At first, I thought my son had asked for tomato soup.
“No,” said Owen. “I want tornado soup.”
Tornado soup?
I looked in the pantry. “We don’t have any. How about vegetable?”
Owen shook his head.
“Clam chowder?”
“Yuck.”
“Chicken and stars?”
“I want Tornado!” he yelled.
Yelling is a no-no in our house, and Owen spent the rest of the day in his room, without supper.
Or, so I thought.
That night, I checked on him.
His room was a mess. Everything tossed around and knocked over.
Like a tornado had hit it.
“It was delicious,” mumbled Owen, half-asleep.