If all goes as planned, then by the time you are reading this scientists will already know what, exactly, is contained within the capsules of “comet dust” they recently retrieved after a six year journey through the solar system. I can just imagine what they will be saying upon opening this interstellar time capsule: “Does this speck of dust contain the answers to the creation of the universe?”; “Is this an element previously unknown on Earth?”; and, finally, “Who had the croissant?” I can’t help them with the answers to the first two questions, but I’m pretty sure that the answer to the third is: “Uh, sorry: that would be my daughter, Clementine.”
It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find out that, perhaps after realizing that the house and car no longer presented a big enough challenge, Clementine had, in fact, managed to spread pieces of her last croissant over all of Creation. I say “Creation” because what Clementine can do with a croissant–or, for that matter, what Clementine can do with almost any piece of food–is nothing short of miraculous; in fact, it’s no coincidence that no one has been able to make food spread so far since Jesus did his little bit with the loaves and the fishes. Of course, one minor (but important) distinction between what Jesus did and what Clementine does is that, with Jesus, the end result is that everyone gets something to eat. With Clementine, the end result is that everyone needs to go to the dry cleaners (a miracle worthy of praise only for those in the business–but who knows?–maybe all of the world’s dry cleaners have altars to St. Clementine set up in the backs of their shops).
Also unlike Jesus, it is never Clementine’s intent to spread her food around; she’s not sharing, that’s just how she eats. I know this to be true because I have seen how her other much-loved foods–foods she would never willingly share, like chocolate cake, cookies and chicken nuggets–all receive the same Hellraiser treatment–one minute they’re whole and intact in front of her on the table, and the next it’s as if they’ve been ripped apart by a thousand tiny hooks.
Of course, all of this is pure speculation on my part: I’ve never actually seen the destruction myself, only the results. If I really needed to see it then I think I’d need stop action photography to capture what is happening between the placing of the bowl of spaghetti and parmesan cheese in front of her and the final result: a cheese outline of Clementine on the floor behind her, as if Pompeii had been destroyed not by Mt. Vesuvius, but by Mount Chef Boyardee. (Which reminds me: the other questions the comet dust scientists will be asking themselves is: “What smells like feet?”)
If this is allowed to continue the future of our space program may very well be in jeopardy; therefore, in the interest of protecting the scientific community’s research data (and my new living room rugs), I have recently issued a fatwa in my house against the unholy removal of food from the kitchen or dining room; if that doesn’t work then my next step will be to insist that every single box of crackers, carton of milk and banana in the house be attached to the kitchen garbage can via a one foot chain of the sort you used to find in banks (now you just find a notice stating: Why Are You Bothering Us With This When You Could Just Do It Online; Can’t You See We’re Busy?”). This chain would only allow the consumption of food to take place in a 12 inch circle around said garbage can. And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll have no other choice but to go to Plan “C”: only allowing Clementine to eat at the bottom of a large pit dug at the far end of our back yard, one that has to be filled in again immediately upon the completion of her meal Although, given her particularly well-honed food distribution skills, the end result of this would probably just be that future scientists will end up asking themselves: “Who had the mac’n’cheese–and why is it all covered in dirt?”