Our daughter is a picky eater. She likes what she likes (toast, buttered noodles, brownies, meat) and little else (most plants). She also has a sense of humor about food and eating.
A few days ago, the boys were talking about our recent train ride to Mall of America and brought up Rainforest Cafe, which no Thorp but Emma has ever entered (for a friend’s birthday party). The boys were speculating about the entrees, and Brendan — recalling Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, no doubt — asked if they serve monkey brains.
“I’m not sure,” said Emma, deadpan, “but not on the kids menu!”
Then this morning, she and I were eating English muffins together. “Emma,” I said sternly, “you’ve got butter on your little finger. You know what you have to do now.” Then I mimed licking my finger and savoring the white fatty goodness.
She smiled. “I’ll do that when I’m finished,” she said. “I’m gonna make sure there’s lots of butter on it!”