“There is something dangerously wrong with you, and I don’t know what it is,” my husband says as he unpacks the groceries I’d sent him out to buy. He lifts fudge Pop-Tarts, M&M’s, and maple syrup from a large reusable tote with “paper bags are bad for the environment” emblazoned on it.
“Someone opened and ate some of the marshmallows,” he says, setting a jumbo bag of mini Jet Puffed delights onto the counter. The package is torn and little white nubs spill everywhere. “It wasn’t me,” he continues, “but if it were, I’d consider it an act of kindness. What you’re doing here will kill you.”
He wanders off into another room, sighing about how I don’t take my health seriously and what a mistake it was for me to take on any assignment that involved boiling water and I am left with the realization that I’m about to embark on a journey that both my husband and my physician, who recently invited me to try a low-salt, low-sugar diet, have advised against.
“But it’s Christmas!” I say loudly, trying to force myself into the proper mindset to cook spaghetti, cover it with syrup, and then mash a pop-tart on top of the entire mess before shoveling it into my mouth to celebrate the inner child inside us all.
“Keep telling yourself that,” my husband calls from the other room, where he is now watching a massive robot orgy. “Diabetes doesn’t take a vacation during the holidays.”
I first pitched the idea of making Buddy’s Breakfast from Elf last year. Unfortunately, my retina detached shortly after the story was approved, landing me in emergency surgery followed by so many drugs that I couldn’t tell you what my name was, let alone work a stove without setting our entire block ablaze. The idea slipped my mind for eleven months or so before popping right back up to shout a jolly “HO HO HO Y’all” in Paula Deen’s southern twang as soon as news began to circulate that the film would not be shown on TV this year.
Since I wasn’t going to take to the streets to protest this travesty — I rarely leave the house, even in emergency situations — I decided that the best way to make my voice heard was to prepare Buddy’s breakfast (minus the two-liter bottle of soda) and then eat it, thereby showing my allegiance to a family comedy about a man who thinks he’s an elf (but is probably just severely mentally ill) in the only reasonable manner.
There’s no official recipe for Buddy’s Breakfast (seems like a major marketing miss), but I was able cobble together my own list of ingredients and preparation instructions from the internet, where one of the only things people can agree on is that this particular dish is made with a base of spaghetti and topped with syrups (of any kind), candy, marshmallow, Pop-Tarts, and, most importantly, sprinkles.
In the photo below you can see that I have nicely arranged everything I need. The brightly colored neon package of candy is from the Russian store and is a creative flourish courtesy of the fact that my husband had to wait for his shirts at the dry cleaner, thereby giving him ample time to go into Europa Express and buy candy as well as two pounds of crepes which I am not allowed to touch because they’re for “people who do things around the house instead of just making a huge mess in the kitchen, Mark.”