No Compliments to the Chef

When I picked up Mo-Dizzle from school yesterday, I asked her how her day went.

"Oh, it was good," she said, buckling herself into her seat.  "I left you a note in my lunchbox about my sandwich, though."

"Huh?" I asked, wheeling us out of the carpool lane and into traffic.  "What happened to your sandwich?"

"Nothing, I just didn't eat it.  I left you a note about it." she repeated and then promptly severed communication by sticking her nose in a Magic Tree House Book.

Fast forward to the great unload from the car: backpacks, library books, assorted jackets, sweaters, and stray papers.   As girls hung up their stuff,  I opened up the lunchboxes.  In Morgan's lunchbox, I found the aforementioned note:

(source)

"I do not like crasty sandwichs."

What the devil? What happened to her sandwich between last night when I made it and this afternoon when she was supposed to have eaten it?  I popped the top of the sandwich keeper to find this:

(source)

Unblemished (uneaten) PBJ

"Morgan!" I called, holding the "offending" sandwich out in front of me. "What's the matter with this? Why didn't you eat it?"

(insert exasperated six-year old eye roll) "I don't like crasty sandwiches! Next time, will you please cut off the crast?"

Crast? Crust! Cut off the crust!  Oh, good lord. 

Request for crast-less sandwiches duly noted.  And far be it from me to waste a perfectly good PBJ, so 

guess who had a "crast-less" PBJ for dinner? 

Here's a hint: she's six years old and has a wicked eye roll.