zilla hands me er... 'pre-loved' beet chips.

zilla: mama I want you to eat this.
me: no.  please go put that in the trash.
zilla: no.  I don't want to put it in the trash.  it tastes good.  I want you to eat it.

he puts it in my hand and closes my hand ever so slowly as if to protect the blob of purplish red.