Mary and her siblings ate their fast food dinner in the car between picking the girls up from ballet and driving the boys to baseball practice. Later, when I sat down to eat my very hot potato soup at home, she climbed into my lap. I picked up a small spoonful, blew on it, and offered her a taste.
“Oooo, yummy,” she said.
“Would you like a bowl of your own,” I offered, “or do you just want to sit here and eat mine?”
“Eat mine,” she said. Meaning, of course, eat mine.