Last night, I made my family a nice, healthy meal of pork tenderloin, cheesy broccoli, creamy mashed potatoes and corn on the cob. Normally I am just sitting down as everyone is finishing up, but this time, I had tasted my fill during the preparation of the meal, so I busied myself with the dishes while the boys ate their fill.
Sooner than it took me to prepare the meal, it was gone and the boys were clearing their plates from the table, when my seven-year-old brought me his plate with nothin on it but a heap of broccoli in a pool of cheese sauce.
“Why didn’t you eat your broccoli?” I asked, surprised my good eater hadn’t cleaned his plate completely.
My brothers and I inherited double joints from the Native American side of my family, so seeing my little Indian come to me with this newfound
ability reaction was of little surprise. It reminded me of Micheal J Fox in Teen Wolf and the family’s shared ability to transform into werewolves, only not nearly as interesting.
“So… this only happens when you eat broccoli?” I asked, playing along.
“Uh-huh,” he says with an innocent, disappointed look on his face.
I raise my hand and position my double joints at eye level, examining my own reaction to having eaten the broccoli. “To think all these years, I thought it was just hereditary,” I say, watching his eyes light up at the sight of our shared talent.
We both laugh and he runs off to test the rest of the family’s joints, discovering that his double joints are much sharper than those of his older brother. His little brother, we decided, was too young to tell. And his Dad… well, he didn’t eat any broccoli.