Yesterday I cooked Cornish hens for the first time since Evan was a baby. They thawed in the fridge in their plastic wrap and then I took them out and unwrapped them, setting them on the counter in a glass pan.
As I washed them Evan and Seth wandered into the kitchen. They asked for a snack and then inquired what I was doing, I told them I was making dinner. I don't know which one counted the birds but the total was quickly shouted, "Those are four chickens!" I agreed with the assessment.
Evan: "FOUR CHICKENS! TELL ME THOSE AREN'T OUR CHICKENS!"
Seth: "You murdered our chickens?! You can't make me eat them! Peep, wahh!"
I didn't exactly rush to prove them wrong. I let them wallow in their accusations and assumptions for a bit. Finally tiring of the noise, I said, "Weren't you just outside? Didn't you see your chicks out there?"
Evan: "Seth, lets go check and see if they're alive!"
Seth: (Already racing for the door.)
I began putting the rub on the hens. The boys return in better spirits.
Evan: "Phew, mom, they're out there."
Seth: "You scared us to death.... (Smiles devilishly) HEY, KANE! MOM IS COOKING OUR CHICKENS FOR DINNER TONIGHT!"