What Did He Say?

         Aiden sat on a kitchen chair playing with a tear in his shoe. When he wasn't poking a stubby finger through it he was sticking his shoe lace into it, over and over.

         "Hey Aiden, why don't you come over here and help me make supper? If you help, we can eat sooner."

         With a shrug and pushing the hair from his eyes, my three-year old grandson joined me at the kitchen island.

         "What is that stuff? Will I like it?"

         He sniffed at the chicken I was about to roll in bread crumbs. I caught him just before his tongue tried a lick.

         "I hope so. Poppa likes it. Please don't play with the bread crumbs. Here, wanna crack an egg?"

         He reached for the egg and immediately crushed it in his hand. Egg yolk splattered everywhere. He just wiped the goo on his t-shirt.

         My hubby strolled into the room and asked what was for supper. I didn't look at him as I replied, "Chicken."

         I dropped the piece in my hand when Aiden began to whimper. Big fat tears rolled from his blue eyes and spilled down his chubby cheeks.

         "I don't like bottle chicken," he blubbered.

         I wiped his damp face and turned to his Grandfather.

         "Um," said my husband and father of six, " he could mean bought chicken. We tried KFC last week and he spit it out."

         I tried to mask my laugh and instead choked.

         "I don't blame you Aiden. Kentucky Fried Chicken is terrible bottle chicken."

(254 words)