Left at the Fork

As is usual in our home, the day started out quite normally.

But those of you who know Sally, also know this can only mean ‘something’ is coming.

In Sally’s patented roundabout way.

Sigh.

Sally’s and my school was hosting a bake sale. Proceeds to be used to buy a pair of goats for a little village somewhere in Nigeria.

So Mom and I were baking up the proverbial storm. Cakes, cookies, squares. All in a charitable effort to provide . . . charity. Initially, Sally had been helping. Then we asked her to do something else.

Somewhere else.

Because . . . reasons. Also . . . Sally.

I’m assuming she retired to the front room because shortly after she left us, the TV began to blare at about 150 decibels. Clash of the Titans. I’d know it anywhere.

Frowning sharply, Mom had raised her sticky hands into the air and marched in there.

As the sound was almost instantly halved and Mom returned still with sticky hands but minus the frown, I assume she had successfully curbed Sally’s nine-or-nothing impulse to volume control.

Peace was restored and everyone was happy.

We went back to work.

Some 90 minutes later, Mom and I had managed to bake—and frost—some four cakes, 14 dozen cookies and three large sheets of squares.

I was in the process of wrapping up those things deemed cool enough to . . . erm . . . wrap up.

Mom was mixing yet another batch of brownies.

Then, from the front room, we heard the scrape of chair legs, followed almost immediately by thumping and the sounds of battle.

All right, yes, the sounds of men and hardware were purportedly coming from the television, but there were enough local reverberations to convince both Mom and me that the movie battle currently broadcasting wasn’t confined to the screen.

We looked at each other.

“Should I . . .” Mom started to say.

That was as far as she got.

From the front room came shout of, “A Titan against a Titan!”

And, also from the front room, a huge thump, then a moment of silence.

For those of us in the kitchen, it quickly became all too apparent what that tiny moment of silence actually meant, as something long and pointy flew into the kitchen in a great, graceful arch, neatly snagging one of the two ‘iffy’ legs on the laden table.

I probably don’t need to elucidate vis-à-vis said legs because those of you who know Sally, would also know why we have a lame table.

Moving on . . .

For a moment, the table teetered on two sound and two less-sound legs.

Instinctively, I dove for it, but misgauged my trajectory and managed—rather than to right it as had been my intention—to push it to its ultimate doom.

The weakened legs folded like wilted lettuce.

Packages of baking slid to the floor in an unhurried, sweet-smelling avalanche.

Mom and I stared at the heap. Then, as one, turned to stare at the architect of our doom.

A pitchfork, still with one of the table legs clutched in its tines, lay on the far side of the kitchen, its innocent, supine position belying its former destructive-ness.

Sally appeared in the doorway. “Oops.”

If looks could skewer, Sally would have been a goner. “A pitchfork?!” Mom shouted. “Where the h-e-double-hockey-sticks did you get a pitchfork?!”

Uh-oh. Mom almost swore. Mom never almost swears.

A journey someplace far away was indicated. Sally disappeared.

Mom was two steps behind her.

I started to pick up packages.

Yep. Just another day.

P.S. Most of the baking survived the ‘clash’.

I’m not so sure about Sally…

Each month, Karen's followers exchange words.

It's fun.

And entertaining.

This month, my words were: bake ~ everyone ~ roundabout ~ journey ~ titan 

And were given to me by my good friend, Jules at The Bergham Chronicles

Now hop over and see what the others have done with their words! 

Baking In A Tornado                            

The Bergham Chronicles                         

The Blogging 911                                      

Cognitive Script                                      

Part Time Working Hockey Mom              

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo                         

Climaxed                                         

When Love Makes the Difference

Our family was watching ET. Again.

We love it.

And it brought back the memory of that first time. Back in 1982...

Okay, he's cute!

Our family was at the movies.

We had popcorn and treats.

Soft drinks.

And the quickest route to the bathroom mapped into our heads.

We were ready.

Erik was four and a little more than eager.

The theater darkened slowly.

Expectation grew.

They don't do this anymore, but in times past, every step to the opening of a movie served to heighten the anticipation to a fever pitch.

Slowly lowered lights.

Projector springing to life.

Train of white light beamed on the still-closed curtains.

Said curtains slowly drawing back.

Pictures suddenly appearing.

Sound.

It was inspired.

Everyone in the theater was transfixed.

Hands which only recently had been scrabbling (Grandpa's word) through the popcorn hung suspended, unmoving.

The audience waited, barely breathing, for the first signs of Movie.

And then it finally came, restoring breath and life to those watching.

And they were truly prepared to be entertained. Even bewitched.

Our movie that night was ET. The story about the little Extra Terrestrial.

It began . . .

Cute little kids and family interaction.

ET was introduced.

Erik crawled into my lap and announced in what he fondly believed was a whisper, “I don't like him. He's scary!”

Not scary enough that he wanted to leave, however.

He watched as the children in the movie befriended the helpless, stranded little alien.

Adopted him.

Loved him.

(Spoiler alert . . .)

He cried when ET 'died'.

And cried, again, when he came back to life.

At the end of the movie, he sighed happily and followed the rest of us out of the theater.

On the way home, as usual, we talked about the film and Erik posed the question, “Why was ET so much cuter at the end of the movie than at the beginning?”

I stared at him. “He was just the same, sweetie.”

“No. He was cuter at the end.”

We thought about it. How could something that really never changed in looks get 'better' looking?

And then it hit me. “Because, at the end, you loved him, sweetie.”

“Oh. Right.”

And it was true. The ugly little alien remained ugly until we got to know him.

Loved him.

And then we saw his beauty.

Truth comes best from a four-year-old.

Clean!

I know, to you, it prob’ly doesn’t seem a lot like cleaning,

But hear me out and I’ll explain the way that I am leaning,

I’m sure you will agree my method’s really quite efficient,

You cannot argue with results—spectacularly . . . sufficient.

Each day I open up the fridge and reach for something yummy,

Something pleasing to the taste and nourishing for my tummy,

But often times, I reach right past the ghosts of yesterdays,

Those things once fresh but whose appeal has long been passed away,

Now listen close, cause here’s the point that I was getting to,

That remarkable technique that you should really not eschew,

It’s amazingly efficient and effective, you will see,

And best of all it takes so little energy from me!

Once a year, I open up the ‘frigerator door,

And loudly contact all the food that wasn’t there before,

“All you with arms and legs and sense, I’m sorry to aggrieve,

But every one of you will have to pack their bags and leave!”

Each month all Karen's friends will gather, writing on a theme,

And sometimes genius burns and sometimes inspiration gleams,

At times we may be silly or find purpose when we're done,

But one thing that is certain is we all are having fun!

Hop over and see what the others have done with this month's theme: Cleaning Out the Fridge!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Clean Out Your Fridge Day

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Out With The Fuzzy

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Clean that Fridge

The Best of the Worst

See?

Let’s just say that ‘gambler’ wasn’t in the cards for him.

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was game night at the Tolleys.

Something that happened . . . often.

The night’s game of choice? Spoons. A fairly uncomplicated game ideal for the large family.
Which we were.

One reduces the deck of cards to one set of four for each person playing. Thus, if eight of you are playing, the deck consists of eight sets of four cards. Or 32.

Oh, and there are spoons in the middle of the table (hence, the name) numbering one less than the persons playing. Why this is so will become clear.

Later.

The cards are shuffled and dealt. Four to a player. The idea is to then pass them one at a time (and in unison) to whoever is seated to your left, keeping only those cards you wish to ‘collect’.

The goal is to be the first to get all four cards the same.

And to then grab one of the spoons placed temptingly in the center of the table.

As soon as that first player grabs a spoon, everyone else at the table then does likewise, trying to not be the one who misses out.

A-ha! Now the reason for the one less spoon become apparent.

Because the person who doesn't manage to grab a spoon receives a letter.

In our family, the letters received eventually spelled out ‘horse’.

And woe be unto anyone who collected all five.

Because you were then ‘out’.

Whatever that meant.

No one in our household ever achieved that landmark.

And now on to my story. You must have realized that all this was leading somewhere . . .

Sooo . . . game night.

And Spoons.

Middle son, Duffy, was getting into the game. He had already collected a couple of letters and was trying his best to not further his losing streak.

Someone snatched a spoon.

Everyone followed madly behind.

And a letter was ‘rewarded’.

There was some laughter and the spoons were replaced and the cards re-shuffled.

Then eldest daughter suddenly pointed to the center of the table. “There’s one spoon missing!” she said.

True enough. There were only six when there should have been seven.

A short search was initiated.

Duffy pointed across the table. “You should probably lo . . .” That was as far as he got.

Because the missing spoon slid out of his sleeve to land with an incriminating little ‘click’ on the polished tabletop.

“Erm . . .”

Remember that part where I predicted he’d never become a gambler?

Now you know why.

Someplace Warm

The winds were blowing awful fierce,

Forecast predicting something worse,

The snow was falling thickly down,

And ice encased our little town.

We were feeling cold’s effects

And hunkered down like freezing wrecks,

All bemoaned our precious health,

Cause it was just September twelfth!

I scurried past the travel place,

Its sunny posters in the case,

They were not meant as an insult,

Though that is how they really felt!

I tried to peer across the street,

And felt as though I had been beat-

en. Standing in the cold and storm,

I imagined someplace warm.

I found my car and cleaned it off,

Then took a breath, began to cough,

Cheated as I could ever get,

We hadn’t finished summer yet!

I eased my car into the night,

Of honking horns and dulled headlights,

Then driving slowly through the storm,

I imagined someplace warm.

It took a while to find my street,

Trust me, by then I was beat!

With windows iced and brakes all locked,

Felt that I drove a curling rock.

I parked the car, forced back the door,

I tell you, it was quite a chore.

Then up the sidewalk, slip and slide,

I hurried just to get ‘inside’!

My fingers and my nose were blue!

I turned the lock and darted through,

Then stopped and blinked—well, once or twice,

I’d just walked into paradise!

A fire, warm, burned in the grate,

And supper waited, there aplate,

I felt protected from all harm,

I’d finally found my ‘someplace warm’!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, we three will use our skills,

To talk about the things we build!

Looking Younger

Children of newly-weds.

I have a theory.

Holidays make you younger.

Let me explain . . .

My Husby and I were married early.

I was 20. He was 21.

We had our first baby just before our first anniversary.

Our second followed eighteen months later.

And our third two years after our second.

We were . . . busy.

It wasn't until our third son was eleven months old that we were able to take our first vacation.

Okay, it wasn't a real vacation.

It was a conference. But it was in beautiful Halifax. One of the jewels of Canada's East coast.

And my Husby's ticket was paid for.

All we had to cover were my expenses.

That was as close to a vacation as we were going to get.

For three days, while Husby was at his various meetings, my baby and I spent our time in the comfortable hotel room.

Exploring the many sites of old Halifax.

Or eating.

On the final day of the conference, a gala banquet and ball had been planned.

The hotel supplied us with a babysitter.

And I was free to join my Husby for wonderful food and a table full of scintillating (Oooh! Good word!) company.

We ate and talked and laughed.

Partway through the evening, my Husby leaned close and said something to me.

I giggled and kissed his nose.

Then one of the women at the table sighed and said, “I just love newlyweds!”

I smiled at her.

And thought of my almost-one-year-old upstairs with the babysitter.

And my four and three-year-olds at home with gramma.

I had been married five years.

And spent much of that time either pregnant or nursing.

I felt ancient.

And this woman thought I was a newly-wed.

I could draw only one conclusion.

It was because I was on holiday.

It must have been.

Who needs surgery and/or creams to erase the years?

I know of something infinitely more fun.

Here's to holidays!

P.S. Red Skelton (Google it) agrees with me. He once said, when asked his age, "I'm 67 years old. I would be 68 but I lived for a year on Maui!"

All Hail Summer!

The day had begun like any other that summer.

Cloudless blue skies.

Soaring temperatures.

Plans to spend a few hours near or in the river.

Dad had taken my brothers, Jerry and George out to the field, haying.

Chris and I were helping Mom do 'Mom' things in the kitchen.

Well, Chris helped.

I tasted . . .

Hey, it's an important job!

Shortly after lunch, Chris and I got decked out in our fancy swimwear, ready to head to the river.

Mom walked with us as far as the lawn. She glanced up at the sky.

"Oh, my!"

I tilted my head back.

Much of my blue sky was no longer blue.

Instead, it was rapidly being obscured by really ominous-looking clouds.

Black clouds.

A storm!

I loved storms.

And we certainly hadn't seen enough of them in Milk River in the early 60's.

Our trip to the river was forgotten as Chris and I followed Mom back into the house and took up positions in the living room.

One window each.

Then we waited.

The clouds boiled up, obscuring the sun. The remainder of the sky.

The lightning started.

Flash.

Crash.

I should point out here that I had learned to count by timing the interval between the flash and crash of lightning.

One. Two. Three.

With each flash, there was a shorter and shorter interval.

The excitement level increased. 

Well, my excitement level increased.

Mom was darting back and forth from one window to another, anxiously watching for her husband and sons return from the hay field.

I was little. I lived in a 'never worried, always happy' world.

Occasionally, I glanced at my worried mother curiously.

But that was the extent of my sympathy.

Moving on . . .

Finally, we heard a weird sound from outside.

A rising wind howling across the chimney.

And then we saw the wall of . . . something . . . coming towards us across the yard.

Some really white-looking rain.

I moved to the couch beside my sister.

Her window had a better view.

Mom scurried into her bedroom and emerged with several pillows. "Here, girls," she instructed, "hold these up against the windows!"

I stared at her. But if I held the pillow up against the window, I wouldn't be able to see the storm!

We all heard the shattering of glass from the kitchen.

Instantly, Chris pressed her pillow against the window.

Sighing, I copied her example.

I don't know how long the storm lasted.

Too long, according to my mother.

Not long enough, according to me.

After it passed, we stepped outside to see the damage/amazing-ness. It all depended on your point of view. 

The yard was four inches deep in snow.

Snow?

Not bad for the middle of July.

I stepped out into it.

It was funny snow. Crunchy. More like pebbles than soft, white fluffiness.

I stomped around in it. Gathered a handful. Carried it back to my Mom.

She was standing where I had left her, just staring.

"Look, Mom. This snow is weird!" I tried to hand it to her.

"It's not snow, darling," she said. "It's hail."

"Huh." Yep. I was always on top of things.

As we were standing there, Dad's truck pulled into the yard and skidded to a stop on the slippery road.

He and my two older brothers got out.

At least I think it was Dad and my brothers.

Certainly, they had the right size and shape.

But there, all resemblance ended.

They were caked with mud. Straws of hay and grass sprouted all over them.

They really looked like . . . monsters.

I was prepared to run.

Before I could react, however, Mom moved forward and wrapped her arms around the taller one, mud and all. Then she moved on to the shorter pair.

Okay. Not monsters.

We all moved back into the house.

While Mom swept up the glass from a broken window in the kitchen, she and Dad told their stories.

His was far more exciting.

He and my brothers had been baling hay, with Dad and Jerry on the stooker behind George driving tractor.

When Dad had seen the clouds, he had tried to signal George to stop.

But George couldn't hear him over the noise of the tractor.

Finally, in his best Superman style, Dad leaped off the stooker, ran forward, scaled the tractor and turned off the key. Then he grabbed George, made another heroic leap, and shoved him and Jerry under the tractor.

Okay, it's always so much better in my imagination . . .

The three of them had gotten a very close up and personal view of the storm from beneath this rather sketchy shelter.

Fortunately, though the hail had splashed them with mud and debris, it hadn't caused them any permanent damage.

Not so the rest of the ranch.

Chickens and other birds, not quick enough to get under shelter lay in small heaps in the barnyard.

Fences had been smashed to the ground and the entire garden lay in ruins.

Appendages had been hammered off vehicles and other machines standing unprotected in the barnyard and many windows were broken.

And the grand new house being constructed behind the old ranch house where we currently lived was especially hard hit.

Besides other damage, the newly-installed siding had been hammered to bits.

Pockmarks had been knocked clean through the painted boards.

Ruined.

And we hadn't even moved in yet.

There were two hail storms that summer.

The second just as nasty as the first.

Mom finally gave up all hope of getting any peas out of her garden.

Or much else, either.

The hay crop had been ruined.

And there was a lot of repairing and clean up.

Most of which I . . . umm . . . supervised.

But we survived.

To tell the stories.

Finding Good News

The mid-term elections that have so dominated the airwaves for the past weeks are over.

The cheering/nay-saying will probably continue for some time.

I'm here to tell you that in today's climate of consistently negative news, there is a bright spot.

We just have to look for it.

My Dad loved to read the newspaper at the breakfast table, after we had finished eating.Let me rephrase that.
My Dad loved to read the newspaper at the breakfast table . . . you get the picture.Oh, he absorbed the important news stories.
And took note of local and international events and even sales.
But after he had digested the headlines, he would continue to read.
And . . . umm . . . put his own twist upon what he found there.
“Huh. Look at that. Jeffrey James died.”
There would be a pause as everyone in the room tried to decide if they had ever heard that name before.
Finally, some curious soul would ask the question, “Oh? Who was Jeffrey James?”
“Haven't got the slightest idea.”
There would be a general groan and much head shaking.
But that's my Dad.
Sometimes he would embroider a story, improving it for our benefit.
And it wasn't until the story got too outlandish that we would realize it.
“Well, it says here that they're planning a new bridge across the Old Man River near Fort Macleod.”
Again, someone would take the bait. “Really?”
“Yeah. Four lane. The works.”
“Well, it is the Alaska Highway. They probably need the improvement.”
“Suspension.”
“Well, that'll be nice.”
“Yep. It's just going to hang there. Suspended. Be hard to get on and off of.”
At which time, he would get a smack on the arm.
Or a platter of scrambled eggs upended over his head.
Sometimes, Dad would cut the story out of whole cloth.“Our taxes are going up.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yep. They need the money for a new fund.”
“Really?”
“Yep, the Town Council Mexico fund.”
“What sort of fund is that?”
“It's the fund where all of the town council get to go to Mexico.”
“What for?”
“Well, to hold their meetings.”
Or . . .“Well, look at that. The President of the United States is going up with the next Moon Mission.”
“Well, that sounds dangerous. Why?”
“I guess he wants to see for himself what all of the excitement is about.”
And, for some time we would think that the story was true.In fact, we were even known to spread the rumour.
With embarrassing, but amusing, results.
You'd think we would learn.
But Dad wouldn't limit himself to making up stories.
Oh, no.
Sometimes, he would improve the staid old news in other ways.
By inserting his favourite poems.
Have I mentioned that he loves to recite?
“Little Johnny took a drink,But he shall drink no more.'Cause what he thought was H2O,Was H2SO4!”We would nod and smile.
That part, we had gotten used to.
Anyone new to the family, however, would be understandably confused.
Once, my nearly sister-in-law was seated at the breakfast table with us.
Dad was hidden behind the newspaper, filling us in on the day's happenings.
Suddenly, his tone changed.
The boy stood on the burning deck.His feet were in the fire.The Captain said, You're burning up!”The boy said, “You're a liar!”She peered timidly around the paper, trying to see where he was reading.
Finally, “Where does it say that?”
Mom rolled her eyes. “No where, dear. It's in his head!”
“Oh.”
To this day, I can't simply read the paper.
I especially have great fun with the classifieds.
I guess I just had too good an example.

That's How You Were Designed

In honour of 'World Kindness' Day, I've decided to share a song I wrote.
Admittedly, it was written with children in mind and, in point of fact, has been sung by same.
But I thought, in view of the anger and fear that seem so plentiful in the world right now, I would share it with you.
Sadly, you will have to imagine the happy, upbeat tune. And the cheery little voices.
But the words are there.
And I hope they help . . .

It is titled, simply, Be Kind.

When I grow up, here’s what I’ll be: An Astronaut in space.

A doctor or a farmer or an athlete in a race.

A soldier or an Engineer, a miner in a mine.

No matter what I choose to be, I’m choosing to be kind.

Be kind! Be kind! That’s how you were designed!

Be smart, be fun, be fast on the run,

But best of all, be kind!

Or maybe I could be a nurse, a clerk or guide or cook.

A mom or dad or carpenter, a writer, writing books.

A vet-erin-ar-i-an, I'd heal the animals I find.

No matter what I choose to be, I’m choosing to be kind.

Be kind! Be kind! That’s how you were designed!

Be smart, be fun, be fast on the run,

But best of all, be kind!

May this sentiment roll forward. This day and all the days to come.

My Three Little Bakers. Being kind...

My friends have joined me in honouring Kindness in all its forms.
Please take a little time today and visit them!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: World Kindness Election Day

Dawn of Cognitive Script: World Kindness and Elections

Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Kindness Matters
Jenn from Sparkly Poetic Weirdo: What We Need to Know When It Gets Bad: Kindness Keeps Us Here

Being Common

Today's Poetry Monday is dedicated to COMMON SENSE.
Which isn't common. Or, as my Father always said, "Common Sense Ain't."
Here are some of my favourites . . .

And now, my poem!

Common sense is not a gift,

It’s a punishment,

Because you have to deal with those

Who were not blessed with it!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, as the snowflakes start to swarm,

We three'll be dreaming Someplace Warm!

Cry Hammock...

From this . . .

But everyone had one!

Well, almost everyone.

Okay, he had seen one.

And wanted it . . .

It was summertime on the ranch. The perfect season of cloudless blue skies, soft, sage-soaked breezes, warm, golden sunshine and scented, star-studded nights.

And what better way to enjoy one’s occasional leisure hours than by swinging – relaxed, semi-conscious and blissful - in one’s very own hammock.

To ten-year-old Mark, the concept seemed heaven-sent.

There was just one catch.

He didn’t possess a hammock.

And his parents did not appear to be forthcoming with one.

Sigh.

But Mark was a kid of the prairies. What he didn’t possess, he made.

Or made do.

His dad was changing out the old canvas on the binder. Hmmm . . .

Mark studied the discarded heap of coarse material carefully. Then he scooped it up and carted it to the trees. Specifically to the two tall trees he had picked as being the biggest and most hammock-support-like.

Sometime later, following a maximum of grunting, sweating and words sometimes thought but seldom said, Mark was looking at a brand new hammock.

His brand new hammock.

His pride of accomplishment overspilled its banks.

Handsprings anyone?

A party was called for.

A celebration.

A . . .

Mark would have to settle for talking his mother into allowing him to sleep out on his new acquisition.

It took some doing, but he was finally able to convince her.

Happily, he gathered blankets and gear for his amazing outdoor adventure and in short order was perched atop his newest and best acquisition.

Snuggled down and shivering with delight, he waited for the sun to go down.

Then to come up again.

Which it did.

Mark blinked sleepily at the newly-risen sun. It was then he realized that his mouth felt . . . funny.

Sliding out of his hammock, he ran to the house and the nearest mirror.

Where he received a distinct shock. His upper lip was swollen like a balloon.

With no idea what could possibly have happened, he ran for his mother. Who took one look at his face and said, calmly, “Looks like a bug bit you, son.”

A bug bit him?! His face was three times its normal size and ‘a bug bit him’?!

Frantically, he raced back to the mirror and minutely studied his poor abused outside. How was he going to go through life looking like this?!

In case you're worried, I'll tell you that the swelling did go down. Fairly quickly in fact. With only one side effect. Mark now regarded hammocks with a degree of suspicion.

I mean – no one ever told him that they could come with uninvited and totally unexpected ‘guests’.

Overly friendly guests.

His was a hammock for one.

One.

Maybe someone should have explained that to the bug.

. . . to this.

Sundays are for Ancestors!
Tell me about yours!

Steak en Colère

The skills he learned in France . . .

Plus cooking.

In his early twenties, my Husby spent two years living in Paris, France.

For a farm boy from southern Alberta, it was quite a culture shock.

But he loved it and grew to love the French people.

During his years there, he discovered that the French love their food.

Love. Their. Food.

And he found out first hand . . .

During his stay there, Husby became acquainted with a wealthy U.S. national and his family who made their home in Paris.

Wonderful people.

One evening, the father decided to take his family out to dine.

He invited Husby and his companions.

Remember the place where I said ‘wealthy’?

That would become important here.

They went to a five-star, French restaurant.

And when the French say five-star, they definitely mean it.

Our little farm boy found himself in the very heart and soul of Haute Cuisine.

He nervously sank into a chair at one of the luxurious tables and accepted the expertly-flourished menu.

Fortunately, his French was good, so ordering didn’t cause any complications.

The meal came out in courses.

Slow courses.

When I say that the French love their food, I mean it.

And they take time to worship every. Single. Bite.

Finally, the main course appeared.

Husby’s American friend had ordered steak.

Steak was delivered. Smothered in onions and other good things.

Said steak was also very, very rare.

Now, I don’t know about you, but that would have been just fine with me. (Rancher’s daughter.)

But for Husby’s friend, it was simply unacceptable. “Could you please take this back and cook it?” he asked.

The waiter’s impeccable manners did not allow for any outward show of surprise or even opinion. He simply said, “Oui, M’sieur,” and whisked the offending plate away.

A few minutes later, he reappeared, with the same steak on a fresh plate.

Still beautifully displayed.

Still rare.

The friend stared at it, then at the waiter. “Could you please take it back again?”

Now it’s no crime to like your meat well-done.

Most of my family members actually prefer it that way.

It’s just not acceptable when you are in a very fancy French restaurant.

A short time later, the steak re-appeared.

This time carried in with tongs.

By the chef, himself.

“M’sieur,” he said, slapping the steak down in disgust on a nearby plate, “you have murdered that steak!” The man then spun about and marched back to the kitchen, outrage and repugnance (good word) in every step.

For those of you planning on visiting France . . .

The people are wonderful.

The food divine.

The meat, rare.

That is all.