To those who know me, it's no secret that chicken is not my favorite protein. Unless, of course, it's battered and fried, but most everything is better battered and fried. Although I do not care a great deal for chicken; I buy it, prepare it, serve it to my family, and eat it.
Last night, the kid asked what we were having for dinner. She, like me, also does not care a great deal for chicken. I told her that as long as the chicken in the fridge was still good, I was going to make that. Normally, she melts into a whiny puddle of 5-year-old, but this time she said, "Yay, is it the chicken that dad bought?" He bought the groceries, so yes, it's the chicken that he bought. With a leery look on my face, I let her know that it's the chicken he bought, the chicken we always buy.
Later that evening, I prepared dinner. A baked chicken parmesan of sorts. I cut it up on her plate and put her up to the table. She says, with a disgusted tone, "It has cheese on it?!" Yes, it does. Then she says to me, with a look on her face like I have just served her something from the toilet, "How did you turn the chicken that dad bought into this?!"
What kind of frickin' chicken does she think he bought?! He bought chicken, I cooked chicken. I prepared a chicken dish. Believe it or not, I am not a chicken magic maker. I do not have a wand that takes chicken and turns it into "other" chicken.
But, as usual, no measure of logic got through that little skull of hers. She baffles me. And I apparently baffle her as well.
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