My daughters see crusts as specifically designed to warn people they have reached the end of their sandwich, and if they keep going, they'll bite their fingers.

I never realized when I became a parent my diet would consist mostly of sandwich crusts. But here we are.

My daughters see the crusts as more of a stopping point than as food. As if the crust specifically was designed to warn people they have reached the end of their sandwich, and if they keep going, they'll bite their fingers.

The crust simply is a sandwich handle.

One day, I told my 3-year-old we could eat anything she wanted for lunch. "Peanut butter and jelly!" she replied. "With the crusts cut off!"

"Are you sure?" I asked. "We can have anything."

She looked sideways at me and repeated slowly, "Peanut. Butter. And. Jelly."

"With the crusts cut off, right?" I replied. She nodded. When I was a kid, I always wanted to get hot dogs from the gas station.

We were out of jelly, so I convinced her honey would be a delicious replacement. She agreed, and lunch was served.

I had cut the sandwich twice, into four squares, cutting off all but the top crust. My hope was she would try it and like it. Then I could work in the side crust and eventually the bottom. She pointed this out immediately. Obviously, I forgot, she surmised.

I told her it was the best part. "You can peel it off and eat it. It's great," I said. OK, she replied, peeling it off and disposing of it on the side of the plate like an orange peel.

Later she announced to my wife that we were out of jelly. My wife opened the refrigerator and quickly located a large, full jar.

"Nuh-uh," she replied. "Daddy said we didn't have any."

I was summonsed, interrogated and proved wrong. I explained to my daughter I suffer from temporary refrigerator blindness, a rare condition where the afflicted can't see the things right in front of his face.

"Is that why you forgot to cut off the crust?" she replied.

"No, the crust is good," I answered. "One day, you'll see the light."

She put her hands on her hips.

"But you liked the sandwich, didn't you?" I asked. It was fantastic, she told me, but obviously my credibility was shot.

I assumed she would at least try the crust. She eats everything lately, which my wife and I chalk up to a growth spurt. But I assumed wrong.

Over a board game, I pressed my daughters on the crust issue. "Why don't you guys like to eat the crust?" I asked.

My 6-year-old explained it like this: "The crusts are disgusting, and only a crazy person would eat them."

"You like to eat the crusts," my little one added.

"That's because daddy's crazy," my oldest laughed.

I laughed weakly and suggested we return to the game and talk about something less contentious. Politics, perhaps.

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