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How to Juice a Zucchini

Did I ever tell you about my superpower? I know, I know...which one, right? (Heavy sarcasm intended.) Well, it's not my ability to spot a grammatical error from a thousand yards (except in my own writing, naturally). Nor is it my ability to visually express with my face every single thought that comes into my head. This, obviously, is NOT a superpower during a job interview or at family reunions. "Sure, Great Uncle Milford, I'd looooove to hear your war stories...again. Oh, no, I wasn't rolling my eyes. I thought there was something on the ceiling."

This superpower was developed over many years of planning a weekly menu, grocery shopping for said menu, placing menu items into the fridge, and then forgetting about the menu AND the items until there is literally zucchini juice dripping down the shelves of the fridge. This superpower has only intensified since my pregnant cravings for fresh fruits and vegetables have overridden my shopping sensibilities. (Yes, mother, I just used shopping and sensibilities in the same sentence.)

How many bananas, apples, plums, nectarines, peaches, grapes, cherries, tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, celery stalks, carrots, and heads of lettuce can a family possibly consume by the time they're molded or - in our case - asking for a haircut? We're still trying to figure that out. By the way, those items I just mentioned were all items I purchased this weekend. I kid you not.

It's shameful how much produce I have to discard on a weekly basis (correction: ...how much produce my husband has to discard. The smell, you know?), but I promise I really do believe while I'm grocery shopping that I am able to survive on nothing but fruits and vegetables. And then my French fry craving kicks in, and it's all over after that.

Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate our nation's military allies, but dang you, France! You and your fries, and your toast, and your baguettes...

In protest, I will continue to enjoy my evening snack of Pepsi (I know...I'm pregnant! And I'm from Atlanta!) and Hot Fries which are NOT French.

This is kind of a side note, but I have an idea I must share. I think commissaries worldwide should have personal shoppers the same way fancy clothing stores do. Only, instead of a personal shopper who discourages me from buying a dress that's three sizes too small, a personal commissary shopper (or PCS) could persuade me to buy a quantity of food that's appropriate for an average-sized pregnant woman, her husband and one-year-old son instead of, say, a herd of elephants. And then maybe this PCS could bring it all to my house and cook it for me.

Cross-posted at Katy's personal blog: www.themorgantrail.com

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