At dinner last night (it was soft taco night, which is a thing at our house):
[assembly of the soft tacos by all]
[hence, very, very quiet.]
[parenthetically: what is the sound of one tortilla folding?]
[a flour tortilla. soft tacos.]
Me: [to running son:] So how's that Chinese poetry class going?
Son: [incredulous.] How do you think? Poetry is stupid.