Mummy…is the chicken that we eat made or killed?

This was the question I faced last week. The little cherub burst into tears as I served her dinner, and I mean full on, shaky hands, crying. It seems it had finally dawned on her that the meat we eat might actually be dead animals.

Tears rolling down her face, she asked again, “does someone make this chicken Mummy?”. Clearly she was pleading, hoping, wishing that chicken is made in a factory somewhere near Hull, out of recycled paper and plastic by staff who live an organic lifestyle.

What could I say? It’s hard enough to get them to eat a balanced diet without her going vegetarian on me (I have nothing against this in adults, and I was myself a non-meat-eater for many years). So I lied. I told her it was made. She looked at me for a minute to check for signs of lying, but seemed convinced, and duly tucked in.

Grandma seemed appalled I had fibbed. “How long do you think you can keep that lie up,” she said. “Maybe ’till she’s ten?”

Well, I reckon I’ve got six months at least.

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