you could keep this from me?

Oh My God.

That's all you have to say?

You ate them, didn't you?

Without saying another word, I pushed past the pouty puss and headed straight to the freezer.

As I lifted the love package from its frosty loft, I easily assessed the damage, by weight. What earlier in the day was a near full carton of frozen dairy delights, had been gluttonously reduced to three pathetic nuggets.

Bastard.

You should have just ate them all, I said. Justifiable homicide.

But those last words never landed. He was already out the door. Minutes later,he returned with these.



While this might appear to be the perfect solution to this problem, it really isn't. One of us always finishes his carton first, then starts on the other person's cache. This inevitably leads to a bitch and moan session, which usually ends with someone storming out of the house, at all hours, and returning shortly with a new supply. One of the many dances of intimacy.

If you love ice cream and haven't tried these, I highly recommend.

Ain't they cute?:



Besides being delicious, what I like about this snack is that the bits really need to be eaten fresh outta the freezer, otherwise they get too melty and lose their intended, textural and temperature allure. This means I can only eat a couple at a time. And after 6 separate trips to the freezer, for a total of 12 bites, I am truly satisfied. Tired. Even.

If you do cave to temptation, just remember: Love Bites.

Okay, Okay. Before all you mothering types start yapping at me about studying...I'm goin'. I'm goin'.

*I still need convincing that there is anything healthful about consuming an entire loaf of organic raisin bread in one sitting. I know, without the preservatives, it goes bad.

**Is that a new one, Rabbitch?