Thursday, January 29, 2009

Help! I'm Turning Into My Mother

Neither my mother (Love you, Mamma!) nor I should ever be trusted to watch the bread. I do not know what genetic code we are missing, but it is sadly beyond our skill level. Maybe that's why I enjoyed this little anecdote from Becky Freeman's book so much.

From Chapter 10:

For as long as I can remember, our smoke alarm has served as our family dinner bell. When our now-married son, Zeke, was five years old, I handed him a perfectly browned piece of toast one morning.

Without batting an eye the little guy took the toast--along with his dinner knife--walked to the trash can, and automatically started scraping it.

"Zeke, honey," I said cheerfully, "You don't have to scrape your toast today. Mommy didn't burn it!"

"Oh," he said thoughtfully, glancing down at the toast in surprise. "I though we always had to whittle our toast."

Crackers, anyone?

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