Lately, I've noticed a troubling trend. Whenever I ask Jeff to fetch or prepare food for me--because I am being used as a human Bowflex by our freakishly strong offspring who also likes to eat my hair--I have to give him orders that make me sound like a disgusting, downmarket version of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally:
"Put in A LOT of Half & Half, okay? More than you think would anyone would want. Try to achieve a cup of Half & Half with a subtle coffee flavor. And don't skimp on the sugar. Give me four packets, and if they only have the big pour containers, turn it upside-down and count to ten, and make sure no lumps are obstructing the opening."
"I want more mayonnaise than the FDA advises a single person to consume at one sitting. Put on an amount that makes you recoil and then add another teaspoon. Also I want the cheese layer to be thicker than the meat layer by a ratio of 2 to 1."
"It should look like you're making a Carrie diorama, only the people are fries and the blood is ketchup. I want the splatter to reach all four corners of the container. They should need to call Dexter."
What can I say? I'm passionate about my cuisine.