How Far Is Too Far?

I suspect there are times when I become a little obsessive compulsive.

My guess would be that I get that from my dad. There was the summer he made a cheesecake every single day, with varying levels of catastrophe. One that sticks out was the Chocolate Cheesecake Incident. He crushed up an entire box of oreos to make the crust, despite our protests. (By this time we were all sick of cheesecake and not happy about sacrificing our afternoon snack to the cause.) He spent most of the morning sifting and stirring, and when this thing came out of the oven it was beautiful. Cooked to perfection, the succelent aroma of melted chocolate and toasted oreos wafted through the air of the parsonage, beckoning for us to try a bite. Dad sliced the cake and placed before us a heaping serving of chocolate colored ecstasy.

And then we tasted it.

My brother could always make the best faces. If your average Joe’s picture is worth a thousand words, then little Jonjon should get at least 100,000. This occasion was no different. His face twisted between pure agony and aggravated disappointment.

Dad had forgotten to put in the sugar, you see.

I don’t remember him ever making another cheesecake, though there were other forays into the kitchen. The Bran Muffin Spring and Winter o’Omelets come to mind.

My current obsession isn’t as grand as any of those. I’ve been trying to get more whole grains into our diet, which has led to making bread at home since there is a dearth of variety here, and also opting to eat at home more. When I found myself adding oatmeal to the kids blueberry pancakes just now though, I sensed I’ve gone too far.


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