Apparently You Don’t Care That I Am Interested In Your Cornish Game Hens
So I stood there. Waiting for my roast beef sandwich to be prepared by the clerk behind the counter.
And you stood over there. Ovah there, behind the bread bowls and dehydrated pineapple rings. Talking to someone you’d known for years. Telling them that tomorrow night when the kids went to sleep you’d be breaking out those kick-ass cornish game hens. You described them with such drippy adjectives, that I just had to say, “sounds good.”
But apparently you don’t care that I am interested in your cornish game hens.
The thing is this: if someone standing nearby you happens to hear you mention your cornish game hen plan for Halloween and they reach out of their self-imposed invisible bubble of social-ness to comment on the big, exciting, piping-hot goodness coming your way… I’d think you’d do more than look at the person, say nothing, and get back to your thoughts on appetizers.
To be honest, it was in that moment, when another human being decided that what I had to say about their cornish game hens meant nothing to them to even say a word…that I thought to myself, “What in the heck is the world coming to?” Sure, economic turmoil, political unrest, social depravity and a lack of values have already refused to let go of their evil grip on those around the planet… But when the other human beings on this planet start NOT responding to their fellow man’s commentary about their cornish game hens…
…well, things are truly in the crapper.
Had it been me, and I was talking about my plans to create an original new kind of chicken pot pie (but without chicken, but instead fish….and instead of doing it in a pot shape, but doing it in the shape of a Liberty Bell) and some person I’d never met before in my life spoke up to tell me that my fish liberty bell pastry sounded like the most sumptuous food experience he’d ever heard of (since Chicken Cordon Bleu) — I would have stopped, shook his hand….and said, “You know what? I’m naming my Fish Liberty Bell Pastry after you! What’s your name, kind sir?”
And when he told me it was “Frank Cooper” I would tell him, “Thank you sir. Keep your ears open for the ‘Frank Cooper Fisherman’s Special Pastry Thing’ at a four star restaurant near you soon.
And Frank Cooper wouldn’t have had to go home that night and write about it on his blog. A blog that he probably hadn’t even written on in, oh I don’t know….seven months or something.
Cornish Game Hens. Puh.
2012 and the Mayans have got nothing on this ridiculousness.