Runaway by Susan Copperfield

Author:Susan Copperfield
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pen & Page Publishing

TWELVE

Thomas, your family’s crazy.

As promised, Thomas’s uncle served roasted pig, but he also included what had to be an entire cow, a flock of chickens, and several lambs in order to feed everyone in the massive dining hall I’d mistaken to be yet another barn. The ranch cooks put everything out on a line of buffet tables, and everyone fed themselves in what I considered to be cheerful chaos.

It took the hour before dinner was served to come to the conclusion I wouldn’t be getting away with calling him Mr. Fredrick, and if I wanted to escape the ranch, I’d address him as Uncle, Uncle Rick, or some other variant, making it clear I would be integrated into the family like it or not. Fortunately for me, I liked it more than I didn’t, although the ready acceptance baffled me.

The chaos to get dinner also baffled me. I determined there was some form of pecking order to who went when, as nobody seemed impatient to get fed. Some waited at their tables until their turn, and they hopped up and cut into line at the appropriate place. Those folks tended to have a limp or something that would make standing to wait painful. Unable to determine what established the order, I was forced to ask the one person who could enlighten me on how dinner worked at the ranch.

“All right, Uncle Rick. How does everybody know when to get their food?”

“It’s in shift type, order, and seniority, and the most senior of us wait the longest. So, the first folks to get fed just came off shift, they’re new to the routine, and they probably haven’t more than a few bites in the saddle while checking fences and so on. The next folks up are usually the stable hands. After that, the administrative staff goes, then the cooks come in and grab what they want as they change shifts, leaving the owners and old farts like me to go last. There’s plenty for seconds, so everyone gets a fair share, and nobody gets seconds until I’ve sat my ass down with my plate. Once my ass hits the bench, anything goes. Don’t feel too badly for us, though. They refresh the buffet tables right before we get up there, so we get food just as fresh as those who are first in line. If there’s anything left, it’s packed up, frozen in single-person containers, and distributed to nearby shelters. We maintain a food service license just so we can do that. Nothing goes to waste. The bones left at the buffet table become stock, safe scrap vegetables are fed to the animals, and what can’t be sent to shelters or given to the animals is composted for the farm.” He grinned and pointed at a woman who monitored the buffet tables, armed with a pair of tongs she liked to slap against her leg. “That’s my wife, and she’s hungry, but she doesn’t get anything until everyone else, excepting myself, has gotten a share.

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