High Class

“Do we have cauliflower?” she asked after he mentioned broccoli.

“Nope, just broccoli,” he answered.

“Why don’t we have cauliflower?” she persisted.

“Because I didn’t buy any,” he said, not giving in.

After finishing her broccoli, she watched as he slid the grilled chicken on to her plate.  Together now, they began to eat.

“Oh,” he interrupted, “did you want barbecue sauce?”

“Yes,” she said, “the new sauce.”

“I know, I know.  You didn’t like the hot stuff.”

“Hot stuff?”

“Nevermind.  Here’s your sauce.  And here’s my sauce.”

To the sound of silverware squishing into chicken, they returned to the task at hand.  Suddenly, she let out a shriek.

“What?” he asked, fearful that even the new sauce was too hot.

Spitting out the chicken, she replied, “I don’t like the roasted ones.  That one’s roasted.”


“See daddy?  Roasted,” she said, pointing at the grill marks on the chicken.

“Oh.  You don’t like the burnt part.  Excuse me, the roasted part.  Okay, you don’t have to eat it,” he allowed.  “High class H-, you’re high class,” he thought, pride swelling.


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