Colonel Sanders

Last night we picked up a rotisserie chicken from the grocery store for dinner. Here was the highly appetizing conversation we had while we ate:

Mom, is this dead chicken or what?

Yes, it is for us to eat from the store.

Yes, but is it dead?

I certainly hope so.

But how did it get dead? Did they put it in a pot and take out its feathers?

No. To be honest I'm not sure how it became dead. I know that on a small farm they chop the chicken's head off in one cut so that the chicken is dead right away.

Oh. Did they cut this chicken's head off?

I don't know, Baby.

But how did he get to where they deaded him?

Well, he was born from an egg, then they fed him until he was bigger, and then they killed him so that people could eat him.

Oh.

By this point I was no longer touching my food and felt like busting out my checkbook in support of some chicken's rights group. I had the irrational thought that I should close the blinds so that no one could see my murderous meal.

Ana, surprisingly, was undeterred. She ate every last bite.