Context: we eat Sunday dinner en famille. Husband cooks. Often he has a beer with dinner. Nothing excessive, just a beer. Nonetheless, it seems we're raising alcoholics.
Winton routinely asks for a sip of Husband's weekly beer. Again, nothing outrageous: the boy gets one sip of beer once a week, and only if his mouth is clean.
Winton has, however, run up to the parent of one of Clara's friends and announced, apropos of nothing, "I like red beer, not black beer or yellow beer." He's four. He has preferences. But the impression this gives to the outside world is that we live in a trailer with a fence made of beer cans (we don't), and that child services should step in (please don't: we're actually a very responsible establishment over here in B'more).
Anyway: last night . . . .
Clara: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a brewmaster!"
Winton: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a brewnmaster."
Clara: "I'll make strawberry beer."
Husband: "You know, fruit beers are called lambicks."
Clara: "Are they real?"
Husband: "Yes. And you need science to make beer."
[Clara's eyes widen with wonder]
Winton: "I'm going to make blueberry-banana beer!"
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