when my mother leans out from the hallway and says, “Who was that, honey?
What have you got there? Eggs?” I could tell by the look on her face that she was hot to scramble.
“Yeah,” I said, and handed them to her. “But I’m having cereal.”
She opened the carton, then closed it with a smile. “How nice!” she said. “Who brought them over?”
“Juli. She grew them.” “Grew them?” “Well, her chickens did.”
“Oh?” Her smile started falling as she opened the carton again. “Is that so. I didn’t know she had… chickens.”
“Remember? You and Dad spent an hour watching them hatch at last year’s science fair?”
Well, how do we know there’re not… chicks inside these eggs?
I shrugged. “Like I said, I’m having cereal.” We all had cereal, but what we talked about were eggs.
My dad thought they’d be just fine – he’d had farm-fresh eggs when he was a kid and said they were delicious.
My mother, though, couldn’t get past the idea that she might be cracking open a dead chick,
and pretty soon discussion turned to the role of the rooster – something me and my Cheerios could’ve done without.
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