Beefaroni: A Showdown

Adulthood likes to call on all sensible fibers of your body a fry them like a the business end of a butter knife in a socket.

And no amount of deep breaths or backwards counting is going to change that.  Without fail, no matter how good your mood, or how well-intentioned you may be, something will find away to squirm into your sweet, loving, Snow White-mood and zap the crap out of it.

I like to think of myself as a reasonable person.  Ok, sure, sometimes I want to throw things like a toddler,

but that would be wrong.  (And, if I threw things, who’d have to clean it up?  Exactly.  So I try to keep my inner toddler in check.)  On this day, everything was fine!  I was ok. In a good mood, feeling mellow. The kids wanted some Beefaroni.

No problem! Anything you want!

Then it happened.

I tried to empty the can, and two noodles wanted to stay in the can. Well that’s just absurd! We’ve come all this way, and your place is in the pot, little noodles.

So I shook the can, and banged it on the side of the pot, and I felt my blood pressure go up, because those F-ing noodles just clung to that can like they were a part of it. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to get a fork to get them out – that’s just a waste of clean silverware. After much concentrated shaking (can’t get that sauce all over the place), and flat-handed smacking,

those noodles went into the pot and I stood back, catching my breath, to revel in my success. You thought you had me, you sorry little jerks, but who got cooked? WHO DID? You did. I win.

XO- Adriana