Well, you give your kid an honest answer to the question of where meat comes from, and it comes back to haunt you in the strangest places. Like in the supermarket on the day before Easter.
Elias and I were walking the crowded aisles, looking for ingredients to make Easter egg dye. He dutifully tagged along, dodging among all the people shopping for their holiday feasts, and started telling me what he was going to do if he saw the Easter Bunny.
-I'm going to tie the Easter Bunny up. This in his piercing, high-pitched voice.
-Um, OK, honey.
-And then I'm going to cut the line.
-Keep up, honey.
-And then I'm going to use a really sharp knife and cut his throat.
Silence from me.
-Tie, cut, cut. And then I'm going to eat all of the meat and not waste any. Isn't that very good of me?
My only consolation was the sure knowledge that the Australians around us would have a hard time understanding his three year old's American accent.
He really is a very sweet child. He just might have seen one too many tuna butchered in our cockpit, and heard one too many Alaskan hunting stories from me.
Once we got home, we forgot about Tie, Cut, Cut and got the childhood Easter onto a more traditional footing.