"So, Bean," I ask, "what would you like for your birthday lunch and dinner?"
Her eyes light up. This is a family tradition; the birthday girl or boy gets to choose the day’s menu. She ponders.
"For lunch, French toast!" she announces, fairly crackling with joy. Then her expression shifts: now she is virtuous. "And for dinner, a good meal. You know, something you make that I won’t eat much of."
Sometimes It’s Hard to Tell
I Guess I’ll Have to Wait for the Meaning of Life to Be Revealed Another Time
I Always Suspected that Cheery Demeanor Was a Ruse
Because It’s All About the Silhouette
I know, I know, it serves me right