Now it's not often I post about my MILs. The 's' is not a typo. I have two of them. You'd think that would makes it a little easier telling MIL tales. No-one would know which MIL I'm talking about, right?
Wrong. The MIL would know. And I can't be having that.
And they both read my blog.
Lucky for them (and me) - I like my MILs. A lot.
Sunday brunch over at the Grandparents' 'ranch' has become a highlight of the week for the boys (for Daddy and Momma) also.
I say ranch cos there are chickens, and a peacock, and bees, and a BIG white
What little boy can resist a tractor? And seeing as though we've got two of em' there ain't no better place for us to be on a Sunday morning!
'Don't call me Granny' Granny whips up a scrumptious brekkie for the troops. Anybody who knows BB knows that I'm not just saying that. It didn't take long for Momma to figure out the top place in Texas for filling my face - BB's kitchen!
So this morning I'm hovering around the stove - where the magic happens - and my MIL suddenly has an 'Oh, crap!' look on her face..
"What, what's wrong..?" I ask?
"Oh - nothing." she thinks better of sharing it
"No, go on..." I encourage. Never one to let sleeping dogs lie...
"Oh, it's just a different bread - I was worried the kids might not like it"
Of course I felt the need to reassure BB and eliminate her worry. After all, she was preparing a breakfast of champions for my tribe. Thanks to her I wouldn't have to feed the kids for the rest of the day!
"Oh - no worries. They eat whole wheat and stuff with seeds and nuts in it - I'm sure they're going to love it." I gushed. I wasn't sure of anything. But positive thinking never hurt anyone.
A little while later we all sat down around the table and got tucked in. The boys loved their French toast. The bread hadn't phased them one bit.
When it was my turn to get stuck in, I heaped two large slices of French toast and two sausages onto my plate and drizzled syrup over the top. My mouth was watering from anticipation. Boy, do I love my food!
And it tasted delicious. I'd finished my first piece of toast before I commented that the bread was full of flavor.
BB mentioned there was cinnamon.
With a mouth full of toast - I tried to figure out what the other flavor was.
"I can taste something else.....?" I queried.
That's when BB looked at me a little sheepishly.
"There are raisins in it."
She knows I hate my raisins. She hadn't done it on purpose. She'd just forgotten, hence the 'Oh, crap!' expression I'd caught earlier.
It's true. I hate raisins, and sultanas, or dates or prunes. In fact I can't stand any dried fruit. It's the devil.. And it makes me gag.
But I'd already polished my first piece off AND I'd loved it - hadn't I? I hadn't even tasted the raisins. But now I could.
It took all my will power to suppress the shudder - yes, I have a raisin shudder. It's like my tequila shudder. I think they're the only consumables on the planet that have the power to do that to me.
Again, the need to reassure BB was overwhelming.
My folks taught me well. I'll go to the ends of the earth to show my gratitude - even if what I'm grateful for is really not all that 'great'. But this was great. The kids were shoveling it in - as was Daddy. As was I before I'd found out what was in it...
I started rambling. Some crap or other about it being the texture I had a problem with - not the flavor. And somehow I moved onto my Mum's Christmas cake and how much I love the cake batter - because it's flavored with all that fruit (nothing to do with the liquor and sugar).. but that I hate it once it's cooked.. and blah blah blah.
I guess I was trying to dig myself out of a hole - and I thought I'd done a pretty good job of it with my Christmas cake story. Surely that had sealed the deal and no one could possibly question my enjoying BB's delicious raisin-filled French toast...
But now Daddy's words are making me cringe.
"You talk too much. I mean your Christmas cake story - what was that? It was embarrassing." He was only teasing me, but I'm squirming with embarrassment none the less.
What's he doing telling his over sensitive wife such a thing? He's since back-tracked a little, assuring me that no one else but him would have thought anything of it.
Anyway - back to breakfast. I still had one huge slice of raisin-filled French toast sitting on my plate waiting for me. I did a fine job of putting that baby away - my own Mum would have been proud. But the truth had given my taste-buds special powers, and I tasted every single raisin in there.
Maybe I'll be a bit more understanding in future when my three year old is kicking up a stink about peas in his mac n cheese!
BB - if you're reading this, I don't think there's any one else on the planet that could get Momma to knowingly eat a raisin. And that is saying something.
I should probably stop talking now.