This morning Andrew ate the last of the dark chocolate almond granola. That’s right, healthy granola with delicious bits of dark chocolatey goodness (and almonds, but they’re kind of the redheaded stepchild in this equation) (does anyone else hate that phrase, redheaded stepchild, as much as I do?). This granola is perhaps the tastiest cereal I’ve ever had, with the possible exception of Reese’s Puffs, but the granola wins because it does not contain high fructose corn syrup. I actually can’t say for sure that Reese’s Puffs contains HFCS, but I would bet money on it. Real money, the kind I spend on real things, like dark chocolate almond granola.
So anyway. Andrew ate the last of it. And I was so sad. Sad and a little angry. I was really looking forward to that cereal, and then I open up the pantry, and what do I see? Not my cereal, that’s for damn sure. Yeah, I called it mine, whatcha gonna do about it? Plus, this is not the first incident like this one. Usually Andrew takes the last of my milk. He prefers soy milk, and I prefer Shatto milk, so there are often two milks in the fridge. Until his milk is gone, and there is just the one. And then he drinks my milk, even if there’s only enough for one bowl of cereal. Cereal milk that I was going to have for breakfast, since we didn’t have toast or bagels or yogurt or waffles or eggs or ANYTHING else for breakfast.
To sum up: Cascadian Farms, I love your cereal. Andrew ate mine. May I have some please? Kthxbai.
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