S
stefen
Guest
At one time, someone had to build the first railroad across the USA. Nearly all the work was done by immigrants: Chinese and Mexicans in the west, Irish and Poles in the east. There were so many Irishmen that a shovel was called an Irish banjo. These were rough and rowdy characters, and they always appreciated a good joke.
When they sent a crew to build some track, they just put a number of men in a car and sent them to the work site. The only special job was cooking, and one of the men was chosen to do all the cooking. Now they didn't do anything sensible, like figure out who was the best cook. What they usually did was see which one was bitching the most about the food and then tell him, "Ok, smartass, YOU be the cook!"
Well, it happened that I had opened my mouth at the wrong time, and found myself assigned to that job. I didn't whine about it (after all, whining had gotten me into this mess), but I sure wanted out of it, and I was watching and listening very carefully for any complaint. There weren't any, no matter how I salted or didn't salt the food.
This went on longer than I would have wished, but one morning I was picking up some firewood and I noticed a moose flop: a road apple: a pasture pastry: MOOSE PIE! And it was fresh. Yessir, it was a steamer! I didn't want to leave my armload of firewood, so I stuck my toe under the edge and turned it over in the direction of the camp. By continueing in this fashion, I slowly made my way back to the cooking wagon. It was big. FA-LUMP! FA-LUMP! It held together. It was a strong one.
There wasn't much time before dinner, and I had a lot to do. I mixed the dough and rolled out a pie shell, top and bottom, in jig time. I carefully slid my treasure in (I know I kicked it all the way there, but I didn't want to take a chance on losing it now), and crimped the top shell in place. I finished the rest of dinner just in time, just as the crew came in expecting to eat. A joke is a joke, but you don't joke with HUNGRY men! As they sat down to eat, I popped the pie into the oven.
Everything was normal, except there was no dessert in sight like there usually was. Nobody commented, but there was a lot of looking around toward the end of the meal. There was just a hint of nervousness. Finally ol' Green Jake decided to speak up. I didn't exactly hate Green Jake, I would have been the first to offer my condolences if he were to break a leg. I just wished he would. I had been watching him, figuring he was the most likely to fall into my little trap.
"Pretty good," he started adroitly, "but what's for dessert?" I didn't respond instantly. I could see the tension building just a little. I reached into the kitchen and picked up THE PIE. The men relaxed. Even smiled. It was, after all, a mighty good looking pie. I cut a piece and served it to Green Jake myself, and waited for him to sample it. Waited with bated breath, you might say. He picked up his fork. He cut off the point (why do Americans always eat the point first?). He put it into his mouth. He chewed. He chewed a bit more. By now he was breathing a bit more than was normal. I was still bating my breath, but I was excited. I could see what was coming. Green Jake laid down his fork, stood up, and turned to face me. I was all set to name him the new cook. The words were already sweet in my mouth. My ordeal was near its end.
"THIS PIE TASTES LIKE SHIT!" he bellowed. But before I could even get a word out, he went on:
"BUT IT'S JUST THE WAY I LIKE IT!"
When they sent a crew to build some track, they just put a number of men in a car and sent them to the work site. The only special job was cooking, and one of the men was chosen to do all the cooking. Now they didn't do anything sensible, like figure out who was the best cook. What they usually did was see which one was bitching the most about the food and then tell him, "Ok, smartass, YOU be the cook!"
Well, it happened that I had opened my mouth at the wrong time, and found myself assigned to that job. I didn't whine about it (after all, whining had gotten me into this mess), but I sure wanted out of it, and I was watching and listening very carefully for any complaint. There weren't any, no matter how I salted or didn't salt the food.
This went on longer than I would have wished, but one morning I was picking up some firewood and I noticed a moose flop: a road apple: a pasture pastry: MOOSE PIE! And it was fresh. Yessir, it was a steamer! I didn't want to leave my armload of firewood, so I stuck my toe under the edge and turned it over in the direction of the camp. By continueing in this fashion, I slowly made my way back to the cooking wagon. It was big. FA-LUMP! FA-LUMP! It held together. It was a strong one.
There wasn't much time before dinner, and I had a lot to do. I mixed the dough and rolled out a pie shell, top and bottom, in jig time. I carefully slid my treasure in (I know I kicked it all the way there, but I didn't want to take a chance on losing it now), and crimped the top shell in place. I finished the rest of dinner just in time, just as the crew came in expecting to eat. A joke is a joke, but you don't joke with HUNGRY men! As they sat down to eat, I popped the pie into the oven.
Everything was normal, except there was no dessert in sight like there usually was. Nobody commented, but there was a lot of looking around toward the end of the meal. There was just a hint of nervousness. Finally ol' Green Jake decided to speak up. I didn't exactly hate Green Jake, I would have been the first to offer my condolences if he were to break a leg. I just wished he would. I had been watching him, figuring he was the most likely to fall into my little trap.
"Pretty good," he started adroitly, "but what's for dessert?" I didn't respond instantly. I could see the tension building just a little. I reached into the kitchen and picked up THE PIE. The men relaxed. Even smiled. It was, after all, a mighty good looking pie. I cut a piece and served it to Green Jake myself, and waited for him to sample it. Waited with bated breath, you might say. He picked up his fork. He cut off the point (why do Americans always eat the point first?). He put it into his mouth. He chewed. He chewed a bit more. By now he was breathing a bit more than was normal. I was still bating my breath, but I was excited. I could see what was coming. Green Jake laid down his fork, stood up, and turned to face me. I was all set to name him the new cook. The words were already sweet in my mouth. My ordeal was near its end.
"THIS PIE TASTES LIKE SHIT!" he bellowed. But before I could even get a word out, he went on:
"BUT IT'S JUST THE WAY I LIKE IT!"
