Here's a dinner-time shock. Dylan, now six, comes home from school to inform us that he no longer likes chicken because the drum sticks he's been munching on for the last four years look like – wait for it – chicken legs.
Frankly I'm a little non-plussed because I'm pretty sure we've never hidden the fact that chicken comes from, well, chicken. However, after having explored our carnivorous dilemma for a few minutes it becomes clear that Dylan is still pretty keen on eating chicken, he'd just prefer not to be served it in distinguishable limbs.
Rather than adhere to a strict "embrace the source of your dinner" principle I've decided to indulge this phase and see where it leads. If in six months time Dylan's down to eating only pulses then I might have to intervene but somehow his deep love of bacon offers me hope that all culinary adventure hasn't been lost. (Interestingly, his sister Zelda, who would merrily jump off a cliff if Dylan did it first has no truck with this chicken boycott – though that might just be because she's assumed this is a top-down parental decree and she's just trying to spite us.)
So until I can break my son of this carcass-free existence we'll be serving chicken cube and piece dishes in our household. One of which will follow shortly.