"May I Take Your Order?"

"May I take your order, please?"
"The fingers of an eleven-month-old," Tito answered, her attention on her little son who was throwing tantrums.
He lowered himself and whispered into her ear. "We only deliver such at night."
She looked at him, their gazes locked for a few seconds. He gave a sly smile while she bit on her lower lip. That was her sign! She found him attractive already!
She chuckled as he stood upright. She picked up the menu and dropped it almost immediately. "A plate of fried rice and chicken would do."
                                            *   *   *
Tito had just entered the kitchen to get a glass of juice. Suddenly, a squeal pierced her eardrums. That must be her son. She dashed out.
She got to his cot. As she lifted him up, she flung him against the wall out of shock. He was bleeding! She opened her mouth but couldn't voice a thing.
She noticed her bedside lamp was on. With trembling lips, hands and feet, she dragged herself to that side of her bed. She found a ceramic bowl with a note over its cover. It read: "I hope you'd enjoy your meal. May I take your order, please? Next time?"
She took away the note. The transpent glass cover revealed ten little fingers swimming in red oil and of course, plenty sauce!
Her son was eleven months old!
. . .
"So what's the moral lesson of the story you just told me, aunty?" Little John asked, his face still bearing the expression of fright and shock.
"Be careful when you ask for something."