Busily browning a pork tenderloin at the stove, the gentle shaking sound caused me to turn my head and perform a visual investigation.
I inhaled sharply, “Oh no. Oh no. Oh, Ben.”
Shake. Shake. Shake. Ben didn’t even look at me. He was completely engrossed with the wonderful, fine dust, erupting from the container.
“Oh, Ben. Not good.” I shut the heat off the stove, turning my attention from the dead pig to the lively boy.
He expertly moved the little plastic top with his chubby finger. Open. Close. Open. He gave it a few more good shakes.
I took the greatly emptied spice container, dust-busted him up as best I could, stripped the man down, and procured fresh clothes. I shooed him off to play somewhere else, and went back to fixing dinner.
Opening a bottle of red wine, I set the nutmeg back on the low shelf and reflected. It was honestly my fault. I had forgotten that he knew how to operate those spice containers, and had handed him one to play with. I took a swig, straight from the bottle.
At least it wasn’t the chili powder, I thought, as I corked the wine and chuckled to myself. What a funny kid.