I called it ... ish. Evening. An email from my mother ....
"Chicken quesadilla is what your dad said he wanted for supper. I started cooking chicken breasts.
Your father headed to the computer, because I had told him about "Spring...". Another post had come up. He read "Spring...", then started to read the most recent one.
He was bouncing in the chair, and started calling to me to come in.
I told him I was prepping his carrots and celery. I cut up some extras, started making chicken broth, and prepped two sweet potatoes. Since you're fighting an upper respiratory infection, and I was prepping most of the vegies anyway, I thought I'd make a small homemade chicken soup for you.
Your dad finished your post, and was calling to me to come in. I called out, "I'll be there in just another minute. You've got to read it to me. What's it about?
He said, "Her being sick."
I went in and sat in the swivel chair. "What's the title?" I asked.
He said, "Knock, knock...".
"Oh! She did it about Dixie knock-knock joke cups!" Your father's bubble was burst.
He still got a kick out of reading your post to me. He would turn, and say he remembered making different faces on your plates, and described them.
After he finished reading, he said to me, "That wasn't much of a clue. How did you get it as soon as I said knock-knock?" Add two and two: you were writing about being sick. Knock-knock."
Yup! Without even reading the post about the canned soup, homemade soup was "wrapped in a brown paper package and tied up with string" ... ready to go for tomorrow.
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