Bet You Can't Eat That

Spending the weekend at the Washington Coast in January: no TV, no fancy-pants restaurants, no computers, no work-related worries for 48 hours. Just the parents and the kids together, exploring the empty beach and occasionally retreating to the warmth and shelter of the rented house.

In the house for the night, too late to go outside, too early to go to sleep, one of the kids issued a mild-sounding challenge, "They say that it's impossible to eat a teaspoon of cinnamon in 60 seconds." I don't know who "they" are but I immediately thought that they were wrong. How hard could it be? After all, sometimes my cinnamon toast has too much cinnamon but the kids always manage to eat it. Plus, 60 seconds. That's an eternity.

My youngest was the first to accept the challenge. We grabbed a container of cinnamon and carefully measured one level teaspoon. OMG. A teaspoon is not very much. Her older brother checked his watch and said "Go!" She tipped the spoon's contents into her mouth. And for about 15 seconds, I thought to myself, "Self, it looks like she'll have no problem." At the 20-second mark, she sputtered briefly, emitting a tiny poof of cinnamon, followed almost immediately by a hoarse cough and a huge exhalation of the spice. A rust-colored cloud erupted from her mouth, blanketing the room with a fine, sweet and hot-smelling powder, a bit like somebody had unwrapped a snicker doodle air freshener. She ran to the kitchen sink. Rinsed. And repeated.

I was next. I measured and poured the cinnamon into my mouth. For 15 seconds it sat on my tongue. Not so bad! Then, without warning, it was as if all of the moisture in my mouth evaporated. Gone. My salivary glands were the unwitting victims of a heinous robbery committed by the silica gel gang. My mouth felt like a dessert, arid, hot, parched. I couldn't conceive of any way to work up enough spit to wash down the cinnamon. Ever. After 45 seconds, I stood and lunged toward the kitchen in search of a receptacle and a glass of water.

But at the last moment (second: 55), I had a change of heart. I figured, "What's the worst that can happen," and I rolled the pile of cinnamon into a lumpy hill of spice and pushed it to the back of my mouth with my tongue. Then, on the verge of gagging, I swallowed it.

You can do it, too, but make your kids go first.


This was written by our babysitter/friend Anthony. As a requirement for babysitting, I made him write a blogpost.

It's good, huh?