Going To Tell Him To Play In Traffic Next?

(I work as a historical interpreter, teaching folks how people lived “back then.” Our home features a fire, which is the lifeblood of the house. Without it, there would be no warmth, no cooked food, no hot water, etc. There is a sign out front with rules of entry. Three of the rules are, “Please do not touch,” “Please do not enter roped-off areas,” and, “The fire is real and hot.” We keep the fire roped off. Today, the fire is glowing red and throwing off a nice heat, as it is a cold day. A father and son enter. The son, aged about four, points to the fire.)

Son: “Dad! Look! Is that fire real?”

Dad: “No, of course not! That would be too dangerous. Go touch it and see.”

Me: “Nooooooo!”

Son: *starts crying*

Dad: “Don’t yell at my boy! He wasn’t going to hurt anything!”

Me: “Only his hand when he picked up a burning hot coal. Can’t you feel the heat from here?”

Dad: “From the heater?” *looks around*

Me: “From the fire — the real fire — which is crackling, and over which I am cooking this roast that you can smell.”

Dad: “But the fire is real! That’s dangerous!”

Me: “That’s why it is roped off.”

(The boy has stopped crying now, and I’m considering launching into a speech about hearth deaths, when the mother walks in and sniffs.)

Mum: “Oh, that smells like real meat!”

Me: “It is; it’s cooking over our real fire.”

Mum: “Wow. So, what are you going to do with it once it’s cooked?”

(I sighed and patiently explained for the millionth time that yes, we were actually going to eat our real meal, cooked over our real fire, and we were eating it because we were hungry.)