Nancy asked me to buy two pounds of ground beef at the Community Market on the corner after I had my tires rotated. No problem. I parked, went in, strode with purpose to the meat cooler and looked for some ground beef. No ground beef.
But, there was some ground chuck . . it kind of looked like ground beef to me. So, noticing the surly, middle aged woman in brown shorts approaching the meat cooler, probably to take the last packages of ground chuck, I seized them with the frenzy of an overwrought husband and hurried off to the check-out counter, even though I wasn’t sure if they were the right variety of defunct cow.
At the check-out counter, I asked the woman with beady eyes, ‘Is this the chuck that used to work here?’ She looked at the packages of meat, me, the packages of meat, then burst out laughing. Her eyes twinkled. She called over to the butcher who came over and exploded in laughter.
I didn’t know that his name was Chuck!