Posted by katie ett on April 9, 2012 – 12:00 pm
My best friend, Tracey called me up on Friday and mentioned her trip to Ohio chocolatier Anthony-Thomas to buy her family’s traditional Easter candy. They don’t celebrate the resurrection of Jesus but sure appreciate the Melt-A-Way Mints God created on the 3rd day.
That got us talking about Easter candy and how we should import Cadbury Creme Eggs from overseas since they got smaller over here a few years ago, and I brought up an even larger egg I remember from my childhood. It was like the Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg
except huge. Huge! Big enough to last me for weeks, while my little sister gobbled hers down before the Easter ham even got cold and then watched me enviously from across our shared bedroom as I allowed myself mere tastes of mine per day.
Tracey said, “Oh, you mean the one from Anthony-Thomas with your name written on it in icing?”
!!!
It turns out that the year my mom was dying, my dad asked Tracey’s mom to buy the usual giant peanut butter egg for my sister and me to take one thing off his plate; apparently she actually brings it up from time to time on Easter as one of the Ett family traditions. Here I’ve been digging around my brain for the past 10 years, trying to remember where that thing could’ve come from, and my best friend could’ve told me at any time.
And get this–when I Amazoned for the Anthony-Thomas egg, I instead found this other giant peanut butter egg
, which serendipitously already has my name written on it.
There’s no such thing as coincidence.
Posted by katie ett on April 6, 2012 – 12:00 pm
I still really do love your children, though, blogfriends. (Especially this one, which belongs to Cassie.) And if you died and left them to me, I would hire the finest nannies for them while I continued to whore myself around town as usual.
Posted by katie ett on April 5, 2012 – 12:00 pm
This morning on my way to work, I saw a man eating a poppyseed bagel on the subway.
Good story, right?
No, but the interesting part was that he was eating it like a sandwich. A cream cheese sandwich. And when I approached Nik, my co-worker who regularly tempts me with bagels on Fridays, he said, “Uh, yeah, how else would you eat it?” My other co-worker (and roommate) Jack also acted like it would actually be weird to eat the halves separately.
But that’s what I’ve done my entire life! You buy the bagel whole with a slit down the center, you toast the halves, you cream cheese them, and you eat them one at a time. Sure, the top half of the bagel has all of the flavoring and the bottom half is just bread, but that’s why you eat the bottom half first! Just because the bagel cart man or your local Tim Hortons squishes the halves back together when they hand them over doesn’t mean they’re meant to be eaten that way.
But now I really, really want to eat them that way, with the cream cheese oozing between my fingers with each bite. Baaaaaaaaageeeeeeeeel.
salt bagel with pumpkin cream cheese from Bricktown Bagel in Queens
Posted by katie ett on April 4, 2012 – 12:00 pm
You know how there are those blogs you keep reading and commenting on because, you know, they read and comment on yours? Like, it’s a relationship blog and you can’t imagine how they get anyone to sleep with them, or it’s a fashion blog and all of their clothes are out of the bad part of the 80s, or it’s a humor blog and all of their jokes are about PMS. And you’re like, “OMG, how can you not realize that your blog is so much worse than everyone else’s? How can you read other blogs and not think, ‘I’m doing it wrong’?”
What if you (meaning I) are that blog for other people?
Posted by katie ett on April 3, 2012 – 12:00 pm
My grandmother joined Facebook just before Christmas. She didn’t (and still doesn’t) have a profile picture chosen, so while she was nosing around the chip bowl on Christmas Eve with my dad and uncle, I started threatening to take one of her eating and post it for all the world to see like so many Michele Bachmanns and James Gandolfinis before her:
She wouldn’t let me get close, so my uncle helped me with the sneak attack. Knowing that a woman in an embroidered Christmas sweater can’t resist the charms of her youngest son, he made a little small talk with her while I pretended to fidget with my settings . . .
. . . and then POW!, something even more embarrassing than an eating picture:
But I still got one of those, too, just in case:
I will not post these to Facebook.
I will not post these to Facebook.
I will not post these to Facebook.
I’ll probably post these to Facebook.
