youâd have to choose very carefully.â
âWe have a book that contains the complete works of Shakespeare,â my mom remarked. âWould it be cheating to take that?â
âNot at all, but this is Shelbyâs list.â
âI hate Shakespeare,â I moaned, âitâs so hard to know what heâs saying most of the time.â
âI felt that way right through university,â Mr. Taylor smiled. âItâs a lot of work to read the Bard. You have to be willing to invest yourself in his writing.â
Iâd never thought of investing myself when I was reading anything. It was interesting to think of it in that way. It implied that there was a payoff for the effort.
âI really donât know what three Iâd take,â I said finally. I felt a little pressured, as though I was taking a test and hadnât been able to study for it.
âExcellent!â He lifted his empty fork up in the air as though he was holding up a scepter.
His proclamation startled me.
âThat proves that you would choose well. You arenât willing to just name any three books you like. Youâd want time to think it through, to make your selections with care.â
I felt suddenly proud, as though Iâd made perfect choices instead of saying I didnât know. And I felt as though my opinion was valued and interesting.
âWell, my first choice wouldnât take much thought,â my dad spoke up. âIâd darned sure need a cookbook of some sort.â He patted his stomach in satisfaction at the huge meal weâd all just shared. âOtherwise Iâd be living on toast.â
The subject of spending five years learning to survive and do everything for yourself spread out in front of us and kept us occupied through dessert. It was fun thinking of how youâd have to take provisions like flour and sugar and yeast to make bread and how youâd have to learn to scavenge off the land for some of your supplies.
âI couldnât trap poor innocent animals!â I said when the talk turned to procuring meat.
âWhat would you do for protein then?â Greg asked.
âIâd take peanut butter, and chickens for eggs.â
âBut your chickens have died and the peanut butter turned rancid.â
âIâm not killing and skinning animals,â I insisted, making a face at the thought. âThere must be other things a person can get protein from.â
âPerhaps youâd cook dried beans and our national food â oatmeal,â Mr. Taylor offered helpfully.
I hadnât known that oatmeal contained protein or that it was Canadaâs national food. That seemed kind of funny until Mr. Taylor explained what a great food it actually is.
It was amazing how I learned so many things over dinner that day just by talking about stuff that was fun and interesting. I couldnât help but think that Mr. Taylor must have been a great teacher at college, the way he could get a person drawn into a topic and considering all different things about it.
All in all, it was a great meal. Well, except for one thing. When we were nearly finished eating, Mom went to get more coffee, and Dad followed her into the doorway where a sprig of mistletoe was hanging. To my horror, he kissed her right in front of everyone. Talk about gross! I made no effort to hide my disgust at this outrageous spectacle, but no one else seemed to mind it.
When we had stuffed mincemeat pie into our already full stomachs, our guests insisted on doing the dishes. Mom tried to object, but it was obvious she wasnât going to win, especially when Mr. Taylor said heâd arm wrestle her to see if heâd get his way.
Mom looked so surprised at the suggestion that we all laughed, and then she declined the arm wrestle and sent me off to the kitchen with them to show them where everything went.
I felt strangely proud of Mr. Taylor for doing this. It was such a
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