An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

The secret to food blogging

Last Thursday afternoon I got a text from my friend Stacia asking if I could watch her younger son Beck for a few hours that night. She had an emergency, and this was one of those instances when I was so happy that I could serve someone else, and no, I’m not about to go all Mormon on you. Unless you need me to. Do you need a potato casserole? A priesthood blessing? A rousing, operatic rendition of “The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning”?

If you were in primary and didn’t jump out of your seat when you got to the, “We’ll sing and we’ll SHOUT!” part then you need to reexamine your testimony, Terry.

I know, I know. I said SERVE. It has such religious connotations for me, but it’s true what they say. Nothing is better for your well being than getting out of your own shit and helping someone or something else. And in that sense, maybe I was being selfish. I needed to get out of my shit. So when she texted I was like BRING HIM OVER. I don’t get to serve as much as I should, and maybe that’s he part of the puzzle that’s missing from my overall happiness. NOTE: this is not an invitation for you to tell me that it’s Jesus who is missing. Jesus is not missing. In fact, he’s very busy being the lead singer of a moderately successful rock band.

My mother had taken both of my kids on a road trip down south, so it was just me and Beck. Yeah. A boy. A species I know nothing about raising. So when she dropped him off I was like, um, so… video games? Dirt? Sticks? ROCKS. I’ll give him rocks! We can blow shit up! And I will dress him in something blue while we’re doing it.


She shrugged and said anything would do. How easy does SHE have it? If I were to drop Leta off at someone’s house I’d be like, “Well, we brought ten library books. If she finishes them before I return and you have nothing else for her to read you’ll all probably die.”

And then for a good hour he just ran laps outside with the dogs, back inside through the hallway and then again into the backyard. Around and around. Finally he stopped, blinked those unearthly blue eyes and said, “Heather, I’m hungry.”

So, here’s the thing: where I come from, children do not address adults by their first names. Never. It’s an unspoken rule. I am Ms. Armstrong. Stacia is Ms. Sidlow. Jesus is Mr. Christ. And when I first moved here and noticed this happening I got all Southern self righteous about it. Like, how dare that child not understand the life and the years I have lived beyond him? He just called me Heather as if I haven’t graduated college, lost a loved one, plowed those fields, and birthed a child in a pasture by myself with nothing but a bucket of water and a spoon. The nerve.

I bought into the idea that forcing children to address adults as Sir and Ma’am was the primary way to reinforce the idea of respect. And maybe on some level it works. Maybe I should buy into it. But I’ve witnessed so many children here who have not grown up with that cultural construct who are just as respectful and lovely to adults as those who are raised in the South. And they address me as, “Heather.” It’s an aspect of living in Utah that I have come to embrace. That and the abundance of Subarus, people who wear camping sandals when they aren’t camping, family decals on the back windows of cars that consist of over 14 figures, and kids named Bracken.

So I asked him what he’d like to eat while I silently panicked. My kids don’t eat anything, really. So my refrigerator and cupboard are sorely lacking. Would he like some non-flavored air?

He asked if I had any mac and cheese, and oddly there were two boxes of organic mac and cheese at the back of the pantry. I showed it to him and he said, “I’ve never had that kind but I’ll try it.”

Do what?

He’ll try it?

He didn’t flinch, fall to the floor and gag himself into a coma?

Good god, you guys. I want me a boy.


(I know it’s a personality difference, not a gender difference, YOU WHO ARE ITCHY TO SERVE UP A LECTURE.)

AND THEN GET THIS. That kid had four bowls of mac and cheese that I had cooked on the stove. FOUR GODDAMN BOWLS. He’d finish one, dig out every single piece of pasta and then ask, “Heather, can I have another bowl, please?” Can you have another bowl? I think I might have just discovered why you cooking people like to cook. Because at that moment I wanted absolutely nothing other than to search out a recipe for country fried steak, gravy, biscuits and okra. Cook it all up and just stand there and stare at him while he ate it. Take notes on which dish he liked best and then adjust the recipe.

I wanted to send him home forty pounds heavier.

Why yes, Beck. You can have another bowl. And then I’m going to give you a gallon of ice cream as a reward for, one, getting me out of my own shit for a few hours, and two, allowing me to experience the joy of watching a child eat multiple servings of something that I cooked without me having to dangle his favorite Barbie over the toilet.

  • Becky


  • Michelle

    This doesn’t have anything to do with the topic but that American Express banner ad that showed up today that you can’t even X out of is almost enough to make me stop reading your site. And I LOVE your site. But that’s obnoxious.

  • Sooz

    You “serve” me every single time I read one of your posts. 🙂

  • M

    I have twin boys 2 – who only eat: Cheese and Peanut butter . This is one that eats cheese one that eats peanut butter. Oh an crackers don’t forget the crackers. Imagine they wont even eat ice-cream.

  • themommylogues

    I don’t understand. “I’ll try it.” What? Could he maybe hold a seminar on the benefits of trying food? A summer camp? A Go to Meeting? I’ve got a couple of kids to send. He could make millions.

  • Maude

    As a mother of a picky eater (yes, boy), this brought tears to my eyes.

  • 50 year old Mom

    Love this post. It really hits me in my sweet spot. I love nothing more than feeding my daughter’s skinny, skinny boyfriend something that makes him take seconds and thirds. I get such a charge out of feeding people something they really like. And it doesn’t hurt that your writing is hysterical. Also loved the soloists at the beginning of “The Spirit of God” video.

  • rebecca


  • I moved from CA to NC for a year. It felt weird to be addressed as Ma’am all the time. I felt like I should be 80 years old.

  • Lee

    I have a daughter who, when I picked her up from day care and I asked what she’d had for lunch, would say very sadly “not macaroni and cheese” about 4 days a week. But about once a week the answer was a very joyful “macaroni and cheese!!!”
    She’s now twenty and one of her favorite foods is still home made macaroni and cheese. (Milk and ice cream are also big favorites.”

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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