Friday, October 13, 2006
The Manwich Incident
As I lovingly prepared yet another delectable feast of a dinner for my cherished family, my hamburger browning solitude was interrupted by the endless barrage of badgering questions by our resident finicky eater 7 year old, Caterpillar. Meal time is a constant rehash of Caterpillar bugging me about what I'm cooking, and if it's any good, what's in it?, and will she like it? This from a girl who used to eat her own boogers. So, last night the ritual began anew.
Initially, it all started with the Manwich. We don't usually dine on such declasse greasy spoon fare, well at least not from a can because I have a really good Sloppy Joe recipe for the crockpot, but I digress. I made Manwich one night, and Caterpillar started in with her skeptical attitude about my cooking prowess. When she got to the, "What's it made out of?" question though, I simply turned to her and said, "Read the label, honey. It's MANwich, made from 100% real authentic man." Ha, I know my single sister-in-laws would argue that a REAL man is hard to find, let alone to come in a can. Caterpillar gagged and informed me that I was disgusting. Hey, 1 million plus cannibals can't all be wrong, can they? Well, this marked the start of a new family gross out tradition.
Yes, we've incorporated this line of thinking into many of our meals. Thursday evening, the Casa De Infidel special of the night featured hand stuffed manicotti with breadsticks and salad. Of course, it's de rigeur to torment Caterpillar now, so as I cooked I told her that we were going to feast on MANicotti, stuffed with bits and pieces of real man. Caterpillar replied to this news with her sullen voice, "Oh, man." My older daughter, Sunbum then asked me if that makes us like Nelly Furtado's song, "Man Eater." I told her that Nelly Furtado produces filthy whorish songs, and that for every time she listens to one of those Promiscuous Girl ditties , she has to take in six hours of Christian Rock to make penance for it. I'm taking a zero Nelly stance in this household. I then explained that we're more genteel like blue eyed soul singers, Hall And Oates version of, "Man Eater."
It breaks down like this. ZITI is a despised dish in this household because they pronounce it as ZITTY. Nobody wants to eat something with acne connotations to it. When I make my famous stew, I tell them that we're having Little Stew for dinner. We call it that ever since watching the Stuart Little movies. I inform them, "Yep, there's a Little morsel of Stew in every bite." I know it's spelled differently, but it still gives my little non-literate kids pause, and my older kids to question just how far meat from a mouse will go in feeding a family of 8. When we eat chicken fingers, my Papi takes his turn teasing our spawn with, "Oh, poor little chickens, walking around without their fingers because you horrible children chose to eat them." In the interest of maintaining a certain level of couth, I shall refrain from printing what he said about the "Chicken Balls" spotted on the steam table at our local Chinese Buffet.
I know that the feminists are pushing for equal rights in all respects, but I, for one, will rue the day that I see WOMANwich in a can, and a menu describing the delectable WOMANicotti dish. Already, we have to suffer through the consumption of ladyfingers, isn't that harsh enough?