Since my 8-year-old son thinks he’s a hobbit, and since hobbits require Second Breakfast, we swing into a McDonald’s to get him a sausage biscuit meal. I feel it’s important to mention we don’t usually do McDonald’s. It isn’t that we’re food snobs. It’s that we like to know a bit more about where our food comes from. Going on past experience, the food at McDonald’s doesn’t have much personality. And by personality, I mean I don’t remember the food talking.
“Come on, kid,” whispers Sausage Biscuit. “I’m delicious. Eat me.”
Smiling, Mainard raises the breakfast sandwich to his face.
“Hold on,” I say, grabbing my son’s arm and lowering it to address the sandwich. “Why’s it so important you get eaten?”
The sandwich, staring at me from its paper wrapper, says, “I had a dream. Okay?”
Groggy and thoroughly puzzled, owing to the fact that hobbit dads require much caffeine before nine, I ask, “You dreamt you’d get eaten today?”
“That’s right,” replies Sausage Biscuit, a bit defensively. “What? You think you got the monopoly on dreams?”
“Last night I dreamt I won Power Ball,” says my son’s hash brown.
“Come on, Dad,” says Mainard. Then, to the sandwich, he grins and adds, “You do look delicious.”
“Thank you,” says Sausage Biscuit.
“Hold on,” I say again, shaking my head to clear it. “You don’t talk to strangers, son. You know better.”
“Technically I’m stranger food,” replies Sausage Biscuit. “But I’m not stranger than the turducken.”
At this, we all stick out our bottom lips and nod in agreement. Even the hash brown and chocolate milk.
“Come on, Dad,” pleads Mainard. “I’m hungry, okay? Second breakfast. Hobbit.”
“But you don’t know this sausage biscuit,” I reply. “He could be anyone. He could be a bank robber.”
“Yes, well,” says Sausage Biscuit, “You’re rather quick to assume the worst, now, aren’t you?”
Ignoring the talking breakfast sandwich, I address my son, using the Stern Dad Voice. “You wouldn’t want to eat a bank robber, would you?”
Mainard smiles, an eager glint in his eye. “If it was a ravioli, heck yeah!”

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