One of my guilty pleasures is cooking shows, particularly those of the “reality” genre. Top Chef, Iron Chef (American and Japanese) -it’s all good. But the guiltiest one of all is Gordon Ramsay. I know it’s all bollocks, per se, but I get the biggest kick out of him hollering at people, calling them bleeping donkeys, bleeping muppets, or accusing them of having palates like a cow’s backside. That’s gold, I tell you. Gold.
Shifting gears entirely, mornings are pretty damn action-packed at my house. I suppose I’m experiencing it with fresh(er) eyes and ears since my mom is staying with us at the moment. You can’t help but wonder if she thinks we’re all utterly insane. We don’t ease into our day. Oh no. We never have, to be fair. We begin at full throttle – full volume.
I think my blood pressure goes up at least 10 points every morning, and that’s a conservative estimate. There’s lots to do. Feed the cats. Feed the fish. Coffee. Take my vitamins and crazy pill. All the while the crescendo builds very quickly. Stella wants Teen Titans Go on TV. Felix wants to watch documentaries on Venus Flytraps on my phone -his latest passion- but it’s the same phone I’m trying to check email and the weather with.
The volume gets louder as the squabbling over programming gets more heated. Then Will starts to bellow from the bedroom where he’s still trying to get his beauty rest so “OhMyGodShutUpSoYouDon’tWakeYourFatherUp.” But they’re bored, right? And STARVING. Suddenly Titans and Flytraps mean nothing. I am running Hell’s Kitchen. Stella wants a spinach omelet with cheese, but OH MY GLOB DON’T PUT THE CHEESE IN THE OMELET, YOU DONKEY! The cheese goes on the side!
It’s also worth noting that this cheese? It’s the same Voldemart cheese we’ve been buying for years. But suddenly it’s unacceptable unless you cut it and serve it in a certain way. Dammit. Because I have nothing else to worry about.
And Felix wants waffles and toast. But butter! And absolutely no crust. Got it? And why are you cooking his breakfast before mine? I’m so hungry my mouth is watering. My mouth isn’t just watering-watering. I might drown it’s watering so much. And no crust, MyMom. You have butter, right? And I can’t hear my show! Bob the Builder is so loud I can’t hear Teen Titans.
Clear down, you muppet. Lunch is in a few hours. (Seriously, my children could give Gordon Ramsay the cold sweats.)