This morning the rosy fingers of Dawn touched our backyard, turning it into a giant pink popsicle. The world was sheathed in ice and, of course, schools were closed. I told my children that in the face of the beautiful but treacherous outdoors, we would have to stay inside and we might run out of food.
WARNING: If you are incapable of seeing humor in cannibalism you should probably stop reading right about now!
“If we run out food,” I told my children, “we’ll have to eat one of us. Who should it be?”
My children quickly agreed that it should be me as there is plenty of me to feed the family.
“But,” I countered, “men tend to be tough and chewy.” Then nibbling on my daughter’s arm, I observed, “You are nice and tender. But there isn’t very much of you. We’d get hungry pretty quick. That leaves you!”
I pointed to my son.
“No Daddy. Not me!”
“Well, if I am too tough, your sister is too little and you don’t want to do it – who is left?”
“Mommy, we’ll eat mommy.” There were three of us, that makes a quorum. So we went upstairs and stared at my sleeping wife. The force of our combined glare caused her to stir.
“Mommy,” the kids yelled (as though they were capable of any other kind of communication), “We decided if we run out of food we are going to eat you!”
“But first,” I added sheepishly, “can you show me how to change the propane on the grill? Oh, and where do you keep the mole sauce?”