Quinoa? Can-what? William CANnot eat that!

As a mandated reporter, it is both my civic and moral obligation to put a stop to this nonsense. With the exception of animals ("Why go to the zoo," she once growled, "when you can see the same animals on the internet?"), elementary car maintenance ("Where does this blue stuff go," she asked, sloshing the gallon jug at me. "You mean windshield washer solvent," I asked, incredulously, popping open the hood of her car while she looked on with utter amazement as though I had pulled a rabbit out of her carburetor. If she ever gets around to reading my blog, I guarantee she'll text me to find out what a carburetor is), and her embarrassing meal ordering habits ("Who do you think you are," I hissed as the waiter walked away, shaking his head in exasperation, "Meg Ryan from When Harry Met Sally? Not everything has to be ordered on the side."), my friend Sarah is a perfectly lovely person. But this is just too much. I overlooked her letting her son play with a dog toy. I applauded (even though I may have thrown up in my mouth a little) when she licked off Will's pacifier after it fell on the floor of a busy pizzeria before popping it back into his mouth. But then it happened and I admit that I am now seriously questioning the parameters of our friendship.

It was time to feed Will. I try to avoid these experiences as she tends to feed him food not fit for human consumption. I appreciate that Will has distracted her attention in this area away from me, (She once tried to "cure" my lingering cold by forcing some beta-carotene crap-colored concoction that was, like, 98% pulp down my throat. Let's just say it, it wouldn't stay down.) but I can't sleep nights, racked with guilt from what William must endure on a daily basis.

The irony was almost painful as she gleefully pulled out a product called "Happy Baby" from the bag.

We were celebrating my daughter's birthday with a Mickey Mouse cake.
 Notice what has captured poor Will's attention.

Will didn't look all that happy. He tried to make a run for it but he hasn't quite mastered the whole one-foot-in-front-of-the-other thing yet so she easily tackled him, pinning him into place with some weird anaconda leg lock maneuver. I could only stand by and watch in helpless horror. "What is that?" I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.  ""It's a food pouch," Sarah said, deftly following Will's moving mouth as he frantically flailed his head from side-to-side. "He's not an astronaut," I pointed out, worried why she was feeding her baby freeze-dried spacefood. "No, no, no," she laughed, even though neither Will or I was finding this situation remotely funny, "It's natural food...organic...no preservatives...no GMOs...BPA-free." She was out-of-breath from wrestling Will. I, on the other hand, couldn't understand a single word or acronym she was saying. "It's chicken, vegetables and quinoa," she said, showing me. Just like I suspected...a crap-colored concoction. Not wanting to look totally ignorant, I waited until I got home to look up "quinoa" (pronounced KEEN-wah). I wasn't too far off in my hypothesis that it was an off-shoot variety of wild shrub poultry. Quinoa is a member of the non-migratory goosefoot species. It is considered a pseudocereal. WHAT?!? I called Sarah immediately to inform her that she was feeding Will a product that was only pretending to be a cereal but she had to hang up as Will had almost managed to escape her culinary clutches again. Isn't there some sort of intervention program available? I "KEEN-not" put up with this much longer.