My sad, pathetic haiku, and the Robin Eggs that inspired it

(from Tamie)


Easter chocolate bad
when lactose intolerant;
no more Robin Eggs.

It all started innocently enough, as most of my adventures do, with a trip to Target.

I passed a display of Easter candy.

It spoke to me. Audibly.

"Come ... and buy ... and you will be made happy."

It wasn't too far from the truth. Whoppers Robin Eggs always make me smile. When my cousin Robyn (no relation to the candy) and I were little, we had this special thing we'd do where we'd lick them and paint our faces. (OK, that sounds a lot grosser than it was back then. No wonder our mamas were so leery of us wearing make-up!)

So when I bought the Robin Eggs, I intended to share this tidbit with Kendall so we could relive this fun childhood memory. Except I ate about a dozen of them first. And got really, really sick - as in just as bad as before the gall bladder exodus of December 2007 - the one that subsequently made me lactose intolerant.

I crawled into bed and lay very, very still. Eventually, I went to sleep and dreamed that little gnomes wearing spiked shoes were walking all over me. When I woke up, I felt well enough to help Bobby search for clues.

"You didn't dip into any queso at lunch yesterday, did you," asked my queso-loving husband, secretly happy to have more of the amazing Ted's appetizer for himself on Monday press lunches.

"No!" said me.

I recounted the rest of the day, food-wise. No cheese, no milk, no dinner, because I was feeling gross.

Um ....


And then I remembered the Robin Eggs.

I picked up the bag. A puddle of milk had formed on the kitchen counter underneath it. I heard evil laughter.

The label dripped with the dreaded L word (lactose). Followed by the M word (milk, malted milk) and the W word (whey). And then a few creative variations of the L word thrown in for good measure.

Bad Robin Eggs!

The worst part? I can't even lick 'em and paint.