The Skillet Marks My Pretense
“No, don’t
touch that,” German Fellow warned one of the other campers, his wagging finger
adding weight to his admonition.
The other
camper turned his nose away from the wagging finger, but kept an eye on the
skillet he had been reaching for.
“We call it
a frying pan,” he shouted as a couple of German Fellow’s German fellows
hustled him towards the shower tent.
German
Fellow laid a consoling paw on my shoulder.
“Don’t
listen to him,” he advised. His words
were cleanly and precisely cut, like the elephant’s adopted son’s moustache.
I continued
to stare at the fire, not daring to reveal that my thoughts were only of
grilled peppers, onions, and mushrooms.
.
