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I would like to preface this entry by saying my family and I are practicing Catholics and I mean no disrespect in the following lines to God, the Catholic Church, or any other horrifying thing you could insinuate.  This is just a conversation between a snarky seven year old and her mother.

Boy, kids are fun, aren’t they?  When they’re not busy bashing in their sister’s face with a barbie doll (an incident that recently ocurred in this house), they’re coming up with wonderful suggestions for you to apply to your own daily life.

I had just been up to receive the holy communion.  Paige went with me, but only as a bystander, as she has not yet made her First Communion.  But she’s certainly curious about the whole process, asking me very recently, “Psst…Mom.  What does that taste like anyway?”

“Meh.  Like nothing.  Very bland.  It doesn’t really have a taste.” 

This week, as I knelt down and began my prayers, I heard in my left ear, “Hey, you should really ask them to add some flavor to that for you.” 

My mother’s grandfather came from Italy, and it seems like he brought over his love of food and flavor that has ridden the genetics all the way down through the line.  No flavor?  Blasphemy.  Of course, every Roman Catholic relative that has passed is rolling in their graves at the thought of petitioning the Pope for flavored communion wafers. 

“And what exactly should Jesus taste like?” I asked back, sarcastically.  “Chicken?” 

She giggled.  “No.  But maybe a blob of strawberry jam would be nice.”

I laughed at the absurdity of it.  And she leaned in again.  “And, by the way, you’re aware that’s not actually Jesus Christ in that cup, right?” 

And we are now at the age when she assumes her parent’s are morons and it’s her duty to keep a steady stream of information in our general direction. 

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