My wife and I had dinner Sunday night at the home of some neighbors. Good food, better company, but the floor show was an utter disgrace.
During the course of gorging ourselves on takeout barbecue, my 9-year-old grand-neighborson — a word I just invented to illustrate the nature of our relationship — turned red and gasped.
I had no idea what was happening. Neither did my wife. Luckily, Ethan’s parents knew exactly. Both of their sons have serious peanut allergies. The only problem was that there were no peanuts in the food. We looked.
Ethan — when he was capable of conversing in something other than wheezes — alerted us to the coleslaw.