My daughter nearly gave me a heart attack last week.
We were sitting around the dinner table, and my wife gave me an orange.
"Do you remember what these are called?" she asked. "We get them every year around this time."
I was stumped. "Uhh, oranges."
"No, they're not quite oranges. They start with a T."
"Trains!" says my 7-year-old son.
"Tangerines," offers my 9-year-old daughter.
"Trojans?" says my 13-year-old daughter.
My daughter realized she might have said the same thing when she saw the horrified look on my wife's and my faces.
"Where did you learn about those?" I choked out, trying to ignore the shooting pain down my left arm.
"In history class. They fought in the Trojan War, had the big wooden horse."
My wife and I heaved a sigh of relief.
"Why, what are they?"
"We'll tell you later," we promised.
Much later.
(The answer we were looking for was "tangelos." We would have also accepted "Minneolas.")
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We were sitting around the dinner table, and my wife gave me an orange.
"Do you remember what these are called?" she asked. "We get them every year around this time."
I was stumped. "Uhh, oranges."
"No, they're not quite oranges. They start with a T."
"Trains!" says my 7-year-old son.
"Tangerines," offers my 9-year-old daughter.
"Trojans?" says my 13-year-old daughter.
My daughter realized she might have said the same thing when she saw the horrified look on my wife's and my faces.
"Where did you learn about those?" I choked out, trying to ignore the shooting pain down my left arm.
"In history class. They fought in the Trojan War, had the big wooden horse."
My wife and I heaved a sigh of relief.
"Why, what are they?"
"We'll tell you later," we promised.
Much later.
(The answer we were looking for was "tangelos." We would have also accepted "Minneolas.")
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