Table Conversation

For supper today I made fish sticks, french fries, and fruit salad mixed with leftover Cool Whip.

"This meal wasn't so much cooked as assembled," I remarked at the table.

"I want more," Sasha said, reaching for the fruit.

"Sometimes it bothers me," I said, "that I don't know how to butcher a pig or a cow, though I could probably do a chicken if I had to."

"Sometimes it bothers me," Kala said, "that you think about things like that."

"In my country," Sasha put in, "we killed pigs every year. We stick something in their chest, into their heart. They squeal for a long time, and then they finally die. Then we burn the skin to . . . to . . . "

"To get the bristles off?" I supplied.

He nodded. "Yeah. That's it. You know what my favorite food from a pig is?"

"What?" I asked.

"I don't know the name," he answered. "But you take the tubes from inside the pig and fill them with blood and cook them and eat them."

"That's blood sausage," I said.

"Yep," Kala said.

"It's delicious," Sasha said.

"Where the heck would you get blood sausage around here?" I asked.

Kala shrugged. "No clue. Zingerman's?"

We have some of the weirdest conversations at our table. And now we have to track down a supplier for blood sausage.