At Grandpa’s house, I snuck little swipes of butter from the butter dish when no one else was in the kitchen. Such a delicious, slightly salty taste it was!
Getting caught once was all it took to make that guilty pleasure disappear.
My sister, who was two years my senior, caught me in the act one day. With all her eight-year-old wisdom, she instantly devised the perfect punishment for her errant little sister: she made me eat a whole glob of butter. It was nasty. I never was even tempted to take a sneaky swipe of butter again.
One time I had hiccups and she convinced me that putting salt on my tongue would cure them. I willingly opened my mouth, stuck my tongue out . . . and she poured the salt. She was right—the hiccups stopped as I frantically ran through the house, my tongue burning as if on fire.
My gullibility knew no bounds. When my mom told us that the pink milk came from a strawberry cow, I believed her. When my sister asked me to go to the bathroom for her, I puzzled over how, exactly, I was going to accomplish that.
But I think I have finally grown up. On Saturday when my brother Bob suggested we all breathe out cold air to keep the car windows from fogging up, I knew he was kidding.
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