I'm not here. But I left you some stuff. This is the first one.
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With his mother out of town visiting family, it fell to my friend Alan’s father to fix dinner for himself and his son.
Inexperienced in meal preparation, the father whipped up a dinner comprised in its entirety of two items:
Potatoes and corn.
Looking down at the plate set in front of him, my friend Alan was understandably dismayed.
“Dad,” he asked incredulously, “what kind of a dinner is potatoes and corn?”
To which his father, with irrefutable though less than satisfying logic replied,
“You like potatoes, and you like corn. What could be bad?”
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My father's idea of a payout for a promised big reward was to say "Your reward is a job well-done". At ten years old that was not exactly fulfilling.
Mom belonged to that sorority schooled in the four magic words said to guarantee a child’s tentative foray into a carnivorous experience initially deemed foreign to the palate: “It tastes like chicken.” Year after year, “It tastes like chicken.” “It tastes like chicken.” Until we once observed her asking Dad to baste a roaster on the outdoor grill with some kind of orange juice concoction. Why? “It gets rid of that ‘chickeny’ taste.”
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