The Terrible Chicken Salad Incident
In which my wife attempts to murder our daughter
A year or so before our youngest daughter Kate went off to college, her mother prepared a light dinner for the three of us. We had picked up some lovely veggie-infused bread earlier in the week and had decided that it would go very nicely with chicken salad.
Linda didn’t make sandwiches; she served the chicken salad in a mound beside two bread slices. It looked quite lovely as we sat down to eat. A lovely day, a lovely meal. What could be better? We dug in to our meal.
Kate began to chew a fork full but immediately spit it out, claiming that she had bitten something hard. She began a careful dissection of the ejected food but could not find anything suspicious.
Linda and I were happily eating our food. Linda did suggest that the “something hard” might have only been a piece of celery, but Kate was having none of that nonsense. She was sure that it was a piece of bone.
I expected that the rest of her chicken was heading for our plates or the garbage, but Kate surprised me by pressing on with her meal. Linda and I continued with our own and found nothing objectionable.
“Very nice,” I opined, but just then, Kate spat into her napkin again. Linda howled.
