Winchell Cuts the Cheese

We are doing our level best to raise a cultured young man who will appreciate language, art, food, and literature. We've researched an international preschool that teaches curriculum in Spanish, French, and English. Children graduate to Kindergarten speaking three languages and wearing little berets while listening to (and appreciating) jazz.

We've already discussed which instrument that Michael should play. The violin leads the pack because that's the instrument that the super brains of my school years all seemed to play. It might be ok for Michael to play the saxophone like his daddy did, but what if he turned out like Bill Clinton? Grampy would never stand for such a thing.

We would also like to instill an appreciation for varying foods and textures. We hope not to raise a picky eater, one of those stereotypical little weasels who will only consider eating McDonalds Chicken McNuggets, pizza, or candy. Mikey eats what we eat, be it butternut squash, edamame, grilled chicken, or broccoli.

When it comes to books, it all falls apart. Michael's absolute favorite book is Winchell Cuts the Cheese. This contemporary fiction is a coming of age story about a young pig who learns valuable lessons about how his actions and odoriferous emanations affect the lives of his peers on the farm. It is the great American farting pig story. He begins the story unrepentant and dishonest about his gas to the great dismay of sheep, duck, mutt, and mouse. By the end, he realizes the error of his ways. While he does not give up his three bean salad or the eponymous cheese cutting, he does realize that an "Excuse Me." can soothe offended noses.

This is Michael's favorite book. He will find it in the other room and bring it to me. His insistent calls of "book...book...book..." are irresistable, so away we go. When Winchell cuts the cheese, the illustrations depict great green clouds billowing forth. On these pages, Michael dutifully narrates with loud raspberries, aka farting sounds. It gets me every time.

I suppose our violin-playing, foodie, francophile will just have to grow up appreciating a good fart joke and book. That might not be so bad after all.