Kidlet made some Cheesy Fries. She loves the deep fryer. I’m having some with her, and we’re discussing the excellent quality of her cheesy fries. “These are good,” I say.
“No, they’re great!” she corrects me.
“They’re very good, but my fries are very good, too.”
“They’re pretty good,” she again corrects me.
“What? What? Pretty good?!”
“Yeah, compared to mine. They’re pretty good. I am the Cheesy Fry Queen.”
Now, in all fairness, she didn’t just make this title up. It has been bestowed upon her by the family, because the kid makes some damn good Cheesy Fries. But still. “My fries are very good!” I insisted.
“Yours are good, but mine are GODLY,” she asserts.
“What?”
“Eating my Cheesy Fries is a Godly Experience.”
“Bailey, eating your Cheesy Fries is NOT a religious expreience! They’re good, but it’s NOT a religous experience.”
“You mock me, Mom. You’re mocking my beliefs.”
“What the fuck?? Are you trying to tell me you’re a member of the Cheesy Fry religion?” Uh, Flying Spagetti Monster better watch out.
“I am,” she explains matter-of-factly. “I pray to the Cheesy Fry God. He’s a giant spiral fry, with cheese hair and a little sour cream hat.”
Oh, I get it now. “You’re insane.”
“You have no room to talk, Mom. You say weirder shit than that all the time. You can’t call me insane! You have the Mac and Cheese parade around the kitchen, you talk to your food. You can’t call me weird. You’re much weirder than I am.”
I laugh, and remember how little sympathy I garnered from friends and family when I bitched about her beign such a smartass. The response was always the same. “Geeeeeee. Where do you think she got that, Dixie?”
Yeah. So all hail the Cheesy Fry God.
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