Let’s clear up a few things before we get started, shall we?
First of all, no, I’m not actually suggesting that Jesus is edible. But I mean, I didn’t create communion so this really seems like someone else’s issue. Second of all, yes, my mother does have some boundaries, contrary to what you’re about to hear, but I think she’s losing the grip on them little by little every single day.
Where was I? Oh yeah, Jesus.
So, a few months ago, I found a loaf of bread at Trader Joe’s that isn’t as much “bread” as it is “lentils and soybeans and millet and barley and a whole bunch of other non-bread shit that’s been cooked down and smashed together in bread form.” It’s delicious and healthy, and it ranks very highly on my list of Things I Eat Most Of The Time So That I Can Eat Gratuitous Amounts Of Nutella All Those Other Times.
In addition to being healthy, it’s also magical bible bread that bears the name “Ezekiel 4:9” on the packaging and a scripture quote on the side that’s basically like, “GOD WANTS YOU TO EAT THIS BREAD” and really, I’m in no position to be turning down instructions like that.
A few days after I first found the bread, I called my mother – our family’s resident religious person – to tell her that she should be proud of me for eating Jesus bread. She sighed and asked me to please not call it Jesus bread. I told her that I’d try, but that “Jesus bread” was a pretty catchy name and that I’d said it enough times already that she was probably out of luck.
When I went home for Thanksgiving, I brought some of the Jesus bread with me. I was all, “You have to try this!” and she was like, “I’d rather just stick with my English muffins, thank you.” And I was all, “Do you see an endorsement from Jesus on the label of those English muffins?” And she was like, “That’s not a Jesus quote! That’s an Old Testament quote! You’re eating Old Testament bread. Leave Jesus alone!”
A few days later, when I was cooking Thanksgiving dinner, I asked my mother if she could do me a favor. “This better not have anything to do with your Jesus bread,” she responded. “Relax, Ma, I just need you to hand me the cheese grater.” Except, apparently, my parents don’t own a cheese grater. To which I say: SERIOUSLY?? WHO DOESN’T OWN A CHEESE GRATER?
“Then how am I going to grate all of this cheese?” I asked.
“Well,” she said slowly. “I might have a solution for you, but you can’t judge me.”
“No, really,” she said, “you have to know up front that I understand that this is going to sound more disgusting than it really is.”
She took a deep breath, “We could sanitize my foot thing and use that.”
“My foot thing. You know, that little silver tool that scrapes dead skin off your heel?”
“I mean, we’ll sanitize it! Of course we’ll sanitize it. Stop looking at my like that!! I’ll put it in boiling water and it’ll be the cleanest foot tool that’s ever been used to grate a block of Gruyere cheese!”
I stared at her in horror for a few minutes before carefully explaining why, in fact, we weren’t going to do that, and then I moved on with plan B for the cheese, trying desperately to rid myself of this new set of traumatizing mental images.
Later that weekend, she looked at me and said, “This is going to wind up on your blog, isn’t it?” I shrugged. “Yeah,” she said, “It’ll be right there next to all the other stories about how I accidentally sent porn to my entire church and how I don’t believe in evolution and how I’m forcing you to take my cremated ashes to Lapland so I can spend my afterlife celebrating eternal Christmas.”
I was all, “DO YOU HEAR YOURSELF RIGHT NOW?? Instead of worrying about individual blog posts, you should be grateful that I don’t have an ENTIRE FUCKING WEBSITE about you and all of your shenanigans and that I’m not charging you for a lifetime’s worth of therapy.”