Dragon breath.

Every once in a while I break down and buy a huge bag of Ruffles potato chips for the family. Tim loves them, you see. He especially loves to dip them in his own homemade onion dip. It's a mere cup of sour cream mixed in with dried minced onion - way better than any store-bought variety. Until a month ago, I refused to even try it. I couldn't get past the fact that my husband was dipping fat into fat and calling it food. Seriously gross. And then I gave into his pleadings that I test his concoction and, indeed, it was disgustingly delicious.
As one might expect, minced onions and sour cream do not fresh breath make. Every time Tim indulges in it at lunchtime, he is forfeiting his right to kisses for at least 24 hours. (If my husband actually read my blog, it would be at this point that he would be sure to interject and say that I haven't kissed him since our first year of marriage anyway, at least not the way he likes it, so what difference does it make?)
Rachel has developed a taste for Tim's yummy, breath-destroying dip. After eating her own lunch the other day, she saw Daddy eating chips and dip and requested some for herself. Except that she didn't eat the chips. She just dipped and licked, dipped and licked.
She joined me in bed an hour or so later for quiet time and, after a few stories, she turned to me and asked for a back scratch. Only then did I gasp for breath. It couldn't be. My adorable little two year old's sweet scent had morphed into that of a dog. Ew, ew, EW! No kisses for Rachel that day.