We had roast chicken on the menu the other day and Thomas was helping me prepare the bird.
Big Tom: Mama where does this chicken come from?
Me: Erm . . . from the farm.
BT: And how did he come to our house?
Me: Erm . . . he cames from the shop
BT: How did he get to the shop?
Interjection: So here I am thinking do I tell him the truth or some lame story? Being the kind of person I am, I decide to go for gold and be honest.
Me: The farmer looks for the old chickens and chop off their heads and . . .
BT: Nooooo Mama! Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! Floods of tears.
DH walking into the kitchen: What’s happening in here?
BT in between great big sobs: Mama says the farmer chops off the chicken’s head. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
DH just said: Dude, how could you?
I walked out and found something else to do.
Once my assistant chef had calmed down and his father had given him the Happily Ever After version of how the chicken came to our house, he came to help me in the kitchen and peace once again reigned.
BT: Mama (sob sob) the (sob sob) farmer (sob sob) doesn’t chop of the chicken’s head (sob sob). You musn’t say (sob sob) that (sob sob sob!)
I made a conscious decision to not beat around the bush and spin some lame story when it comes to the important stuff like death, sex and so forth but eish . . . I misjudged this one.
DH reckons I might just have turned Thomas into a vegetarian . . . which is probably cool because he has quite an appetite for meat!