The Day Mom Tried to Kill Me

When I was a little kid, my mom took me and my sister to visit my nana.  My papa was a big wheel in a construction company and so nana and papa were always moving around the province, building a dam or a mine or something.   We hardly ever got to see them as these jobs took years to finish sometimes.  I’m not sure where this story took place, but my guess is McLeese Lake, BC.

We were sitting around the kitchen one day, and my nana asked me if I’d like some apple sauce.  Where my sister was, and why she wasn’t getting apple sauce, I have no idea.  Anyways, she brought me a little dish of apple sauce and I dug in.  It was terrible.  It tasted nothing like any apple sauce I had ever had.   I screwed up my face and told nana how awful it was.  I may have even started to cry.  My mom’s reaction was not what I was hoping for.  “You rude little brat!  It’s delicious and you’re going to eat every bit of it.” This, even though I was clearly dying there at the table.  I was bawling and alone, no one was taking my side.  There were tears and snot, but the sauce continued to be slowly consumed.  After several excruciating spoonfuls of viscous hell, my mom took a little spoonful to see what the fuss was about and discovered I had been eating a nice little dish of chicken fat.
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What sort of monster keeps a little dish of chicken fat in the fridge is a question for another day.  But if you do, put a label on it for god’s sake!

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