WARNING: If you haven’t had dinner yet, DO NOT READ! And, I apologize in advance for this post.
As you might imagine with a husband who teaches philosophy for a living, conversations around our dinner table tend to be rather highbrow. Here, for example, is what the professor had to say when he finally made it back home in a cast after his fall down the mountain our family now routinely uses air quotes to refer to as: “Mount Pleasant.”
“You think the leg cheese under your shin guards is bad after a soccer game,” he said to my daughter, “Imagine how bad it will be when my cast comes off. My leg will probably be completely coated in a slimy layer of ripe brie.”
To put what happened next into context, you need to know that my fourteen year old boy lives to shock us with gross stories he’s heard from his fellow pubescents or gleaned from the bowels of the internet. He is also going through a growth spurt that makes him ravenously hungry. You can’t even imagine the staggering quantities of food he eats. All this to say, it takes some high octane intellectual firepower to both disgust him and cause him to lose his appetite.
He recoiled in a rictus of visceral horror, dropped his fork with a loud clatter, and pushed his plate away.
“DAD! We’re eating! And this salad has feta in it. I seriously can’t eat any more.”
Pray for me, friends. It’s going to be a very long few months…