It was long ago. My brother and I came home from school and called my mother. We found out that the chicken in the oven for lunch was baked. I opened the oven and there was a chicken. But strangely pale, in some crumbs (sugares turned out to be), a carrot runs out of the puddle. They got (first chicken from the oven, then carrots from chicken). The chicken hardly cuts or chews.

My mom came in the evening and was terrified. It turned out that my father was running home before us, who was drunk. I ran for breakfast. And here - chicken in the oven, you can paint before the roots. This chicken in the bag, the other from the freezer! ), crushing in sweaters and pushing for beauty her in a juppy carrots - in the oven. For 20 minutes, because I had to run, or they’ll all drink.

How many years have passed, we still remember.