Crisply Spoken

Three of the four members of my household don’t drink milk. Which means about ten years ago I should have invested heavily in soy farming. Since I didn’t, we pay a premium for the vanilla-flavored gold. I’m positive a portion of our income goes to finance black-market edamame patches in Indonesia.

But we do eat yogurt, and not just any yogurt. Every week I clip coupons, so we can pay for the pricey stuff. With flavors like Apple Turnover, Key Lime Pie, and White Chocolate Raspberry, it’s our not-so-secret indulgence. I started out buying half a dozen, but that was never enough. Arguments ensued.

“You took the last Banana Creme Pie.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“That junk tastes like Laughy-Taffy.”

“Better than pink snowflake or whatever you call it.”

“Strawberry Cheesecake or Very Cherry.”

“Whatever. You ate the Banana Cream Pie.”

“I already told you. I don’t like Banana.”

“Then who ate it?”

“Bacon?”

“He likes Blueberry Patch.”

“No, he likes . . . “

“Everything.”

Now, the cart is full. Entire grocery bags of individual containers enter our house weekly. I can’t buy a case because they only come in generic strawberry and peach. Most households have a refrigerator shelf dedicated to soft drinks or beer. The middle shelf of our Kenmore is home to dozens of cone-shaped plastic containers with foil lids. We can’t get enough of the stuff.