Imogen had another stomach ache a few days ago, conveniently coinciding with another room cleaning session. Finally, I offered her some pepto bismol, which she accept. I measured out tablespoon and fed it to her, with much delight at the horrible faces she made. Shuddering, she said, "That is the worst stuff I have ever tasted. Except quiche." My jaw dropped.
Offended that my quiche could possibly be compared to pepto bismol, I asked, "What's wrong with quiche?!"
"I don't like it," she said dismissively.
"Well, guess what's for dinner?" I said. "Quiche!" I had planned this, but not told anyone. It was ironic, to say the least.
Imogen glared at me. "How long have you been planning this?" she said.
She ended up loving it.
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