This morning in the shower I had the thought that if we stop at some Dairy Queen for lunch, and I order the Chicken Strip Basket with fries and Texas toast, that she might make the joke about the redundancy of calling it Texas toast in Abeline.
It’s a joke I’ve thought of and dismissed a hundred times, and yet this child of mine, this freckle-chinned girl from Lame Deer, MT, might not have the instinct to leave the low-hanging fruit for those who can’t climb the tree.
Yet what if she misses the connection altogether: Texas toast in Texas is so comically obvious that a failure to see it would, to me, indicate a dull mind.
Whose influence would this be? Her one-armed step-father? The grandmother who raised her? Her Montana peers who spend afternoons ogling on their dogs to keep licking themselves?
Yes, dogs licking themselves is funny, but not for the reason most stoners would argue.
When we do arrive at the Dairy Queen, I opt for the Bacon Cheese Grill-Burger–no combo.
“No Texas toast?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she means it. She’s smiling, but I can’t read her tone.
Is she two steps behind me or one step ahead?
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