Pretzel’s are good.

Warm, freshly baked Pretzels at the Mall are the Best

u          n          l          e          s          s

they

or something about them are

T          W          I          S          T          E          D

Back. . .way back when Mall’s were very popular and the obvious place to be,

I would take my daughter to just walk around on Friday’s while we waited for her sister to be done with school.

It was always good for a cheap toy and a nice, warm pretzel.   .   .

and a really contorted act.

We were walking around the Mall, throwing unwanted pennies into a fountain, buying annoying noise making plastic objects and yes. . .a nice warm, salty pretzel.

I tore mine a part like a savage discovering food for the very first time and nearly digested it even before I had fully eaten it in blink-of-the-eye quickness.

My daughter, Angie had barely taken a few bites and as her loving, caring, overly compassionate father, I asked if she would share. . .if she would give me a bite of her pretzel.

She didn’t think it was a good idea.

I play cried and told her how her daddy bear didn’t have any porridge that day and how he needed his Goldilocks to have a heart and   s h a r e. . .how sharing was a really good, kind thing to do.

She didn’t think it was a good idea.

I play acted Igor Mutalutz with my hand–the hungry fun-spider-like animal that liked little girl’s uneaten donuts, candy and pretzels.

She didn’t think it was a good idea.

As my stomach growled something not human like, I pulled out all of the stops and used one of the go-to tricks parents sometimes have to resort:

G       U       I      L       T

“Hey. . .who bought. . .who gave you that pretzel to begin with?”

She didn’t think it was a good idea. . .but it worked.

She handed over most of her soggy, mangled up pretzel.

Guilt and Fear    sometimes  comes dressed as

L     O     V     E

but it’s never fits right and rarely is tailor made.

She has never brought this up to me. . .I’m not sure she remembers. . .if as she reads it now. . .

but I do.

I remember. . .

and the memory snapped my head around

the other day when I saw a big, bad bear, Igor Mutalutz, guilt/fear wielding father remind his daughter who, in fact, had just bought her a six-nugget-not-so-happy-meal.

Y’OUCH !

Some memories are best to be left forgotten whatever’s below the basement where there’s always a bin, a bag or an album of pictures you’d rather never have been captured. . .

some memories don’t feel good experienced the second, fourth or ga-zillionth time.

Ever done anything as

T W I S T E D

as   a    pretzel.   .   .   ?

Ever done anything to

un – t w i s t   it?

Hmmmmmmmmm. . .might be time to make another memory. . .

a not-so-twisted one.

Pass the mustard.   .   .

P L E A S E

I’ll share–really–

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