When I was a kid, I hid in the pantry and ate a spoonful of Crisco, mistaking it for vanilla cake icing.
I'm setting up Connor for similar loss of innocence tomorrow: We are out of bread, except for a mysterious loaf of rye and pumpernickel swirl. Why we have it, who eats it, who bought it: It's all beyond me.
If Connor is anything like me—and he is—he will open up his lunch tomorrow, mistake the pumpernickel swirl for chocolate cake swirl, and grimace in horror after that first bite. Been there, done that. My apologies in advance, Bug.