Stuck a Feather in His Cap and Called it 'Macaroni'.

Macaroni was a popular eighteenth century hat that was very expensive. The proverbial Yankee Doodle, then, was wearing an improvised hat and something of a cobbled job. . . .

Which is the topic of today's blog. It is all about a pot of macaroni, but it caricatures my family life so well that I shall have to share it!

It began when my sister asked me to go with her to get a bottle of milk. Although I was quite contented in working out a horridly difficult heraldic blazon on my computer, I agreed to go with her. Now, the reason that she could not go alone, in spite of having a drivers license, is because father strictly forbade her from going anywhere and inviting any but a very few friends over while he and my mother were away at the Seahawks game. By dragging me along (I had been given the responsibility that she didn't do anything forbidden), she would have a witness to prove that she did not just hop in the car to go visit her boyfriend.

Unfortunately for her, my parents had taken my father's van, and our mother's honda pilot is normally off-limits without specific permission. So we left a message on Dadi's cell phone explaining that we needed to get milk and couldn't we use mother's car? In the mean time, I took Kikers on a short walk to save her the disappoinment of not getting a ride in the car ("in that dress!?" quoth Dubi, whose idea of a mini-dress includes full-length leggings on windy days, even if the material hangs heavily and almost covers the knee; she has no such scruples about bared midriffs or low necklines).

I heard nothing more of the matter until I overheard my sister complaining over the phone to her friend about her horrible lunch, which she described as 'Macaroni Soup'. Apparently, my father called back and told her frantically that she was not by any means permitted to use Mima's car, so she decided (silly girl!) to replace the milk with extra butter. . . .
Apparently, one cannot taste the cheese. . . .

But the best is yet to come, for by the time my parents had come home, my sister had managed to cook most of the water from the 'soup', so that it looked, at least, like real macaroni (for it smelled as well as tasted only of butter). So my father, much to Mima's chagrin, decided that there must be some way for us to eat it all. We finally thought to put the stuff on bread and toast, a sort of grim and mortifying spread. It makes me laugh, how Dadi can be so puritanical about things like that, even though, as Mima says, it isn't really very healthy, apart from the calcium. Still, it's got more nutrients in it than the butter one would normally use on bread -- and more of Mr. Pollan's 'anti-nutrients', as well, I would be willing to wager. :7

Footnote: I have long since used diary nicknames for the people closest to me. Dadi is my father; Mima, my mother; Dubi, my sixteen-year-old crazy sister (a sopho-more, indeed!); and Kiki or Kikers my little dog, Kashi.