Cookies and Cutlets

What can I say but Mmmmmm.

My Dad taught me manners.

I was a slow, but well-fed, learner.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Dad and I were on a cattle show tour.

I say, 'we' but I was mostly useless.

I had injured my hand in a grooming accident getting ready for the show.

Don't ask.

The road was long between cities. Because Alberta is a big place.

But we had eats.

Mostly sweet or salty.

But all yummy.

My Dad's favourite cookies were large marshmallow/cookie/chocolate bits of delicious-ness.

I should explain here that sometimes, in Canada in the summer, we have hot days.

I know.

The words 'Canada' and 'hot weather' usually aren't found in the same sentence.

But it's true.

Back to my story . . .

It was hot and stuffy in the truck.

Heat has a rather negative effect on marshmallow/cookie/chocolate bits of delicious-ness.

Melts them, quite effectively, into solid lumps of delicious-ness.

It was mid-afternoon.

We had been on the road since lunch.

It was now about 4:00 pm.

Snacking was indicated.

I dragged out the bag of cookies.

And realized that each row had been fused into one, long cookie.

Except the first row.

From which two were already missing.

I picked up the remaining (rather large) cookie and looked at it.

It could be done.

I shoved it into my mouth and chewed happily.

Then realized that my father was staring at me.

Incredulous (good word).

“Did you just eat that whole cookie?”

“Maybe,” I mumbled through a mouthful of marshmallow/cookie/chocolate delicious-ness. “Who wants to know.”

He just chuckled and shook his head and the matter was dropped.

Or so I thought.

A couple of hours later, we stopped for supper.

I ordered my favourite, veal cutlets.

They arrived.

Two very large cutlets.

With mashed potatoes, vegetables and thick, yummy gravy.

Mmmm.

Remember my injured hand?

Well that comes into play here.

“Daddy, could you please cut my meat for me?”

“Certainly.” Dad grinned and slid my plate over.

Now, anyone familiar with that grin knows that something was being plotted.

Because it was.

He took his knife and fork and sliced each large cutlet down the middle.

Then he slid my plate back in front of me.

I stared at the four very, very large bites.

Then at my Dad

Who was nonchalantly cutting his own meat.

“Dad, how am I supposed to eat that?”

“Well, judging by the bite of cookie you shoved into your mouth a couple of hours ago, those should be just about right,” he said. “Go for it!”

I stuck my tongue out at him and slid my plate back.

“Now cut!”

He laughed and did so.

Etiquette.

It exists, even on a cattle trip.

Who knew?