Dine-in Car

I probably don’t have to tell you that Canada is a large country.

In bygone years, the men who manned the trains crisscrossing it spent a long time aboard those trains.

A long time.

In those days, they spent much of the trip and all of their downtime in the little caboose as it clicked faithfully along the rails at the tail end of the train. It became their little ‘home away from home’. There, they did their visiting, sleeping, reading, game-playing, cooking and eating. 

Let’s discuss these last two for a moment . . .

One group, in an effort to be fair, took it in turns to cook and wash up.

They had one rule: If anyone criticized the cooking in any way, their turn was accelerated instantly through the queue and they found themselves with spatula (or spoon) in hand for the next meal.

Yeah. Probably best to keep your mouth shut unless you had a hankering to take over as cook.

So the men silently choked down whatever they were given. No matter how unpalatable. 

They still had to take their turn when it came, but at least they weren’t handed the apron at a moment’s notice.

One man in the group seemed singularly unable to create anything remotely appetizing. Or even edible.

Yeah. We’re definitely not talking gastronomic ecstasy here.

His friends were enduring his most recent effort, silently forking down breakfast.

Or what passed for breakfast.

One man poked disconsolately (real word!) at the blackened bit of char that had started life as an egg.

The cook narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening spasmodically on the spatula.

This is my story. I’ll imagine it how I want . . .

The man looked up and forced a smile at the cook. “Hank,” he said. “You burned the eggs.”

Hank smiled slowly and moved toward him, already extending his cooking utensil of choice.

“Which is truly remarkable,” his friend added, “Because it’s just how I like ‘em!”

Creative criticism.

It’s an art.

P.S. The trains that span our great country no longer pull a caboose behind them. With faster trains and shorter hauls between stops—and with improvements in technology—they simply aren’t needed.

I miss them.