I’ve known from a young age that jelly inside of a donut is not a good thing. The gooey filler substance makes the delicious donut messy and hard to eat. Not to mention it ruins the flavor of the donut.
When I was a preschooler and my little sister was just an immobile baby, I spent lots of mornings with my dad. I would eat breakfast while my dad made his lunch, then I would sit on his lap and chatter away at him as he ate his cereal. When he got near the bottom of his bowl, I would dig my little spoon in and finish the few stray cheerios. This was our happy weekday morning routine.
Weekends were different. Sometimes on Saturday mornings he had Bible study. Which, for me, meant no leftover cheerios. But, it also meant he would bring me a leftover donut.
This particular Saturday he brought me a new type of donut. This one didn’t have a hole in the middle, frosting, or pretty sprinkles. It had jelly in it. Bright red jelly. There was evidence of the jelly coming out of the side. After licking it, I decided I didn’t like it. I knew I still liked the donut part of it though.
So, I did what any bright three year old girl would have done: I jumped on it.
My reasoning made sense. The jelly donut was full, just like a whoopee cushion. When you apply pressure to a whoopee cushion, the air comes out. Applying pressure to a jelly donut should have the same result. Right? Only, it didn’t. My poor donut was completely squished, jelly and all. I was horrified. My donut didn’t do what I wanted it to do AND it was ruined AND it was mashed into the floor in a gigantic mess.
My dad wasn’t thrilled. Neither was my mom. And neither was I.
This just shows that three year old Andrea was just as picky, creative, and dramatic as twenty-three year old Andrea.
For the record, my dad never brought me another jelly donut and I’ve still yet to eat one.
When I was a preschooler and my little sister was just an immobile baby, I spent lots of mornings with my dad. I would eat breakfast while my dad made his lunch, then I would sit on his lap and chatter away at him as he ate his cereal. When he got near the bottom of his bowl, I would dig my little spoon in and finish the few stray cheerios. This was our happy weekday morning routine.
Weekends were different. Sometimes on Saturday mornings he had Bible study. Which, for me, meant no leftover cheerios. But, it also meant he would bring me a leftover donut.
This particular Saturday he brought me a new type of donut. This one didn’t have a hole in the middle, frosting, or pretty sprinkles. It had jelly in it. Bright red jelly. There was evidence of the jelly coming out of the side. After licking it, I decided I didn’t like it. I knew I still liked the donut part of it though.
So, I did what any bright three year old girl would have done: I jumped on it.
My reasoning made sense. The jelly donut was full, just like a whoopee cushion. When you apply pressure to a whoopee cushion, the air comes out. Applying pressure to a jelly donut should have the same result. Right? Only, it didn’t. My poor donut was completely squished, jelly and all. I was horrified. My donut didn’t do what I wanted it to do AND it was ruined AND it was mashed into the floor in a gigantic mess.
My dad wasn’t thrilled. Neither was my mom. And neither was I.
This just shows that three year old Andrea was just as picky, creative, and dramatic as twenty-three year old Andrea.
For the record, my dad never brought me another jelly donut and I’ve still yet to eat one.
No comments:
Post a Comment