Sir, Your Spoon

We've never had a lot of luck with food at Auburn. It's a small town, and you need to know the lay of the land. We bet the wrong horse tonight -- very average. I'm loath to dog out a local eatery, so we'll leave it at that. Nevertheless, it prompted a stop by the convenience store for a little ice cream to settle the entree. On check-in, I asked the restaurant for a spoon. That proved a production, with the single spoon carried across the seating area to me as if the person were the cross-bearing acolyte at the head of a church procession. Here sir, is your spoon.

That probably should have been a sign. The ice cream at least brought back memories of the cheaper grade ice cream of my youth, and my father's disdane for it. "It's nothing but whipped air," he would grouse. "They're pumping air in rather than cream." He'd know, farm boy and early life restaurateur.