My mother was a premature health nazi during an era when it was believed that smoking cigarettes was good for you, fried chicken was the 6th food group, and Twinkies improved blood circulation.
Of course, I'm abundantly grateful to my wonderful mother for leading me down a path of healthy living. However, growing up in my house was like living in a vegan snack stand at Burning Man. We had no soda, no candy, no chocolate, no chips, no cookies, and no strawberry milk. It was all so painfully torturous that I eventually started selecting my childhood friends based on what kinds of snacks their mothers packed in the pantry.
(Special shout out to Mrs. Weisgal. Muchos gracias. Without you, I would have shown up at college like an Albanian farm boy: "What are these potato chip things that you speak of?")
The worst part of growing up in such a healthy environment was that we had a strict "No Butter" rule in the house. I guess I didn't mind so much because even if we were to ever have any, I'd only have been allowed to put it on whole wheat raisin bread.
However, I'll never forget spending a week in Paris (the city, not the vagina) when I was 10 years old and discovering what REAL butter tasted like. Not only did I immediately start eating sticks of butter but I also used it as a dip, a condiment, and a sauce. To say that it was a taste explosion is grossly understating it.
I immediately become a devout apostle in the belief that butter must have been created by the One True God who grows them on trees in the Elysian Fields.
Needless to say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
My daughter has taken to butter like a fish to water. I actually joke that her future autobiography will be subtitled "Butter is Better." She can't get enough of the stuff. A few weeks ago, I caught her pretending to put butter on some bread but instead shoveling it into her mouth with a knife like she was laying down landfill. I'd have reprimanded her but I was too impressed by her creativity and cunningness.
Today, the two of us went out to dinner together for a daddy-daughter dinner. Here's a photo of our weekly date.
This was her second plate of butter.
I told her that she'd eaten enough butter and that it was time for me to take it away. As I reached for the plate, she pulled it away and said, "Just gimme 5 more minutes, Daddy!"
I laughed so hard that butter started coming out of my nose.
My heart practically exploded into a million tiny pieces as I realized that this little 4.5 year-old midget has totally inherited my weird sense of humor. While I rely heavily on her mother to teach Peanut the important life skills like math, riding a bike, using a knife and checking the weather, it warms the cockles of my soul to know that my influence on this little girl is manifested by her sense of humor.
Because let's face it.
You can't teach funny.