We were on our way to KFC for dinner, because I’m classy that way and it’s only the best for my family.
I don’t know why I periodically crave KFC. I would guess that the 11th herb or spice must be crack cocaine, except that I don’t think they make a version of crack that you would crave only once or twice a year. Maybe it’s the mind-boggling number of different shapes of chicken you can get in a single store. It certainly isn’t the clear, informative menu posted behind the counter. My dear Colonel, as your friend I must tell you that your menu board has never enlightened anyone about the various manifestations of chicken and chicken-like products you serve. Your front counter is a reservoir of confusion, where customers and cashiers meet to gaze in wonder at the petroglyphs above and ponder their possible meanings.
Anyway, I was driving to KFC to get some spherical chunks of chicken for me and my family when my son called out from the back seat, “Hey look, I found some white trash.”
Okay, just because I have a sudden taste for KFC does not mean you get to call me names.
I glanced over my shoulder. The boy was holding up an old, curled register receipt. It was white and it was very likely trash. I was relieved that he was not, in fact, hurling an insult at me. I reassured myself that KFC was a fine, upstanding establishment and I was perfectly within my rights to enjoy one of its many incarnations of poultry.
At the store, the cashier and I went through the mutually baffling routine known as placing my order. We got most of what I thought I’d ordered, which I counted as a success, and went to eat in the pristine dining room for which all KFCs are famous.
Our dinner conversation settled upon the issue of whether our boys more closely resemble myself or my wife. People tell us one or the other, but we have never been convinced of a strong resemblance between either boy and either parent.
My wife asked our older son to put his face next to mine.
“Why?” he asked.
“Mommy wants to look at us together so she can tell if you look like me,” I explained.
His look communicated that he thought this a preposterous idea. Running his palm over the crown of his head, as if modeling his skull for Men’s Fitness Magazine, he replied, “I have lots of hair right here, so I don’t look like you.”
The kid was on fire, tonight. This one wasn’t a coincidence. This one was targeted shot. Fortunately, I am comfortable with the amount of hair on top of my head – more comfortable than I was with random chicken bits on my plate.