“Can I have a marshmallow?” asked my daughter. Maybe I hadn’t had my coffee yet, I’m not sure. Or maybe I was in a hurry to get out the door. Whatever the case, I just couldn’t think straight, and I knew it. So I replied, “Ask your dad.”
“Can I have a marshmallow?”
“No way,” my husband answered logically.
“Why not? Mom lets me have marshmallows before school.”
“No, I don’t!” I yelled, “Don’t lie. He might believe you.”
For the record, I do NOT let my daughter have marshmallows for breakfast. Of course, there are cereals that come with marshmallow surprises sprinkled on their sugar-frosted oats. Luckily for me, my kid doesn’t like cereal, so I don’t have to ponder the question of whether a bowl of milk and marsh... er, ... cereal is truly a part of a nutritious breakfast.
When I was a kid I was only allowed to have sugar cereals if it was in the morning after a large slumber party in honor of my birthday. So once a year I got away with the crunch and followed my nose straight to a post-party-sugar-crash. This was very exciting. My mom made her own tofu. Not cooked it, MADE it ... from scratch. Clearly, this was not a household where Count Chocula and his ilk were welcome.
Thus, I was completely infatuated with highly processed junk food. The commercials, the packaging, the mystery of it all tantalized me. When I was 9 years old, I went to a friend’s house and was offered a Hostess Ho Ho. I recall the anticipation of tearing apart the silver wrapper and taking my first chocolate-swirly bite. It was kid heaven until about halfway through when I noticed a distinct chemical taste that I just couldn’t get past. Plus, I was starting to feel sick. The undeniable truth was that (gasp!) I hated Ho Hos.