say what you think, son.

Dinner table.

He’s down to the last few bites of salad left in his bowl.

Bergen turns to me.

“Momma, do I have to eat the last two leaves in my bowl?”

he asks, pointing to the arugula.

“No,” I tell him.  “You’ve eaten all the rest.  You can be finished.”

He smiles.

“Good.  To me this tastes like melted PVC pipes.”