“Mom, do we have any baguette?”
I squint at the plastic wrapper that once contained a baguette, and which now lies limply on the kitchen counter like a snake’s shed skin.
I wrinkle my nose as I pick the bag up gingerly and peer inside.
“There’re just these two little nubbins, and they are rock hard.”
With just two heels of bread swaddled in its flimsy coils, it is hard to tell which is the wrapper’s open end. As I attempt to wrest the stale ends from their casing, they fall out the open end onto the floor.
“Also, they’ve been on the floor,” I add.
“So,” I continue, to sum up, “they are not only stale little nubbins, they are also stale little nubbins that have been on the floor.”
“I’ll take them,” the younger says.
I shrug and hand them over.
“Floor nubbin!” trills the elder, in his best ad jingle voice. “The new nubbin.”
“Now with extra floor!” I add.