Milkbones and Butter

What in the well-packed hell do I know about blogging? I imagine I should share some kind of history. In the old-man wheeze that says, "Why, when I was yer age, we din't HAVE teh interwebs! We had to hand carry our letters to the Post Office up to town every day. Barefoot. Uphill. Both ways. And without indoor plumbing, mind you!" Well, I'm not quite that old. But this month's Wordsmiths challenge reminded me of one of my most vivid childhood memories. My youngest sister, whom I'll call Dorene (probably not her real name), was always fairly easy to get along with. She loved slamming doors and being wherever I was. One summer day, my friend Steve and I decided to hone our sales skills on young Dorene. "Mmm, these Milk Bones are good! You should try one!" "Oh yeah, look how ol' Woolfur eats 'em up! If HE likes them, they have to be good!" We, being 10 years old and devious, laid it on thick. She, being 6 years old and gullible, bit one in half and crunched it up like an Oreo. We watched like the judges in the Pepsi Challenge, waiting for her final answer. Her eyebrows creased. She looked up at the ceiling. "Needs something," she said. Then she popped the other half in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. We followed her into the kitchen, still carrying the Economy Size Box, while she rummaged through the fridge. She triumphantly produced a tub of Land-O-Lakes and held it before her. "Let me try another one!" She grabbed an unbroken Milk Bone from the box and scraped a healthy dose of butter onto it, leaving a comet trail of red crumbs in the tub. "MMff, these are good!" She scarfed down 3 more before we incredulously ran and hid them from her. I didn't know what could go wrong, but I knew dog food can't be all that good for people, and I certainly didn't want to be saddled with the guilt of her death, or (even worse) her future digestive problems. I secretly tried one little bonelet to see if she was onto something, and got exactly what I expected: a mouthful of greasy, dogfood flavored mystery crunch. Eventually she grew out of her craving for Milk Bones. Until one day, when we were both teenagers. Gilligan's Island was on the Family TV, and I was in my normal perch on the corner of the couch. Dorene stepped into the doorway from the kitchen to watch with a snack. In one hand, she had a sleeve of saltines. In the other, a fresh tub of butter. The crackers were merely a vehicle for transporting Land-O-Lakes into her gullet, each half-saltine dwarfed by a glistening glob of yellow goo. I quit watching the TV, fascinated by this culinary train wreck. "What?" and a shrug was the extent of our conversation. Someday I'll tell you about my other sister.