Sunday, November 4, 2007

How Kentucky's Cake Crumbles

People are always asking "How is Kentucky?" (New to Kentucky? Read all about her here.) And I say "Oh you mean besides the triathlon she completed on Saturday, and the fact that she plays the organ in church, spanks in round-up basketball weekly and serves in the primary presidency, you mean besides all that? Well, I'd say she's . . .
she's . . . doing well."


(That is a puzzle.)

Why, we had dinner with MD, Kentucky and Phun this very evening. MD delicately grilled some very blackened chicken, Kentuck sauteed broccoli and made fresh rolls while Phun blessed it, (even though he succumbed, as all of us do at times, to "the fever" when our meal was early in it's stages. Poor little guy, he looked as bad as he felt. Not even Uncle Chuppy could cheer him up.)

I do love a good meal with MD and Kentucky. We discuss and discuss until we are disgusted. And for the record, Chup never argues in our game and that is because he is six years older than all of us and his maturity is such that he's progressed past our thinking levels. He is so very kind to sit and listen to the drivel that we produce. But for the record, Chup is also the only one of us who didn't take AP classes in high school. But in revealing this, please don't think less of my little Lambchup. I don't (well, at least not anymore.)

Anyway, one thing I didn't mention about Kentucky above is that she makes this delicious, crumbly, crumb cake. It came to me right out of the oven this evening. MD talked me into a dollop of caramel ice cream that melted ever-so-slightly on the cinnamon topping. And this is where things get weird: I took approximately two bites and suddenly my mouth was engaged in non-stop talking from that point on until we left hours later.

It had to have been the crumb cake that caused this blabbering dysfunction. I have no other solution. Certainly, I am not an incessant talker by nature. Not me! Said I! And yet, I acted as though the sound of my own voice stimulated my breathing, perhaps that if I were to have stopped talking, my heart would've stopped beating. (Or should I have ended that sentence with a question mark?)

And then, then, then just when I began to panic, it happened! The very terrible, blasphemous occurred. My talk function was so on overdrive (and was getting louder) that I actually interupted Chup mid-story and . . . and . . . FINISHED THE STORY MYSELF!!!

Oh crumble crap! I exclaimed to myself. Who am I? Where am I going? Chup and I had spent countless hours covenanting not to ever commit such a gruesomely annoying couple crime. Here I was almost six years into our marriage and I go and brake the Anti-Interrupting Tendency Code III.

Not even Guitar Hero 3 could shut my trap (though I did play it like a Hero . . . on EASY anyway.) The massetar motor didn't stop running--I could easily see Kentucky's eyes start to droop along with her head bopping in an attempt to STAY AWAKE!--until we had stayed for three hours too long.

On the ride home I asked Chup if he noticed my audibly allergic reaction to the crumble cake. "I didn't notice anything different."

This answer troubles me because it means one of three things: I always talk that much in the presence of MD and Kentucky, two, I now have a husband who can easily (and wisely) tune out his overly-talkative wife, or three he doesn't know a socially dire emergency when he sees one.

Anyway, I am blaming Kentucky. And her crumb cake.

But if you want, you can send Kentucky your congratulations on her Success to Thrive in my comments. If she's not too busy thriving, she might have time to read it. And her lucky number is 32. So is mine. But who cares?