Before I begin, I feel the need to put up a disclaimer:
“Readers who have a strong aversion to reading about bodily functions (ahem, Julesie) should proceed with this post at their own risk.”
Last night, because I had to work until 6:30 and Jim wanted to get a workout in after he got home from his day, dinner was a bit of a rush job. I made–since the ingredients were already in the house and it was something easy–pigs in blankets*. A food like this generally brings the warm fuzzies and thoughts of childhood to the person enjoying it.
Though I like pigs in blankets every once in a blue moon, they certainly don’t give me the warm fuzzies, as you’ll read. One out of two isn’t bad, I guess.
As we plated our dinners, mentally I went straight back to my fourth birthday party, at which my mom served me and my little guests–you guessed it–pigs in blankets.
One of my friends, in the middle of our meal at my festively decorated birthday table, threw up all over herself and the table in front of her. I was as horrified as a four-year-old could be. She couldn’t help it, of course; her sudden illness caused a ruckus (and a whirlwind of getting everything cleaned up), and then she had to go home. Naturally I, now a forty-two-year-old woman, don’t have any emotions attached to this truly non-event in my life; it’s just that, well, pigs in blankets make me think of that moment**.
I wonder if she remembers it.
*using BEEF hot dogs, of course.
**Okay, they were still delicious.
©2010 Suburban Scrawl