etiquette

I’m in the residential dining hall with my suitemates Lisa and Sunny. We’re talking about sausages. Why? Because April 30th is ‘National Sausage day.” Someone mentioned that when I complained about the beyond-meat hot dog atrocities they serve here, in the dining hall, as if they were food. “Can we get some real food here?” I moaned. “These are ok,” Sunny pronounced, examining hers closely. “That’s what we want,” I went off, “the average, the acceptable, let's build our lives around that.” “I think they’re Canada,” Lisa said. “That’s why there’s no ketchup (in the dining hall) - they decided it was unhealthy,” I replied bitterly (with a few expletives removed here - I’ve really fallen into some obscene verbal habits) “What are we supposed to DO?” I asked rhetorically, “Start carrying our own ketchup packets everywhere? Noone here’s over 23 - will ketchup kill us?” “I miss the ketchup,” Sunny agreed sadly. “Nothing’s perfect,” Lisa shrugged. “That’s true,” I said, “I’m thinking of a specific, textural issue I have with sausages - even though I love ‘em” “Issue!” Lisa chuckled. “Major issue,” I added nodding. “Conflict!” Sunny updogged. “Oh, No!” Lisa laughed. “The really good sausages, like you get on a charcuterie board? Have this little bit at the end - the tie-off?” “The casing,” Sunny named it. “Yeah,” I agreed, “those can be hard to chew but I usually do it anyway,” I said. “Because what can you do?” Lisa added, “Spit it out in front of everyone?” she asked rhetorically. “I took étiquette lessons one summer, when I stayed with my Gandmère - I was seven,” I grinned, remembering. "We were at dinner one night - she has this long table that’s always full of guests - when she suddenly looked down at me and pronounced You’re just a little savage, aren’t you?" "7-year-old me froze, unsure how to answer THAT." “The next morning, I began ‘L'art de vivre’ (the art of life’) lessons, with an old, brusque nun - Sister Thérèse.” “Too funny,” Sunny snorted. “When did you forget all that,” Lisa asked innocently. “Anyway,” I continued, “The rule is: if you get a mouth full of gristle or something, you just spit it out - you don’t make a show of it - you don’t go with a giant ‘blaah’ or something - but you don’t swallow it either,” I finished, shivering at the thought. “Really,” Sunny said, watching me closely for signs of deception. “Chyeah,” I assured her. “What else you got?” Lisa asked, fishing for more tips. “Mmm,” I hummed, considering, “Elbows on the table - good - not bad.” “Whaaaaaat?!” Sunny practically shreeked. Lisa chortled. “If your hands are in your lap, at least in France, everyone assumes you’re diddling yourself, or someone else,” I said, grinning. “Now you’re just making things up,” Sunny said, making a snarky face. Lisa looked dubious. “On God,” I said, offering a Girl scout salute. “Sister Thérèse told you that?” Lisa smirked. “Nuns know all about sex.” I assured her, “It’s an occupational necessity.” . . Songs for this piece: Glamor Girl by Louie Austen Glitter of the City by Ron Everett Anthony Kiedis by Remi Wolf . . slang… Canada = healthier, fitter, more Canadian chyeah = f*ck yeah. on God = swearing to God