Brace yourselves. We have come to the threshold of those wonderful potty talk years, where any reference to any bodily function, no matter how sanitized by euphemism, is reason for endless mirth and giggles. I have to admit, I started it. I made one of my world-famous New England-style baked bean dinners tonight. (Stacy always says I put more bacon, salt pork and brown sugar in it than actual beans - as if that could potentially be considered a design flaw.) Naturally, for the sake of their fledgling biological and organochemical educations, I had to give the yung-uns a short lesson on just what might happen to them after partaking in such a dinner. L, finding the prospects delightful, started wolfing down the beans as though there were no tomorrow. N, who is a natural dawdler when it comes to dinner, was not particularly impressed with the provender, and poked around them lazily as usual. He didn't seem much inclined to eat until we informed him that L, seated next to him, was arming herself forcefully for the evening ahead, and if he expected to return fire, he'd better do the same. After that it was all giggles and snorts as they raced to finish their dinners amid a chorus of raspberry sounds and snickers.Stacy has taken them out for an after-dinner walk. If a postprandial stroll really is as good for one's digestion as all those old English romance novels would seem to indicate, the evening upon their return may be as unlike an old English romance novel as can be imagined.
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