The kids are never intimately concerned with my activities
unless I’m stirring around in the kitchen at suppertime.
I put an egg on the table.
“Checking the fridge for supper stuff.”
“Are you gonna divvy up that egg between us or are we on our
own?”
“We could only afford one. It’s a special free-range egg.
The chicken that produced this egg roamed the countryside randomly, picnicking
on the wonders of nature along the way.”
“Wonders of nature?
You mean like beetles and slugs?”
“I don’t think so. Chickens like corn.”
“I don’t think the chicken crossed the road to pounce on a
niblet. On the Nature Channel I saw one
hijack a baby mouse like it was a chocolate truffle.”
“Tell you what. You can have the egg.”
“I’m good.” He hooked a slice of cold pizza out of the
fridge.
“One day you’ll be sorry for your poor food choices.”
This kid could bench press me and the contents of my purse,
and yesterday he finished my Zumba video while I was still searching for my
oxygen tank.
“At least I’m not on the Fred Flintstone diet. You have to eat special food to give you big
feet and bad posture?”
“It’s the natural diet of our caveman ancestors.”
“And what was their lifespan? Twenty years?”
I pondered. I have Devil’s Food Cake recipes older than
that.
“Maybe I’ll pick a different era to eat my way through.
Somewhere in between Caveman Og and Paula Deen.”
“Yeah,” he grinned, tossing the pizza crust into the
trashcan like LeBron James sinking a three-pointer.
“One carries a big stick and one carries a stick of butter.”
