Every so often at MOPS, we all work on a craft together during our meeting. Sometimes it is just something for us and others it is something we could do at home with our kids. Normally I find these activities quite easy and enjoyable. In fact, none of them have ever been anything but pleasant until yesterday (and by “yesterday” I mean almost three weeks ago). Yesterday we made Chocolate Turkeys and I wanted to curl up on the floor and cry.
Actually, I wanted to hurl.
Sorry. I know that is too much for some of you, but I am still reeling at not only the tiny little chocolate terrors but also the insanity of food aversions during pregnancy. But that is what I experienced yesterday morning and because no one at MOPS knows yet that I’m pregnant, I had to just play along and play nice and make the Chocolate Turkeys.
Side note: So actually, when you read this, you all will know I’m pregnant (or you’ll know now!) and some of my verb tenses won’t make sense in this story, but I also have a pretty severe case of Mommy Brain these days, so I really can’t be bothered to work out all those technical writing rules at the moment. Forgive me!
So. The Turkeys. Here they are:
Nothing really that offensive. Normally I would probably think they were cute and tasty (although I probably wouldn’t make them with Harrison because holy-melted-chocolate-mess, Batman, and he probably doesn’t need the sugar buzz to give him even more energy than he’s already got!). But the very sight of the sample plate they first showed us at the start of the meeting made my stomach flip flop and my skin crawl. I didn’t want to touch it or smell it or taste it. NO thank you! But how do you politely refuse or decline an activity when you can’t give a good reason for doing so?
They only wanted us to make six turkeys in the first place, so it wasn’t like I could feign being on a diet or something like that. Instead, I got up with my table, went into the church kitchen to listen to the instructions and I made my Chocolate Turkeys. Except I could only stomach making four of them (for which people later teased me, but again – what could I say? Or do?!). I was proud of myself for getting that many on my plate.
Carrying them at arm’s length, I brought them home after our meeting and tossed them on the counter. The closest I got to them again was to take pictures to help highlight the sheer hilarity of all this. I then told Ben, when he got home from school, that he needed to eat all of them, immediately, but not so much while in my sight. That’s really how bad it was for me. And, because he’s a good man, he took care of them for me.
Whew. Crisis averted. Stomach saved.
Constant queasiness? Still going strong. Please, please, please, let there be no more chocolate birds in my near future!
Also? I had no idea Nebraskans used the term “gobbler” for the red fleshy throat thing on a turkey (that I’ve always called a “wattle”). But that was the word on our instructions for the red icing, and, when I later asked Ben, “What’s the red thing on a turkey called?” he responded, “You mean the gobbler?” so I guess that really is a thing here!