The Booger Man

The boy.
No, that isn't the right finger, either...In our house, over the holidays, love and goodwill abound.And so does the food.And the treats.Especially the chocolate.With, sometimes, amusing results . . .A group of us adults was sitting around the table, intent on a game of cards.Members of the younger set were dashing in and out, equally intent on activities.Games.And treats.We had just opened a new box of exotic chocolates.A gift from our dear next-door neighbours.Five different kinds of luscious, melt-able deliciousness, each in a different (intriguing) shape.Chocolate mousse.Crunchy.Espresso.Crème Broulee.And pistachio.Each more mouth-watering than the last.Our five-year-old discovered the box and immediately seized it.“What’s this?!” he said, holding it up.“Chocolates!” I said. “Really yummy ones!”“Oooh! What’s this one?!” He jabbed a finger into the chocolate mousse.“That’s dark chocolate.”“And this?” Another jab.“Hey!” his dad said, taking the box. “Don’t touch all of the chocolates with your booger-covered finger!”Da-ad!” he said, disgusted. “That’s not my booger finger!” He held up his other hand, pointer finger erect. “That one is!”At least he was honest . . .