I made wontons last weekend. Pork wontons.
I put little spoonfuls of delicious, pungent, gingery filling into the squares and folded them the closest I could to the way people fold them in restaurants.
Edie came in from the outside, dirty, barefooted and hair falling in her eyes. I pulled her up onto the counter so she could see me working the dough on the wooden board, carefully covering the little parcels of meat.
She looked at my wontons, my lovely handi-work, things made of love from my own hands and said, "I can't eat those. They look like vaginas...And we don't eat vaginas."
Not. Saying. Another. Word.