While eating tangerines for breakfast today
I peel back each seed-containing segment at the seam, and squeeze out the seeds. Then I hand the piece to Mackenzie, who wolfs it down, grinning as colorful juice streams down her chin.
This goes on for a tangerine and a half, then she strikes up a conversation with her food.
“Hello Seeds, how are you?”
I see she is peering into the split part of the segment, smiling benevolently at the occupants I had overlooked.
The seeds, respond (apparently). “Ok!”
“You are in your orange, ok?”
No response.
“Shut the door!” She says, as she closes the segment back up. I’m stifling laughter from across the room.
“Greeaaat!” comes next. While it’s unclear whether that comment is from my two year old or the hapless seeds in the tangerine, it occurs to me that if the seeds had any concept of their future they would surely be less upbeat.
“Bye bye!” She says nonchalantly as she crams the segment in her mouth.
My dad calls her a delicate flower. After this morning’s massacre, I have my doubts.