Caught Snacking

I have a confession. Jamie Oliver, cover your eyes! (I know he reads me.) I am well aware that we are living in an era whereby healthy eating is becoming, not so much encouraged, as insisted upon, but in our household, we still possess an (open)secret snack cupboard. It is situated in the kitchen, and contains all manner of delights.

There is a tin of cashew nuts and a box of chocolate miniatures. There are a few bags of crisps, 2 types of small savoury biscuits, a bag of large pretzels, and a box of breadsticks with black pepper. Around Christmas time and birthdays, there could even be the odd box of chocolates.

We take turns to be caught out, as we sample its delights. The squeaky hinge on the cupboard, and the crackling of the packets is a constant giveaway to anyone with half an ear. "Hope no-one's snacking in there!" chorus other family members from the living room.

None of us is overweight. We don't replace meals with snacks. The fruit bowl is replenished and the 'fridge re-stocked with far more frequency than the snack cupboard. It's a family tradition, and a bit of fun.

Some time ago, I was sitting quietly, using the computer, in the corner of the dining-room-part of our kitchen/diner. A friend of my eldest son's had dropped by, and the two of them were talking in the living room. "Can I have a snack?" I heard the friend ask, somewhat cheekily. Eldest son answered in the affirmative, and aforementioned friend strode into the room, seemingly without noticing me. He opened the door of the snack cupboard and surveyed the contents. Perhaps his mouth watered. I smiled to myself, keeping wickedly quiet and still, as I watched him for a couple of seconds. "Shall I make you a sandwich?" I asked, trying to keep a straight face.

I was relieved that he didn't literally have his 'hand in the cookie jar', otherwise I am sure that he would have dropped it on the floor, and smashed it to smithereens, at the sound of my voice. If only I'd had my digital camera!

It took a while for his complexion to pale from puce to pink, and for his apologies to finally shrivel and die on his tongue, but I think he still managed to enjoy his little snack.

Past times, when sons and friends were younger, I would have been concerned about said friend 'spoiling his tea' and perhaps earning a dressing-down from his mother. He was some way past 21 years of age, at the time it happened, however, so I didn't lose too much sleep over it.

Did my son set him up? Probably. He comes from wicked stock.