Nothing is safe from the criminal clutches of an 18-year-old feeder.
The Pony has learned to hide his special treats like Buncha Crunch, and individual packs of Soft Batch Cookies. He was not so quick to anticipate a whole box of cereal going missing, save the first bowl when he opened it, but has now filed that knowledge in his database. I know that anything in plain sight in Frig is fair game. Anything in the pantry will be munched at will. The #1 son sees all his foodstuff surroundings as a succulent feast, his for the harvest. But he is especially fond of items earmarked for others. Even Farmer H's sugar-free pudding cups and sugar-free oatmeal/raisin cookies.
Last week #1 was a late riser. He puttered into the kitchen and demanded that I make him breakfast. "It's lunch time now. The Pony and I have already been to town. You said you were going somewhere anyway."
"But I haven't had anything to eat all morning."
"That's because you've been asleep."
"Make me some toast."
"Allow me to introduce you to bread and toaster. Make it yourself."
"You're SO mean." He put the bread in the toaster and got out the I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. I can't believe the amount he slopped onto his toast.
"Oh, THAT'S the reason we run out of butter every week. I wondered where it was going."
"I don't eat that much butter. It's probably your OTHER son, eating it with a giant spoon when you're not looking."
"Huh. I don't think so." I readied the taco salad I had brought home from Hardees. Mmm...taco salad. I always add several dashes of Frank's Original Hot Wing Sauce, and extra salsa from Save A Lot. It was looking particularly tempting. As evidenced by #1.
"Hey! That looks good!" He reached over to break off some of the crispy bowl.
"No! Keep your hands off. You're going to mess it up. You can't weaken the sides."
"Oh, come on. I just want a little piece near the top, dipped into that salsa. Mmm..."
"No. You're always messing with somebody else's stuff. And you just ate two pieces of toast and half a pound of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. Look. I just bought some Scoops. There's the bag. Open it and get some salsa for yourself."
"But I want some shell and salsa! That's not the same."
Never mind that he would have eaten it up if it was something I had just prepared for myself. I left the kitchen to slip into my-lounging-around-the-basement-lair clothes, plus Crocs. When I came back, #1 was gone. And my taco salad was intact. I started to feel guilty. My little boy just wanted a taste of my lunch. It was a big taco salad. I called him back in. "You can have some, but be careful! Do not ruin the sides. Here. Try a piece off of this side. It's doubled over. It's stronger there."
He licked the leaking saliva from the corners of his lips. "Mmm...shell and salsaaaaa." I turned my back for just a minute. I don't know how I could have been so careless. Almost immediately, I heard, "Oops! Umm...you're not going to like this."
He had ripped out a chunk from the top of the shell to the plate. And since it had been folded over, a vast crevice was gaping. My magnificent taco salad was beginning to flow through the gap like molten core from the cracks of Mount Kilauea. #1 used his pencil-case-size plank of shell to scoop up an impressive dollop of salsa. He shoved the whole thing in his mouth and headed for his room. "Mmm...." I spent the rest of my lunch time waging a losing battle, like so many gray-and-white clad medium-security inmates filling sandbags to fight the encroaching Mississippi during the flood of '93.
He was right about one thing. It was delicious.