I like to use grated cheese on grilled cheese sandwiches. It melts more evenly, and at a lower temperature, so not only is the bread firmly attached to the cheese all the way through (so Small Fry can't pick it apart and eat only the cheese), it's also not as hot (so he can eat it sooner). Which is good, because usually by the time I get around to making the grilled cheese he's climbing my damn yoga pants imploring me for yum-yums.
Grated cheese, however, tends to be a little messier if there's a baby climbing your leg or you flip the sandwich too soon, both of which were the case this morning. Cheese shreds galore. At least Small Fry had a floor appetizer to scavenge while I finished cooking up his main course.
So I flipped the sandwich, cheese flew everywhere, and Small Fry let go of my pants long enough for me to dash away for a quick bio break. (Hey, you take what you can get.)
Hell elected this moment to break loose in my kitchen. Small Fry smacked his face on a chair and began gushing blood and saliva out the mouth, when a cheese fire ignited on the stovetop and my former in-laws showed up to return Medium Fry from their camping weekend. Screaming, smoke alarm, door bell.
And I, sitting on the toilet.
Did I say sitting? Toss an H in there, my friend - it's TMI, I know, but you might otherwise not appreciate just how wrong things can go in very short order. Hence, a special edition Monday morning post to illustrate why it is imperative that mommies everywhere maintain an emergency booze ration. Don't delay - get yours today. And while you're at it, mine somehow became sorely depleted this morning - would you mind picking a little something up for me, too?
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