Saturday night, I got a whole beef tenderloin on the grill. It’s about five pounds, so I invited my parents over to help eat it.
::aside::
Once properly aged, I prepared the beef tenderloin with a dry rub, tied it to a rotisserie skewer, and painted it with butter, olive oil and lemon juice. Then I let it cook on the rotisserie at the lowest possible heat for 2 1/2 hours until the internal temperature approached 130 degrees. I then let it cool, sliced it thin and served it with Bernaise sauce (that I made myself,) fresh sweet corn, my special fries, and creamed spinach.
Unfortunately, it seems I got a bad piece of beef, with poor flavor so it didn’t come out as good as it sounds.
Anyway, so my parents come over, and while the meat is cooking, Gramma plays with my daughter poop, while my father and I talk politics.
Apparently Gramma decides to take Poop (“Poop” is my daughter’s name) on a “bear hunt,” which is this little trail on the corner of our new property.
She and I hunt bear on that trail all the time.
Apparently though bear-hunting is an activity best left to us manly types, and our daughters and should not be attempted by Grammas in high heels.
While sitting on the deck, my father and I hear a horrible scream from the bear hunt trail. A minute later my daughter comes running out of the trail as fast as her two year old legs can carry her.
I come off the deck and meet her halfway, and she runs straight into my arms. She has a small bloody scratch on her cheek, her knee, and her elbow, and some thorns stuck in her. I pull them out while she hugs me and cries.
“It’s okay honey. It’s ok. What happened?”
She just cries.
I’m wondering where Gramma is. Grampa however is sitting on the deck drinking his beer without concern while this drama plays out.
Finally Poop stops crying and tells me in accusatory fashion
“Gramma threw me in the weeds!”
“No. Gramma wouldn’t do that. Gramma loves you.”
“She did!”
About this time this cry of “Help!” comes from the bear hunt trail.
We go to investigate and find that Gramma is trapped. She is lying on her back, missing a shoe, in the middle of this mass of pricker bushes.
“Is she ok?” Gramma asks, referring to Poop.
“She’s fine. What are you doing in those pricker bushes? Where’s your shoe? My daughter says you threw her in the weeds. You didn’t throw her in the weeds, did you?”
“No. I tripped and lost my shoes and started to fall into these Bushes, so I dropped her so she wouldn’t fall in. Do you think you can help me out?”
I thought about this for a second.
“Yes. I suppose I could help you out. That would mean that I’d have to climb into the pricker bushes with you though, and I’d rather not. Since you’re already completely perforated, you might as well just climb out yourself. Unless you broke something.”
“No. But it’s gonna hurt.”
“That’s why you’re going to have to climb out yourself.”
So, she does, going “OOh,” and "Ahhh, and “Ouch,” the whole time.
We find her shoe in a hole.