chicken

At my sister’s on Sunday, we were all sitting around the table, seeing who could do what facial “tricks” — you know, who could make their tongue a hot dog, roll their tongue over, wink both eyes individually, etc. This all started because I had a vague recollection of learning in high school biology that these thing were all genetic, that if you could wiggle your ears, for instance, at least one of your parents must be able to do it as well. So the nephews and niece and their parents immediately began seeing who could do what. It was hilarious, really. You know, grown adults, children, everyone, just sitting around a table on a Sunday afternoon, making hot dog tongues.

In the middle of all of this goofiness, Piper suddenly blurted, “There’s a boy in my kinnergarden class who can put his tongue in his nose! I saw him do it and he said it tastes like chicken!”

She said it with dead-on timing. Perfect delivery. Didn’t start giggling or laughing because she didn’t think she was saying anything funny; she was simply sharing this deeply astounding news. But the rest of us — died. We were gone. Her look of epiphany, of “wow, snot tastes like chicken!?” was just too much to bear.

For the next five minutes, falling over, gone.