Father was looking at the box yesterday and pointed to the claim saying it was “magically delicious”.
“Now, this stuff isn’t magically delicious.”
(I couldn’t agree more.)
“It’s just highly sweetened cereal with colored marshmallows in it. That’s not ‘magically’ delicious, that’s just delicious.”
“If the box had a photo of rocks and dried up grass and other stuff on it, but it tasted delicious, then that would be ‘magically delicious’.”
I was exhausted one night last week and tossing together something from a box. While stirring and waiting for a boil I idly read the box. [I always have to have something to read. I’ve read the back of the tube of toothpaste, true story.] I noticed that near the bottom of the directions it said, “Make it your own! Add crumbled Ritz crackers to the top before baking!” Now, a lot of things will suggest customizing the recipe by adding diced chicken or sausage or a can of peas and shredded Parmesan or something, but this was the lamest excuse for customizing a box of something I had ever seen.
Father made some tortilla soup for lunch. It was out of a bag, true, but it was organic and actually required cooking, not just zapping. I’ve been trying to cut back and I was pretty close to starving to death while that sucker was simmering away. I was eying the pot, wondering if it was going to beat diving headfirst into last night’s smoked chicken when Father said he was planning on adding some chopped up chicken and cheese. By the time we’d finished, it was pretty altered. It was also pretty good. Father said it was the best soup he’d had in a good while.
I said, “Of course it was, you ‘made it your own’.”
Father laughed and said, “It’s ‘magically delicious’!”