Good Housekeeping

Ricky Anderson (@Arthur2Sheds) and Joseph Craven (@thejosephcraven) came up with Sudden Writing Challenge and I blindly accepted. My contribution is below. My first attempt at fiction since high school. Gulp.

We were given 48 hours and had to include three elements

     1. A rooftop
     2. A custodian named Glenn
     3. The line “Well, that’s not how I would have planned it.”

Go here http://www.rickyanderson.net/p/the-caper-challenge.html to read the details and also to check out the other participants.

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“I hope I can get the lock to turn, Jen said it sticks sometimes, would you come with me?” Alice asked her husband, Gary.

“You’re the one who agreed to watch their house, text me if you have a problem, I’m just getting ready to go play squash with Brad,” he replied.

“Fine, you’ll probably hear from me in two minutes!’ said Alice as she ducked out the front door. She jogged the short distance three houses down the street and up the path to her neighbour’s house. With just a little jimmying, the deadbolt clicked. Alice scooped the mail out of the box and went inside.

As she sauntered to the kitchen, she glanced briefly at each piece of mail to make sure it was for Jen and Tom Watson. After depositing it on the table she went to check the house plants. They were all on the kitchen counter, just like Jen had said. That way none would get overlooked. Alice was to take in the mail, keep the plants alive and check the basement for water if they had a large rainfall while the couple was away for two weeks on a camping trip.

Since this was only the first day, Alice only needed a minute to complete all the tasks. It hadn’t rained at all the night before, but Alice convinced herself it would be a good idea to check the basement, just to get a baseline. Before today, she had only been in the kitchen for a coffee when Jen and Tom had first moved in three months earlier.

Nothing but some boxes and an old treadmill were in the unfinished basement, so Alice returned to the main floor. She took her time leaving, pausing to peer at the pictures on the wall, peeking into the powder room to make sure no one was lurking behind the door. It was as she turned around to retrieve her shoes that she noticed the carpet. The plush, luxurious carpet that covered the living room all the way to the stairs.

The carpet had been vacuumed. Alice couldn’t help but notice that the lines from the recent cleaning were very exact, very precise. She also noticed that Jen or Tom had vacuumed their way out of the room. Not one footprint could be seen.

Odd. Alice thought. They must have cleaned the carpet right before they left. I guess they wanted to leave me with a good impression. She also thought, a tad unkindly, that Glenn, the custodian at her office, could take a few lessons on thorough cleaning from the Watsons.

She locked the house and returned to her own home. She sifted through the junk mail that had been left on their porch, but couldn’t stop thinking about the carpet lines.

I wonder if they just didn’t want me nosing around? Seems rather untrusting. After all, they asked me to watch the house.

Later that evening she mentioned her observations to Gary.

“I mean, what’s the big secret? I understand wanting to come home to a tidy house, but why vacuum your way out? Don’t they trust me? What could I possibly see or do? Why would they be so suspicious?”

“Maybe they are in Witness Protection? I don’t know. You are reading way too much into a clean carpet. Seriously, let it go.” Gary said and went back to watching his show on TV.

Alice couldn’t let it go. All kinds of scenarios went through her mind, mostly ones involving illegal activities. She just had to know and decided that tomorrow she would leap gazelle-like over the carpet, take a look upstairs, assess the situation, then slowly smooth out her footprints as she backed out of the house. Easy.

The next day she put her plan into action and she made it incident-free to the home office. She was slightly disappointed to note that they appeared to be law-abiding citizens who appreciated good housekeeping. Just as she leaned forward to get a better look at the postcard tacked to the bulletin board, her arm grazed a half-empty glass of water, splashing some of the contents onto the desk. Thankfully, she caught the spill before it reached anything and wiped it up with the sleeve of her hoodie. Relieved that she hadn’t damaged anything, and feeling a little sheepish about her previous suspicions, she turned to begin her retreat. It was then that she knocked over the pile of invoices that sat on the edge of the desk.

Panic. Absolute panic filled Alice. Followed by dread, exasperation, and then more panic. There was no way to know what system had been used to stack those papers originally. Foiled by her own curiosity and overly active imagination, Alice sat at the top of the staircase to regain her composure.

She contemplated all kinds of ways to explain the overturned pile.

I thought I heard something upstairs and saw that a window had been left open and the wind blew the stack over. No, that wasn’t possible since the office had no functioning window.

I could tell them that our dog followed me in and dashed upstairs and went right for the papers. Not bad, except we don’t have a dog. I wonder if anyone would let me borrow their dog for a short time, just for authenticity.

I had a sudden washroom emergency and I only use toilets on the second floor.

I went upstairs to leave mints on your pillows as a Welcome Home gesture. I just forgot the mints.

I couldn’t remember how to spell ‘sabbatical’ and went to find a dictionary. 

There was a crazy raccoon infestation in the neighbourhood and I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any critters trying to make a nest on your roof. They are crafty.

Alice finally realized that there was no plausible explanation for the toppled papers and her footprints, although the rooftop raccoons might work if she could persuade Gary to back up her story. She couldn’t, he wouldn’t. She had to admit defeat.

So as any grown woman who might be caught snooping in her neighbour’s house would do, Alice carefully straightened the papers as best she could, slowly retraced her footprints, then brushed them out with her hand and vowed to stick to the list of things Jen had asked her to do: mail, plants, basement if it rains.

For the next twelve days, Alice sat that house like she had never sat a house before. She could have been nominated “House Sitter of the Year” she did such a good and nonintrusive job. She even started to forget about the overturned papers.

Eventually, the two weeks ended and Tom stopped by to retrieve their house key. Alice debated confessing everything then and there, but at the last minute, decided she would take her chances and pretend nothing had happened.

One day passed and nothing was said. In fact, Alice got a friendly wave as Jen drove off to the store that afternoon. Alice began to think she was in the clear. Everything was fine, she had fretted and plotted for nothing.

Two days passed and Alice was overcome with relief that her moment of crazy was her own little secret. She was feeling even a little bit smug as she gathered up the flyers from the front step and discovered an envelope with her name on it. Alice excitedly opened it to discover a note and a gift card from the Watsons:

Thank you so much for keeping an eye on things while we were away. 

And thanks for tidying up the office. I hope you enjoyed your self-guided tour. It’s not how I would have planned it, but clearly you felt comfortable in our home.

Sincerely,

Jen

   

I Can Be Your Hero, Baby

I’m currently sporting bruises and scrapes in numerous places all over my body: arms, shins, wrists, bum. You will not believe how I got them.

I'll spare you the picture of the bruise on my behind.
I’ll spare you the picture of the bruise on my behind.

The boys and I were playing at the park the other day. It was gorgeous weather,  just the perfect temperature to be outside. We’d brought snacks along and intended to make the most of the morning. Suddenly, out of nowhere comes this little boy we’ve never seen before on one of those battery-operated Jeeps for lazy kids.

“It won’t stop! Make it stop” he screamed.

A good deal farther back was his very pregnant mom who was doing her best to catch him, but the odds were not in her favour.

My instincts kicked in immediately and I swiftly dismounted from the monkey bars, quite smoothly except for grazing my left forearm against the support railing. I didn’t feel a thing because when you’re being a hero, you ignore all pain. I hurdled over the springy airplane riding feature, banging my shin in the process. I dashed to the pathway and the run-away motorist.

Have you ever tried to stop one of those mini-Jeeps? Neither had I. He was moving at a good clip, but I caught up and was running alongside him.

“Press the brake! The brake!” I shouted.

“I AM, it’s not working!”

I grabbed the back to make it slow down, but that kid clearly had cruise control locked on “fast”. He was heading towards a hill which could have been advantageous except it was on a decline. With little time to think, I did what any hero would do: I jumped in front and stopped that Jeep with my own body.

Everyone at the park dashed over, clapping and cheering. Eventually his mom caught up to us and through tears of relief thanked me for intervening.

It was unbelievable. And I have the bruises to prove it. Unbelievable I tell you.

Unreal.

Like out of a made-for -TV movie.

Alright, alright. I wish I had an amazing story to explain all my recent injuries, but sadly, I do not.

Are you ready for the real story?

We were biking down the street and out of nowhere a baby stroller came careening down a driveway. I jumped off my bike, remembering to put the kickstand down first, and bolted —-

Alright, that’s not what happened, either.

Fine, the truth. I was washing the front windows and heard a cat meowing plaintively across the street on the neighbour’s roof. A vicious, probably rabid, racoon had it cornered. I threw down my washcloths and sprinted over, dodging several cars on my way —

Ok, Ok.

We were playing Smurf Tag at the park and I slipped on the mulch, scraping my shin in the process (couldn’t shave for three days while it healed).

The bruise on my bum and the scrape on my right arm were due to falling off a stationary scooter. I wasn’t even moving.

Finally, we were playing Canadian Ninja Warrior Tag at a different park and as I tried to elude Bearded Husband (the boys were playing, too, settle down) I slipped on the wooden railing, banging my left forearm, right shin (again) and the back of my right knee.

Nothing glamourous about those injuries, but I did live to tell the tale.

————–

Best injury story you’ve got – let’s hear it.

*If you’d like to read a true and entertaining injury story, check this post “Told You So” by Amanda over at http://www.mandiemarie.com – I like to call it “Line Drive of Doom”.

The Day Ricky Called

This adventure began with a simple tweet from a nice guy encouraging the sale of his friend’s new book:

photo

Obviously, I could not pass up this opportunity to hear from a Twitter friend in real-life.

photo-1

July rolled into August and I finally remembered to have my credit card handy when I was at the laptop while the boys were distracted by “Wild Kratts” or “Shawn the Sheep” or something. I ordered the book, now it was time to collect my song.

photo-2

Tweets and emails were exchanged and Ricky had my number. I tried out a few apps to see if I could record the phone call, strictly for posterity’s sake, but realized I would not remember all the necessary steps and thought I’d just record it with the camera or Bearded Husband’s phone. Blackmail Posterity is overrated anyways.

All I had to do was wait.

Friday night BH and I were having date night at home (a little thing we started to spend more — never mind, you came here to read about the day Ricky called, not date night). I turned to BH as we sat on the couch.

I said, “I might get a call from Ricky.”

He heard: “Do you wanna have a quickie?”

Later, when I stopped laughing, I got an email that Ricky would call the next day. He wrote something in Spanish, which I don’t speak (I’m Canadian, we speak English and sometimes French), so when I read “Mañana” I thought he had changed the song to that one by the Muppets. Equally good in my opinion.

Saturday. Phone call day.

Easy, Jan, a watched phone never rings.

I convinced myself that I just needed to make sure my phone was charged and the call would happen when it happened.

Dinnertime arrived. I had five boys to feed on the patio (Neighbour Kid was spending the afternoon with us) and BH was hiding somewhere in the house. We had just recovered from a milk spill and an over application of soya sauce. We thought the toddler was stockpiling basmati rice in his romper then realized it wasn’t rice shaking out of his pant leg, but rather an exploded diaper. Curse you, non-toileting child.

Here's how my day was going.
Not bad, how was your afternoon?

The phone rang and I knew, I just KNEW without even looking at the display, that the time had come. Ricky was calling. I threatened all the blood related boys with no dessert (this I accomplished with simply a dirty look) and politely said, “THIS IS MY CALL. SIT DOWN AND STOP MAKING FART NOISES, but not you, Neighbour Kid, you’re the good one.”

It was my most Lucille Ball-like moment to date. I dashed for the door to get the camera, furtively looked at my phone, weighed the pros and cons of trying to archive this moment. Decided to just play it cool and answer it. I swiped the phone screen. And swiped again. And swiped AGAIN. IT’S GOING TO GO TO VOICEMAIL!  Steady, steady, sweaty hands will do that.

This call was even more exciting than the time I spoke with Santa. SANTA.
This call was even more exciting than the time I spoke with Santa. SANTA.

“Hello?” I purred.

“Hi, is this Jan?” said a friendly voice.

“Yes, it is.” I replied (I doubt he heard my nervous giggle).

And then I heard the most beautiful rendition of “Friends in Low Places” that I will ever hear. It was like an angel singing about beer and whiskey directly from the pearly gates. And Ricky wasn’t chintzy. He sang the entire song. Be still my heart. I thought I’d see him swoop in from a zip line directly into our backyard, for real.

We all clapped and cheered (okay, mostly me and the toddler). And Neighbour Kid asked me, “was that a real person?” I know, bud, I know. How could such melodic tones be from a mere human?

I thanked Ricky for the call and reassured him that I did not record it. I’m sad about that, but maybe some things are better when they live on in your memory.

Immediately after I hung up, BH reappeared.

I said, “I just got my call from Ricky!”

And I didn’t care what BH thought he heard. I got my call. And my song.

—————-

You can find the funny and poignant Ricky Anderson at http://www.rickyanderson.net or follow him on Twitter @Arthur2Sheds. To learn more about Rob Shepherd and his book, just go to http://www.robshep.com  and follow him on Twitter, too @robshep.

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Your turn – are you a peanut or plain M&Ms person? Bo or Luke Duke? Coke or Pepsi?

Camp Rules!

Camp counsellor in training.
Camp counsellor in training.

Trying to decide if a summer day camp is for your child? Debate no longer! The answer is “yes”.

Day camp is a great opportunity for friends and strangers to gather together for a week or more to explore a common interest. Lego, sports, nature, faith, games and crafts – there’s a camp for you!

Concerned about the qualifications of the camp leaders? Not to worry! Camp counsellors are born with special DNA programmed for this very role.  Most CCs come out of the womb chanting, “Peel bananas, peel peel bananas.” As toddlers, you frequently here mini CCs telling their playmates to “Stop, Look and Listen” – any kid who doesn’t reply with a speedy, “oh, yeah!” is stricken from future play date lists.

Still not sure? Maybe you’re worried that there won’t be enough structure and rules. Or maybe too many rules. Nope, not at camp. There is just the right balance of routines and freedom. Okay, there are a few rules, but they are important (and universal).

Camp Rules

Stick with your crew.

Follow the leader.

Keep it peanut-free.

Wear sunscreen.

Grates are not for jumping on.

Stay with your crew.

Don’t lick other campers.

STAY WITH YOUR CREW.

Socks stay on your feet.

Wait.

STAY. WITH. YOUR. CREW.

Camp is a rite of passage – whether as a camper or a leader. You start learning life’s lessons at camp. Look out for your group. Travel with a buddy. Ask for help when you need it. Take turns. And always stay with your crew.

Queen for a Day

This week I had the privilege of co-leading the story telling station for the week at Vacation Bible School. My partner felt I should be the one to take on the role of Esther. She said it was because I had done this station last year, but really, I think she sensed the royalty bubbling up inside me. That, or she recalled that I am the sole female in a house of 5 males and thought I deserved some dress-up time as a girl for once. Either way, it was a win.

It's okay to be a little jealous of my Esther costume.
It’s okay to be a little jealous of my Esther costume.

After playing Esther five times in row for the morning, I felt I really had a handle on this Queen. Then I got home and the differences between her highness and myself became quite stark.

Esther is touted as a brave and godly woman. I am not disputing that. She really stepped up when it came time to save her people and all that, to the point of possible death. But ASIDE from that, she had it quite easy. Before all the bravery and whatnot, her life was pretty cushy.

Let me paint you a picture.

For a year, one WHOLE year, she received beauty treatments. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred sixty-five days of pampering. I’m guessing no one pounded on the door while she plucked her eyebrows – nope, because someone did that for her. She probably remembered to put mascara on both eyes since there was no preschooler digging around her make-up bag and applying excessive eye shadow on himself. Probably.

If you read the book of Esther, you’ll see that she also had special meals prepared for her for a WHOLE year. That’s about 1095 meals she had that were not leftover Kraft Dinner. Or brown apples from morning snack. Or Goldfish crackers (okay, if I was Queen, I’d still eat those, they’re delicious).

Esther also had seven attendants at her disposal. This is in addition to the free spa treatments and all-inclusive meals. Vacuuming? No, my attendant will look after the rugs. Laundry? Nope, another servant takes care of that, thanks. Run out of toilet paper? Got it covered. Chances are, Esther had people laying her clothes out for her and helping her change. I’d settle for getting dressed without discovering the toddler is using my bra as a helmet or the 6 year old commenting on the size of my underwear.

Do I wish that I were Esther? No, not really. I can’t say I like the odds she faced of being killed to save herself and her people. But I wouldn’t mind being more like her: brave, wise, respectful, and humble. And a working lock on the bathroom door wouldn’t hurt either.

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Thanks to Carolyn Marles for the picture. I can’t seem to shake the paparazzi. 

Robotic Teacher Agents – Guest Post by Ricky Anderson

Today is a BIG DEAL.

My first guest blogger! Ricky Anderson is funny. No, not funny, really REALLY funny. Still not enough. He is super really funny. Nope. Hilarious. Yes, hilarious. See for yourself over at his blog www.rickyanderson.net or on twitter @Arthur2Sheds or why not both?

Ricky is not nearly the procrastinator he makes himself out to be. Thought I’d have a lot of nagging ahead of me, but he got this post done in a timely manner. Ricky, you ARE special. Well done, Ricky’s mom.

———

It’s time we talked about it.

Everyone’s been thinking it for years, but until now it’s been the topic nobody wanted to bring up.

Robots.

You’ve failed us, Science. You pretend to know everything, what with your Mars rovers and particle destroyers and anti-aging creams.

But the truth is – you’re stuck. You promised us robots. From The Jetsons to I, Robot to The Matrix, you’ve been making us promises for years. And yet the only robot I have access to is a Roomba.

Seriously? A vacuum cleaner. How exciting. I guess it beats a colon cleaner.

We interrupt this post for a message from Ricky’s agent, Ricky (no relation).

I would like to apologize for this post. It was written in a sleep-deprived haze, fueled entirely by caffeine. Ricky has strong opinions on the subject of robots. However, his boss needed him to do some database fiddling, so he had to leave this post incomplete…

…JUST LIKE SCIENCE AND THE ROBOTS.

Note from Ricky’s agent, Ricky’s agent, Ricky (some relation, but we don’t talk about that side of the family since the Thanksgiving incident):

Oh, sorry. I just remembered that Jan asked me (Ricky, not Ricky or Ricky) to write about being a teacher’s kid.

My mom was a teacher. A fantastic and real good awesome one.

And clearly she made me special.

So take note, Science…and go make me a special robot!

Oh, Canada!

The Maple Leaf forever
The Maple Leaf forever

July 1 is Canada Day and I thought it would be good to test the boys on their Canadian facts.

According to the 8 year old:

Canada Day is Canada’s birthday which means it got alive that day. It’s 100 years old and before that it was a whole bunch of different cities. The boss of Canada is Prime Minister Bob Kevin (he’s very clear that Bob is his first name, Kevin is his last name). Canada is the second biggest country in the world. We speak French and English. The only difference between the US and Canada is that the US is more famous.

As most countries do, Canada has it’s share of ethnic foods, including ice cream, yogurt, lemonade, olives, pickles, and pickled corn (coincidentally, all of the 8 year old’s favourites).

Canada’s national animal is the beaver, but it is also famous for polar bears, squirrels, spiders, birds, amphibians, and reptiles. Canadian money has a beaver, a loonie, a caribou, a maple leaf, and a boat. Our money also has the Queen of England on it. The Queen is the boss of the Prime Minister, in case you were wondering how that all worked.

As far as famous Canadians go, we’ve got the Toronto Maple Leafs people*.

In Canada you can do anything, like swimming.

A little geography lesson: Ontario is a province, there are ten in total. There are three territories. Territories are cold, provinces are not.

If you’d like to double check any of these facts, click here for verification.

*The six year old chimed in that we also have Don Cherry, you know, “The hockey guy that does stuff, just talks. He’s

Our most famous Canadian
Our most famous Canadian

old and that’s it.” I was saddened that they did not know about Megan Follows or Anne of Greengables. Also disappointing was that David Suzuki was overlooked. When questioned further, eight year old said, “he’s the guy that’s on Daddy’s shirt.” (See “So, I Married David Suzuki” for more on this famous Canadian and his connection to our family.)

The four year old’s session was more question and answer.

What is Canada Day? I do not know.

What should we do on Canada Day? I do not know.

What is Canada? I do not know.

Where is Canada? I do not know.

That's Anne with an "e"
That’s Anne with an “e”

Where do you live? With you

Where do I live? With me!

What can you find in Canada? Don’t know

Who is Don Cherry? I do not know.

Who is Megan Follows? I do not know.

What is the Littlest Hobo? I do not know already.

What’s the Canada song? Waving Flag.

Do you like Canada? NO ONE likes Canada.

Do you have any interesting Canadian trivia to share? Any questions about Canada? Ask away, we’re pretty polite.

*Click here for the follow up interview

Who Wants to go for a Swim?

I grew up with a pool and it was awesome. We were in there all the time. We made up the best games and were exhausted by bedtime. So, when we were house hunting a few years ago and found a place we loved and  it had a pool, the decision to put in an offer was very easy.

This is not me.
This is not me.

We are not a family that goes camping (not sure why I’d chose to spend a week living in third world conditions, but more on that another time). We also don’t really cottage; however, if you have a cottage you’d like to invite us to, we’re game. So, having a pool is the perfect fit for us. We love having people over for the day or an hour (it’s a sliding scale depending on how much we like you and how well-behaved your children are).

Swimming as I recall it from growing up was fun and almost limitless. You throw on a bathing suit, run out back and jump right in. Take a few warm up breaks, eat some chips or Rice Krispie squares, maybe go on the swing set or read a book, then right back in. That has not been my experience as of late. Being a parent has really been a killjoy when it comes to pool time. (Obligatory good mom disclaimer: I do love my boys and mostly enjoy swimming with them.)

Now when I want to enjoy the pool, I have an entourage, which is fine, but the whole process is way more involved. Bathing suits to start: we have a drawer full of trunks – at least 23 pairs. Once people know you have a pool, you get a lot of bathing suits as gifts. However, even though there are 23 to choose from, only one pair is the right pair. Searching bedrooms, railings, and random piles on the floor takes time. Multiplied by three at the very least.

This is who I pretend to be when I do a killer handstand.
This is who I pretend to be when I do a killer handstand.

Once bathing suits have been procured, we begin the “Put your Clothes Away” dance. I tell the boys to put their clothes away, they say they did. I tell them that “away” does not mean they are left in the bathroom. Sighs and blustering ensue, but they go back upstairs. I ask again, they insist they did, I remind them that “away” does not mean on the floor of their bedroom. Repeat.

Alright, bathing suits are on, clothes are “away”. Now we move on to the “Sunscreen Debate”. It’s short, I win, sunblock applied. This quickly moves into the “When can we go in?” chant.

We’re at a good stage of pool life with the Bigs. They jump in, play games and have a blast.

This is me in 30 years.
This is me in 30 years.

Mostly they just ask me to watch their super cool pencil jumps or cannonballs or ask me to count how long they can hold their breath under water. But the Littles – they seem to think that I am out there solely as a conduit for their personal swimming fun. And neither of them can swim on his own yet. So, I’m doing a lot of bobbing up and down and “helping” and promising not to let go.

“Don’t let go, Mommy.” “Hold me, Mommy.” “I want to be with you, Mommy.”

And now, right now, as I type this, I realize that maybe it’s the Littles who are at the good stage.

“Don’t let go, Peanut.”

Rhubarb – It’s Time to End the Conspiracy

It’s almost that time of year – summer! Strawberries, asparagus, corn on the cob, peaches, oh, and of course, their awkward cousin, (you know, who makes everyone laugh a little uncomfortably while avoiding eye contact): rhubarb.

Seems innocuous enough - don't be fooled.
Seems innocuous enough – don’t be fooled.

Before this time of seasonal enticement begins, I’d like to get ahead of the inevitable propaganda that comes along with it. Why are we all still pretending that rhubarb is delicious? I have a theory. Someone put it in a pie by accident and no one wanted to hurt their feelings. Kind of like The Emperor’s New Clothes, but with dessert.

Rhubarb can’t stand on its own. Somewhere along the line someone thought, “Hey, strawberries are just too sweet and delicious, let’s add just a smidge of bitter and stringy stalk bits – oh, perfect!” Rhubarb is Strawberry’s longstanding friend that poor Strawberry just can’t shake. They both know it’s time to move their separate ways, but clingy Rhubarb just doesn’t take the hint. Strawberry knows he’d be better off solo, but doesn’t know how to break it to Rhubarb.

The enemy within
The enemy within

This cover-up in modern cuisine is everywhere and social media is the biggest tool in this propaganda machine. Yes, Facebook, I’m talking about you.

“I just made the YUMMIEST rhubarb muffins.” Nope, ‘rhubarb’ and ‘yummiest’ are mutually exclusive.

“Check out this strawberry rhubarb cookies – SO good.” Stop dragging strawberry into this.

“Oooh, rhubarb coffee cake for dessert – can’t wait!” Liar.

Deception in a jar
Deception in a jar

Now, you might be thinking that I have it out for rhubarb, and you’re right, I do. But let me close with these two indisputable facts and then you can decide which side to support.

1.  Rhubarb is a vegetable. (yup, I looked it up)

2.  Rhubarb is a result of the fall:  “Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat food from it all the days of your life. It will produce thorns and thistles and rhubarb for you.”  Genesis 3:17b-18

 I rest my case.