The very item that can capture the kids' attention better than almost anything, except TV, is becoming the bane of my existence, but only sometimes. Fortunately, Becca makes a batch every month, so we're not going through our savings buying the real stuff. But between the moments when it comes out of the pot as warm, new goo until the red or green or blue substance forms dry, buggery bits all over the kitchen floor, all the dirt and dust and fur and germs of our home find its way into the dough. In other words, everything that is wrong with my lack of house-pride is IN that ball of yuck.
And the kids love it. Mostly, I just close my eyes and sit down at the kitchen table with the expectation that I'm sitting in at least some vestige. Mostly, I don't care.
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