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Having a nice bowl of flutterberry surprise

Fried Rice
Heidi Rice
Glenwood Springs, CO Colorado

“Oh my GAWD. … I’m gonna BARF!” Husband-Head yelled from the living room the other Saturday morning while standing in front of the television.

Normally, this phrase would have been uttered late on a Friday night when we were in our early 20s and not garnered a whole lot of attention, but it was rather odd at 8 a.m. on a Saturday in our 40s. …

“If you feel the urge to vomit, could you please do it in the upstairs bathroom before I scrub everything?” I asked politely, not really caring why he was going to puke, just where.



You see, I was in the midst of my weekly Saturday morning cleaning routine that involves cleaning the house while at the same time watching a cooking show on TV.

And because I’d just mopped, I certainly didn’t want anyone ” pets or people ” to throw up on my freshly washed floors.



A few minutes earlier, Husband-Head had come into the kitchen and interrupted my cleaning and cooking show because he decided he needed breakfast. “Is this any good?” he asked, sniffing the milk from the fridge.

“I bought it yesterday,” I informed him. “It better be.”

Husband-Head proceeded to pour himself a bowl of Special K Red Berries which he keeps on top of the refrigerator. We are all very proud that this is one of the few meals he knows how to make himself without adult supervision.

And by the way, I want it be known that I do not eat cereal, nor do I have anything to do with his cereal.

He then took his bowl into the living room where he stood and watched the Italian cooking show I had on.

“Gross!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t polenta that stuff when women …?”

“No,” I interrupted, immediately knowing where he was going with his question. “It has nothing to do with birth.”

It was a couple of seconds later when he screamed that he was gonna barf.

“It’s only an Italian cornmeal, for God’s sake,” I yelled back, getting irritated at all the interruptions. “It’s a traditional staple food in northern Italy and a lot of other countries. Stop freaking out about the friggin’ polenta.”

Husband-Head came running into the kitchen and poured out his cereal.

“It’s not the TV show, it’s the fact that I just bit into a MOTH that was in my cereal!” he said, spitting into the sink. This struck me as funny.

“It’s NOT funny!” Husband-Head screamed with the most disgusted look on his face. “I bit his head off!”

That was even funnier.

But the harder I laughed, the madder Husband-Head got.

“I thought it was a bum dried-up berry,” he said, still spitting into the sink. “And then I looked down and saw the other half of the …”

With that, he began retching into the sink all over again.

“That’s your fault for not closing the box properly,” I said defensively. “I never touch your cereal. You left the bag open and the moth got in there.”

“No, somehow you’re involved in this,” he decided.

Then a thought occurred to me.

“Ewww … what if it, like, laid eggs in the cereal box and you ate those, too?” I said, scrunching up my face. “What if, like, your insides are now infested with moth balls and they’re all gonna hatch?”

This idea, of course, was funny to me as well.

At this point, Husband-Head looked absolutely green and he bolted into the bathroom and began furiously brushing his teeth.

When he was done, I offered to make him an alternative breakfast.

“How about a whole grain English muffin and an apple?” I suggested, knowing that both of those items were in the fridge, not on top of it, and probably weren’t infested with anything.

“No apple,” Husband-Head said doubtfully. “There’ll probably be a worm in it.”

He washed down the moth with an English muffin and some juice and then got ready to leave for his own Saturday yard saling ritual.

“I’ll be back in a while,” he said, leaning over to give me a kiss.

I turned my head.

“Not on the lips, bug breath,” I said.


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