One of my favorite parts of bird hunting is filling the gaping hole of hunger it leaves in my stomach at the end of a long day of walking. On our recent trip to South Dakota, I wasn’t the only one benefiting from refueling the tank. Steaks, burgers, fried chicken, and potatoes mashed, baked and french fried were voraciously devoured by the group.
A trio even opted for dessert. John ordered cherry pie a la mode. Uncle Bill opted for strawberry rhubarb with a glop of ice cream atop. Even Tim, a notorious dessert-avoider ordered a slice of pumpkin pie.
As the waitress returned balancing three pie-filled plates she set the cherry in front of John, and exclaimed “cherry.” And the strawberry rhubarb in front of Bill with a “strawberry rhubarb.” And finally the whip cream topped pumpkin pie in front of Tim with a grin and a “and for you pumpkin.”
“Tim, I think that waitress has a thing for you,” I muttered while enviously eyeing the pies. “You’re her pumpkin.”