Oh, that.

Step daughter is standing in front of the refrigerator, staring blankly in to it.

After a moment or two I ask what the issue is.

“I’m looking for something to eat,” she says.

“I made blintzes this morning. There is one left.”

“Really? Where?”

“Right in there,” I say, pointing inside at the top shelf.

“I don’t see it,” she says.

I take a closer look inside, and notice that the foil pouch containing the last blintz is not where I’d left it.

“Huh, that’s funny. I put it right there just a little while ago.”

“Where?”

“On the top shelf. I wrapped it up in a little foil packet.”

“Oh, that. I already ate that,” she says.

Long pause.

I stared at her, not sure where to begin. “So, when I mentioned the blintz, and you said… aah, forget it.”

Kids often say we don’t understand them. I have to concede that point.