Snack Time

I love fake food. Even though these pretzels are the real deal, that glass ziploc baggie, is, well a glass ziploc baggie. My husband got it for me at Uncommon Goods for my last birthday. It's so funny. It's especially fitting because I am constantly using ziploc baggies for everything: the separated components of my to-go morning breakfast, my carrots and crackers and lunch snacks, saftey pins in my drawer, bobby pins and jewelry when I travel, all the dangerous horrible 3oz-or-under liquids when I go through the airport, diaper wipes, my kid's iTouches when I drop them in their overnight grandma bag, and the list goes on and on. I am basically killing the planet with my ziploc baggie consumption.

It also reminds me of our favorite things to snack on when we were kids. Especially during our latch-key years. That Lord of The Flies, anything goes, no parents around, 4:00pm to 6:00pm golden time when you really get to nosh on whatever you fancy. Some of our favorites were:

1. barbeque potato chips
2. Cheetos
3. brownies
4. nachos that we made by slicing block cheese and heating in the toaster oven on Tostidos
5. Oreos (especially Kathleen)
6. string cheese
7. Nacho Cheese Doritos
8. mini pizza rolls (I think that was only Donny)
9. Carl Buddig Turkey sandwiches (that really super thin papery kind)
10. white bread by itself (I liked to tear it in little strips like string cheese)

This was before high-fructose corn syrup was evil and when vegetarian (for Kathleen) just meant eating cheese and chips.

This site also has pewter saltine crackers that I got Donny for Christmas one year. Perfect pocket size. Now if they only made pewter mini pizza rolls.

Brownie Points. Bacon Badges.

Knowing my affinity for fake food, a friend sent me this link to this bacon patch from artist Lee Meszaros on Etsy.

It's part of her merit badge collection. This one is awarded to someone who, you guessed it, "brings home the bacon." And as a working mom/creative director, multi-tasking/multi-personality, busy-life/busy-body professional gal, I'm definitely bringin' it.



But in simpler times, I was a Brownie.





You have to be a Brownie when you're little (I was six here), before you become a Girl Scout. I think that's how it works? I wouldn't exactly know, since I was a Brownie for all of like one year and then my mom probably decided it was just more effort than it was worth. Piano lessons were more likely to benefit me in the long run, and required less... er, outfitting.

Because, man, was I all about the outfit. The beanie, the little snap tie, the sweet peter pan color, the brown striping, the zip-up jumper, the freakin little tassels that fold up under the top of the knee socks (my favorite part) and of course, the classic brown Hush Puppies.

The funny thing is, that I would wear this entire get-up to every single Brownie meeting. Whereas the other girls wore, oh, like a Brownie t-shirt and jeans. Maybe the striped blouse with kakhis. Definitely not the beanie. Or the sock tassels.

At the time I thought those other girls were just "too cool." But at the same time, while I perceived this, I was too little to be shamed into not wearing what I thought were awesome duds. It's like getting to wear a costume! Not even on Halloween! Hello?! But the conformity shame kicks in when your the ripe old age of seven. Hmm. About the time we quit Brownies. Maybe my mom was more perceptive than I give her credit for.

I did earn a few patches along the way. My own little merits. Probably for things like friendliness, honesty, helpfulness, sock flair. Soft stuff. 'Cause I don't remember learning any hard skills, you know, like building a fire with two sticks or tying awesome knots.

But if I had merit badges today? They'd probably be:



Tara Merits



Donny Merits

Donny was a Cub Scout for a brief stint as well. Long enough to build a little matchbox car. But he traded in his navy blues, his yellow neck kerchief and his Webelos beads for a black trenchcoat and Dungeons & Dragons at the age of eleven.



Kathleen Merits

Now, Kathleen's are easy to pick out. Miss healthy-fare/hiking-far. Miss still knows how to have a messy night out on the town. Miss invitation designer/inviting danger. And, no, she never wore a scout uniform even for the shortest amount of time. Why is no one surprised by this?

Pink. Popcorn. Pig.

Pink.



Popcorn.



Pig.

Here's to a rosy weekend.

For our family that means spending Saturday at our parents' house. There's sometimes donuts from the store, sometimes not... but always some sort of sweets (usually rice krispy treats or brownies). Kathleen and I devour at least two if not, er, four by the end of the day. It's not uncommon for our dad to barbeque (like he will be this weekend), and if there's a good afternoon matinee playing at the movie theatre, we're totally there.

Sundays are fine and all. But they always seem a little bittersweet and unsatisfying. Maybe it's because they touch Monday. Maybe because there's not enough structure... no beginning, middle or end, just sort of a long sprawl... this mish-mash of leisure and chores and lazing about.

But Saturday is just pure, untainted – happy.

Fake Food

So obviously I have a "thing." I decided to make a permanent page about it, since I'm basically, oh... eleven posts into this blog and I've already used about half a dozen photos of fake food. You can check it out here. I'm sure the plastic-fabric-wooden-paper cornucopia will only grow, so it seemed fitting to give my non-edibles a home.

Pizza House

Too hot to cook. That means it's pizza tonight.

Mmm. Wood. My favorite.

Plastic's good, too.

(I sort of have a thing for fake food.)

But my family will probably want Pizza House. It's a local establishment just down the block from my house. I live in one of those city neighborhoods that's all cute and historic until you turn the corner and disrupt a drug deal.

I would probably think Pizza House was a drug front, if their pizza wasn't so g-damned good.

All the Indian guys always shout out "ay! it's Pineapple Pizza!" when I walk in. Actually, that's what they call me and my sister. They think we're the same girl. And that girl is named Pinapple Pizza. It's because we both always order the same thing. That, and we both opt for carryout, while most of the domestic types around here (i.e. not drug dealers) have them deliver.

But I like to live on the edge. Not only do I do carry out. I walk there – sometimes in my pajamas (which I put on instantly upon entering my house at the end of the day). If I'm in my pajamas that means I'm also not wearing a bra. It's all part of my cover. People just think I'm one of the crazies. But the Pizza House guys just love me. They probably love Kathleen because she does wear a bra. However it's typically black and showing through her completely see-through threadbare white t-shirt.

I was actually feeling really guilty. Not for the bra-less thing (that is a freakin' family tradition passed down from my mother and from her mother). But for getting pizza.

And normally I would have no problem speed-dialing the Pizza House number, but my sister (my see-through-shirt bra-flaunting sister), just had me read In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan. Which basically made me feel like the dumbest lazy jerk in the world for not wanting to spend two hours in the kitchen every evening preparing wholesome fare and nourishing the bodies and souls of my children.

Maybe that's why I love fake food.

Or, better yet – food that's pretending to be other food.

This picture of the cake my mom made me for my twelfth birthday slumber party? It makes me happy. Pizza makes me happy. And looking at my hair in that picture – nourishes my soul.

Dad Lunch

My plastic hamburger. Doesn't everyone have one?

Today at 11:00am sharp I had lunch with my dad at Irma's Burger Shack.

"Eleven a.m.!" You exclaim. Why so early? Well, there is a very specific set of guidelines for having a perfect work-week-lunch with my dad.

"Dad Lunch" Best Practices:

1. Start early. Get in. Get your food. Don't get stuck waiting for your ticket when the real lunch rush hour hits.

2. Call ahead. Give dad a ring ten minutes before you're about to leave to come get him. That way he can almost perfectly time stepping out the glass doors as you pull up to the curb of his downtown government office building.

3. Order simply. Hope you don't get a waitperson who asks "do you want cheese with that?" or "what kind of dressing would you like?" He doesn't like to be asked too many questions. It make him very flustered and manically mumbly. Sometimes I think waitpeople think he's a bit Rain Man meets Ozzy Osbourne. They don't realize he's just playing it up.

4. Let him play it up. If he's in a really good mood he may announce to the staff as we walk through the door that we're the first customers of the day. Or that his favorite daughter is buying (he especially will do that if my sister, Kathleen, is with us).

5. Try not to get annoyed. Like by cheese or condiments sticking to his face. It's endearing. Whatever.

6. Tell him everything. Dad likes to hear about my life in this order: "what's new with the boys?" "what's new with work?" (my dad has a fantasy that he will retire and come work for my advertising agency as an "idea man" that just sits at a blank desk with a lightbulb and a chain that he pulls whenever he is struck by inspiration, and someone will scurry over with pen and notepad in hand and take down his brilliant concept) "have you heard from Donny lately?" and "what do you think about this thing Kathleen's doing?" The Kathleen thing could be trekking Everest or deciding to go gluten free.

7. Offer to pay. Because it makes him proud that his grown children can buy him lunch. But usually he pays because he likes to earn points on his Bass Pro Shop credit card. He's a good tipper, too. Usually by then the waitperson has caught on to the fact that he's not spazzy after all, but a really smart funny dad... with ketchup on his chin.