TK, my mother used to make "pate aux pommes" in one of them
rectangular pans: size probably same as yours; about 2 inches thick.
We (3 brothers, 3 sisters) would rush thru our potatoes and
salted pork (I'd put the rind in my pocket to chew on it later!)
in order to see who'd get the 1st helping of this Royal treat...
Well, here's "salted pork" mentionned in this story I wrote about
my 1st dog...WARNING: a tear jerker.
....................................................................................................................
(true story)
PITOU
Sunday afternoon. I walk over to my favorite spot at Riverside Park
(3 blocks from my house), carrying my reclining lawn chair plus my
"Denis" beach towel. If you want to find me, go down to the end of
Presland Road, cross River Road, straight line to the river and
there's my spot, stuck in between the river's edge and the bicycle
path. I install my chair, angle it to the "on my back" position, lay
my beach towel across it: my chair is that kind with that stupid
imitation plastic that sticks to you.
As I'm suffering on a suntan, trying hard to write off the recently
discovered equation "suntanning = skin cancer", my left eye
automatically springing open due to bouncing female cyclists (my 6th
sense), I suddenly feel something weird going on around my right foot.
I bring my head up to investigate. It's a medium size dog. One of them
that has regular dental checkups plus flosses every morning. He's
kinda smelling my foot and I can tell that he's trying to decide if
it's time for a snack.
I pull back my foot so fast that my knee hits my chin, roll out of my
chair, then hear a piercing "Motorcai, sit!" followed by "don't worry,
he's harmless". I give the guy a "I wasn't scared" half-smile and
cooly reach for my pack of Player's Light. After a reprimand "bad boy,
Motorcai" and an apologetic final look in my direction, the 2 of them
walk away.
Back on my back, Motorcai on my mind, my little VCR up there whirrrrrs
into action...and I'm 10 again, back on the farm, forming a square
with my 3 brothers, throwing clockwise a red and blue sponge ball with
a white stripe down the middle, Remi swearing at Anthime due to a poor
throw that hits the ground a few inches from his feet.
Later, I leave with Remi, to old Mr. McNabb's, 5 farms away. He's
asked Dad if he could borrow us for the afternoon, to pick potatoes.
A job we both hate. But right now, we don't mind so much: we know
Mr. McNabb will give us both at least a quarter, plus we'll have fun
as he tries out his French on us.
We're back home: 50 cents each...ya, he gave us 2 quarters each! Sure
a lot of money! But Horace Brisebois from the farm right next to ours
wants a whole dollar for that cute grey month old puppy I fell in love
with. No, Remi ain't interested in no 50-50 deal. He's promised
himself a few "Oh Henry" bars, the ones at a nickel each, plus a large
bottle of "Uptown" ginger ale.
Well, I still have that tough-to-wind pocketwatch I found at the
bottom of that box of junk Dad brought back from an auction sale and
Remi's mouth waters everytime he sees it. Yes, he accepts...I got my
dollar. Over to Horace's, then back carrying Pitou in my arms, my face
all licked up.
I make Pitou a bed, to the left as you enter the stable, in that room
where the calves are kept during the winter, right across from that
noisy semi-automatic water pump working off a strong strap and gear
wheels. At 9 o'clock, I put him to bed, give him the piece of salted
pork I slipped in my pocket during supper. All night I keep waking up
wondering if he's afraid all by himself.
Up bright and early, head for the stable. As I open the door, I
overhear Pitou crying, a fearful kinda gasping. My heart slows down.
I look around, find him; my heart stops momentarily. He's covered
with blood, the bottom part of his jaw completely torn off...caught in
between the strap and gears of the water pump. I can't stop crying.
I'm afraid to touch him. His eyes are pleading insanely.
Dad and my 3 brothers arrive. They look at Pitou, then at me. They
keep quiet. Dad knows there's no other way: he gets the big hammer
with the round head. And I know too. Try bravery, choke my crying, but
my body can't stop shaking. One blow only and Pitou is out of his
misery. I get an overpowering urge to yell, to sob forever.
However, I succeed in keeping quiet and right at that point I make the
decision never to cry again, which I kept for many, many years. Too
many. Way too many. Dad offers to get me another Pitou from Horace. I
shake my head. No. I'm mad, mad. My first step towards Atheism is
made. Unconsciously.
My little VCR clicks off...right on time: the half hour on my back is
just over. I get up, another Player's Light, re-angle my chair to the
"on my tummy" position. I lay my face on my arms, my left side
parallel to the bicycle path. This way I'm able to tilt my head to the
left, bury my right eye just deep enough, leaving my left eye with a
clear vision just above my arm on top... and my 6th sense takes over.
