Okay Boys....

Fess up. No one is in trouble, but I want to know who took apart a pen, took out that wire spring, and shoved it into my butter.

My lovely, barely used, cube of golden deliciousness.

This blog is called BUTTERed Toast Rocks. The key word in that is BUTTER!

Don't mess with Momma's butter, boys.

My son insists that he and his friends would never, ever do something like that. My husband says that the boys are 14, that's the sort of thing a 14 year old boy does without thinking, almost as instinctual as breathing.

I know it was them, I know I can't prove it, and I know I must let it go.

Deep breath in, hold it, hold it, hold it, let it out. Whoosh.

It has suddenly occurred to me in that bit of calm breathing that the solution to my unhappiness is to get out a fresh stick of butter and open the sourdough bread and treat myself to a piece of toast. Or two.

Buttered toast makes my world go round.

And, it turns out, no guilty party coming into this house can withstand my Mom eyes. I have a confession and a half apology (he meant to take it out before I got home...) and I laughed and said he got me. I'd been ready to call the manufacturer and demand a refund for making butter with metal in it.

Now if only my toaster wouldn't be so temperamental. Burned toast is not what I need today!