Samantha was hungry when Josh got home with the groceries, and a rotisserie chicken. We all chatted in the kitchen as the groceries were put away and the rest of dinner finished. Samantha’s favorite sides were already cooking, potatoes and squishy carrots.
Samantha was grinning from ear to ear, standing by the chicken on the counter, seeing all the food coming. “It’s like we’re feasting!” she declared, pinging my insecurities about the main courses I usually serve. She happily shared that her favorite part of the rotisserie chicken is “the peel,” and we discovered that she’d been sneaking bites, gnawing away while we were distracted. Feasting indeed, medieval style.
She learned that the tasty seasoned “peel” she loves so much is really skin. She thought about it for awhile and said, “So this,” gesturing at the chicken, “is like a rooster?”
I affirmed, reassuring, wary, “Yes. It’s a chicken. Roosters are chickens.”
“But, Mama. I don’t think God wants us to eat roosters.”