Last week, I set Rachel to the task of making breakfast.
Typically, my Rachel has a very gentle, ladylike demeanor. She also has a small voice that one must often strain to hear.
While cracking eggs into the bowl, she talked to her food. My ear was immediately caught on the clash of her sweet aura and her word choice.
“Little egg,” she almost sang, “I am going to kill you.”
These words, softly and sweetly spoken, were quickly followed by a determined smash on the countertop.
She would probably make a decent little pioneer woman —- the kind that goes out to catch the chicken, wrings its neck, plucks it and cooks it within the hour.
Or a really scary character in a horror movie.