My husband and kids love hot pretzels. In fact, they keep a bucket of frozen ones in the outside freezer for heating up at a moment’s notice.  Afterschool snacks, unhealthy dinner-in-a-pinch, weirdo breakfast.  You name the occasion; they’ll eat the hot pretzels for it.

Me? Thanks for asking, but no, I don’t like hot pretzels.  Shockingly enough, there is a carbo load I WON’T eat, and its name is Hot Pretzel.  They remind me too much of a cold, overcast day in New York City.  It’s freezing and my shoes are too tight.  Too much of a naked glimpse into my psyche?  Naw, not a’tall!  But besides all that, I always wish they tasted better.  With salt.  Without salt.  Mustard.  Cinnamon sugar.  Nope, nope, nope, nope.  Blaach!  So I don’t eat them.  Ever.  Because really, what’s the point of eating something you don’t…quite…like, especially if they make you feel like your shoes are too tight!?  Also now – after Sissy’s recent incident with them – it’s a definite no, absofrickinlutely not.

You see, Sonny was cooking some hot pretzels in the toaster oven after school the other day. Sissy wanted some too, but first she had to remove Sonny’s cooked ones.  However, what’s a girl to do when the burning hot pretzel she’s trying to barely touch and mostly flick from the toaster and onto the counter, instead starts falling to the floor?  Why she should wear her shorty shorts, naturally.  Then, using the amazing hand, eye, leg coordination of a three-sport highschool athlete, she should catch the hot pretzel on her bare thigh.  And tightly clutch the pretzel with the other bare thigh, effectively sandwiching the upper loop (above the twist) between her legs to keep the whole thing off the ground.  Finally, when the second-degree hot pretzel burn causes an involuntary unclenching of the thighs, the whole plan fails miserably and the pretzel falls anyway.

It’s her subsequent open mouth wailing that brings me into the kitchen to see what’s going on. Sonny is picking up a hot pretzel from the floor.  He calmly dusts it off on his pants and starts eating it while we both gaze confusedly at Sissy who is crying loudly while simultaneously demonstrating some sort of complicated running-in-place drill.  Her inner thighs look like she just got kicked by a tiny horse who took exception to its tail braid, or possibly like she’s been bitten on both legs by a leprechaun wearing a worn out mouth guard.

Thus another life lesson has been learned in our house. Let the hot pretzel fall.  Always let the hot pretzel fall.  Especially if you’re wearing your shorty shorts.  Better yet, make your brother take his own bleepin’ hot pretzels out of the toaster oven.

I bet YOU don’t like hot pretzels now, do you? They remind you too much of the smell of burnt human flesh, don’t they!?  You’re welcome.  You didn’t need the calories anyway.