Butter

I love butter. So does my grandmother. So does my brother. So does my dad. My husband? Not so much. Now, he's no butter hater, but in his world it appears to be some sort of accent flavor, as opposed to the main show. Or to put it another way: in my family, bread is largely a vehicle for butter (my paternal grandfather even ate pats of it on crackers!). Vogelman! once turned to me after watching Robert sparingly butter toast and said "It's painful to watch him butter toast, the way he's so stingy and scrapes at the bread!" (or something to that effect).

Zion hasn't shown any real feelings for or against butter, but Liel loves it. When we eat in restaurants that bring a bread basket she spends her time squeezing butter out of whatever container it arrives in- usually straight into her mouth. Eventually we realize why she's being so quiet and move the butter away from her. Then she starts trying to slip a little butter in on the sly. I wouldn't mind so much, but she makes a huge mess and I don't want her wrecking her clothes with butter stains (how's that for lame? Man, never thought I'd see the day I was so worried about laundry. Next thing you know I'll be shilling for some ring-around-the-collar treatment and crowing about how much better it's made my life. And I don't even have ring-around-the-collar).

I was sharing this little personality quirk of Liel's with some mama friends today, and one of them reported that she caught her son dipping his breakfast sausage in butter as if he were eating fries and ketchup. Robert was repulsed when I told him about it- I was intrigued. In college I knew a girl who's aunt used to sometimes share a special snack with her: a stick of butter dipped in white sugar.

Cause there's no wrong way to eat butter.

(This post is dedicated to Becka, who I love despite the fact that she hates butter even more than Robert does.)