One of the only nice things about my oldest daughter being away for the summer is that nobody ever asks me "what's for dinner?" I can't stand that question! So demanding, so assuming, so needy. But baby Estie doesn't speak English yet, and the hubs knows better than to ask, so I haven't heard that question in like two months. It's been nice. Usually I just give B. a few options and we pick together, or he offers to cook if I don't say anything. And sometimes there's nothing planned at all. I call those "fend for yourself nights," and they usually end in frozen pizza. Last night was one of those nights. I let B. know ahead of time that there was basically just spaghetti and mayonnaise in the house, so he picked up a rotisserie chicken on the way home. Such a doll! Anyway, he asked me to save the wishbone when I was disposing of the carcass (gotta love that word). Today when I got home from work I saw it there on the counter, all dry and pale, languishing in the lamp light next to the butter dish. And I got to thinking... that's a bone from a dead animal. On my counter. Gross. I'm no hipster vegan, I ate the hell outta that chicken - but saving its bone as a souvenir, to do things with later? Like a war trophy? What a morbid little tradition that is. It's no different than keeping a scalp on your belt, really. Yuck. It got me wondering how the whole wishbone concept even started, so I went over to my shelf of encyclopedias... haha! Anyway, I googled it, and it turns out the tradition is like 2,500 years old, originating with these dudes called the Etruscans who thought chickens could predict the future. I won't bore you with the macabre details, but the point is: why are we still doing this? I mean, I love my farm-fresh eggs, but I don't hang around the coop for one of the hens to read my palms after she lays. It's just nonsense. But then again, Christmas, Easter, Valentine's day, etc... I digress.
So I guess the takeaway lesson here can be summed up with two points, which I will illustrate photographically:
1. I got the bigger half when the hubs and I broke the wishbone, so I win.
2. Perhaps you remember Buck and Forrest,
the two former deer hanging on my living room wall?
So the lesson, in case you weren't paying attention, is
1 + 2 =
1 + 2 =
I'm a big fat hypocrite.