Mama says I do you proud. No, not merely because I am a carbon copy of your mother, the looker in the family. But because I eat my chicken like any self respecting Bengali woman would. Right down to nothing. Which is like you and unlike her.
The family has usually gotten up and walked away post-dessert but I will be found wandering around the house, my sticky little face covered with gravy and a chicken bone chewed beyond recognition in my hand. It keeps me occupied for at least an hour after dinner and should anyone be foolhardy enough to even attempt extricating it from my grubby fingers, I scream blue murder. Just like you.
I’m thinking of permanently moving to live with you and G’pa since the philistines who gave birth to me don’t know how to appreciate a good leg of chicken.