Norman said, raising his voice considerably and standing on tiptoe to see over the edge of the pot. "Giants are very stupid, you know."
Somehow this didn't seem the right thing to say, considering the circumstances, and Jennifer put her finger to her lips even though
the giant gave no indication that he had heard.
"No, really," Norman insisted even more loudly. "There are a lot of stupid creatures in the world, but none more stupid than a giant."
"Eh?" the giant asked, as Jennifer made frantic shushing motions. "Were youse guys talking to me?"
"I was talking to Jennifer," Norman explained.
"Oh." The giant started to turn back.
"I was telling her how incredibly slow giants are."
Jennifer groaned.
"Slow?" the giant said. "How do ya mean, slow?"
"Dull. Stupid. You know, slow."
"Not to start an argument or nothing," the giant said, his feelings somewhat bruised, "but yer the ones in the soup kettle."
This was a good point, but Norman ignored
it. "Exactly." He turned to Jennifer and said, louder than necessary, "Would you look at that? He's peeling potatoes and carrots. Giants have no sense of class. Do you know what the head waiter in a fancy restaurant says when he sees a giant coming?"
Jennifer shook her head.
"He says, 'Bring out the leftovers. Get the wilted lettuce and the day-old bread. This one's too stupid to know the difference.'"
"Is that what he says?" Jennifer asked, although her heart wasn't in it.
Norman nodded somberly. "Giants are a laughingstock. Nobody takes them seriously. Potatoes and carrots, indeed!"
The giant came over and pulled the two of them out of the pot. He set them on the table where he could see them better. "What's wrong with potatoes and carrots?"
"Well, if I have to be somebody's dinner," Norman said, "I should hope it would be in a meal with a little more sophistication than potluck stew."
The giant wasn't really all that bad a fellow, and he didn't want to hurt Norman's pride, so he explained, "But I like stew."
"You like stew," Norman repeated. He turned to Jennifer. "There you have it. Potatoes and carrots. Well, it's his upbringing, I imagine. He can't help it. I suppose he doesn't know any better."
The giant couldn't understand what all the fuss was about, so he just shrugged and started to turn back to his preparations.
"The least you could do," Norman said hurriedly, before he lost the giant's attention completely, "is add some"—he tried to think of something with the sound of fancy gourmet cooking—"some chopped essence of creme-de-menthe parfait."
Of course, there was no such thing in those days any more than there is today. It's something the great chefs of the world have simply never bothered to invent, but it was the best he could come up with on the spur of the moment.
Jennifer gave him a startled look but said nothing.
The giant had no idea what Norman was talking about, but he certainly wasn't going to admit that.
Norman broke the silence. "Haven't you ever heard of...? No, of course not. Sorry I brought it up." He smiled sweetly.
The nature of giants being what it is, he answered indignantly, "Of course I heard of it. It's, uh, chopped. And it's, ahm..." He couldn't remember any of the other words Norman had used. "It's for cooking. Comes in a little box." He figured this description was probably general enough to fit just about anything and hoped it would convince these two that he wasn't all that dumb.
Indeed, the old man was looking impressed. "I'm surprised you've heard of it." He gave another sweet smile. "I don't suppose you've ever actually tried any."
"Oh, yeah, sure," the giant said, determined
no not to let Norman get the upper hand. "I eat it all the time. Never start a meal without it."
Norman nodded as if he approved, then said, " Well '
The giant considered. "Oh," he said. "Ahmmm." Then he snapped his fingers as if disappointed. "Wouldn't ya know—I just ran out of my last box of it this morning."
Norman turned to Jennifer with
Somehow this didn't seem the right thing to say, considering the circumstances, and Jennifer put her finger to her lips even though
the giant gave no indication that he had heard.
"No, really," Norman insisted even more loudly. "There are a lot of stupid creatures in the world, but none more stupid than a giant."
"Eh?" the giant asked, as Jennifer made frantic shushing motions. "Were youse guys talking to me?"
"I was talking to Jennifer," Norman explained.
"Oh." The giant started to turn back.
"I was telling her how incredibly slow giants are."
Jennifer groaned.
"Slow?" the giant said. "How do ya mean, slow?"
"Dull. Stupid. You know, slow."
"Not to start an argument or nothing," the giant said, his feelings somewhat bruised, "but yer the ones in the soup kettle."
This was a good point, but Norman ignored
it. "Exactly." He turned to Jennifer and said, louder than necessary, "Would you look at that? He's peeling potatoes and carrots. Giants have no sense of class. Do you know what the head waiter in a fancy restaurant says when he sees a giant coming?"
Jennifer shook her head.
"He says, 'Bring out the leftovers. Get the wilted lettuce and the day-old bread. This one's too stupid to know the difference.'"
"Is that what he says?" Jennifer asked, although her heart wasn't in it.
Norman nodded somberly. "Giants are a laughingstock. Nobody takes them seriously. Potatoes and carrots, indeed!"
The giant came over and pulled the two of them out of the pot. He set them on the table where he could see them better. "What's wrong with potatoes and carrots?"
"Well, if I have to be somebody's dinner," Norman said, "I should hope it would be in a meal with a little more sophistication than potluck stew."
The giant wasn't really all that bad a fellow, and he didn't want to hurt Norman's pride, so he explained, "But I like stew."
"You like stew," Norman repeated. He turned to Jennifer. "There you have it. Potatoes and carrots. Well, it's his upbringing, I imagine. He can't help it. I suppose he doesn't know any better."
The giant couldn't understand what all the fuss was about, so he just shrugged and started to turn back to his preparations.
"The least you could do," Norman said hurriedly, before he lost the giant's attention completely, "is add some"—he tried to think of something with the sound of fancy gourmet cooking—"some chopped essence of creme-de-menthe parfait."
Of course, there was no such thing in those days any more than there is today. It's something the great chefs of the world have simply never bothered to invent, but it was the best he could come up with on the spur of the moment.
Jennifer gave him a startled look but said nothing.
The giant had no idea what Norman was talking about, but he certainly wasn't going to admit that.
Norman broke the silence. "Haven't you ever heard of...? No, of course not. Sorry I brought it up." He smiled sweetly.
The nature of giants being what it is, he answered indignantly, "Of course I heard of it. It's, uh, chopped. And it's, ahm..." He couldn't remember any of the other words Norman had used. "It's for cooking. Comes in a little box." He figured this description was probably general enough to fit just about anything and hoped it would convince these two that he wasn't all that dumb.
Indeed, the old man was looking impressed. "I'm surprised you've heard of it." He gave another sweet smile. "I don't suppose you've ever actually tried any."
"Oh, yeah, sure," the giant said, determined
no not to let Norman get the upper hand. "I eat it all the time. Never start a meal without it."
Norman nodded as if he approved, then said, " Well '
The giant considered. "Oh," he said. "Ahmmm." Then he snapped his fingers as if disappointed. "Wouldn't ya know—I just ran out of my last box of it this morning."
Norman turned to Jennifer with
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