Sunday afternoon finds me playing daddy chef. Today’s specials are chicken nuggets with a delicious tomato reduction sauce, and pan seared cheddar sandwiches, featuring the finest bleached white flour bread.
Makelle orders her usual: 6 nuggets. Makinley opts for the pan seared cheddar & white flour cake delicacy (sans crust, of course).
You would think that in her 8 years, (a handful of which she has been literate), she would have made this discover by now. Alas, today will go down in infamy: the day when the grand mystery was laid open: “Daddy, where do chicken nuggets come from?”
“Chicken…. breast …. nuggets”, she slowly read from the bag, her face contorting more with each word.
Makinley looked toward me in disgust and cupped her hands in front of her chest. This was no ordinary gesture. It was that universal, inborn sign language typically only seen exhibited by men. You know what I’m talking about – the way you see men gesturing in Victoria’s Secret in embarrassing efforts to describe their beloved’s bosoms to quietly amused bra sales girls.
“Chicken boobs? THAT’s where they come from? EEEWWWW!!!!!”
(kind of reminds me of a favorite prank call I would regularly make to the local KFC when I was a kid, but that’s a story for another day)
A discussion about why chickens don’t wear bras eventually calmed her down.
I love my kids. I’ll never be able to order McNuggets without a good laugh from now on. And thus, my world is forever a happier place. 🙂