“Well, you seemed to like them the first two days!”
“Oui, oui,” the French man said, waving his hands dramatically. “Zey were… how you say… acceptable. Crunchy.
But today—”
He gagged, holding his stomach. “What happened today?” the farmer asked. The Frenchman turned toward him slowly, eyes wide with trauma.
“Monsieur… today we castrated thirty-three sheep.”
The farmer blinked. “And?”
“And when I came inside… Madame had cooked them ALL! She was standing there with two giant pans… smiling at me… saying, ‘Supper’s ready!’”
The farmer tried not to laugh, but his shoulders shook.
“So?”
“So?!” The Frenchman jumped to his feet. “One plate, monsieur… ONE PLATE had so many ‘sheep fries’ it could feed an entire village! I thought it was a joke.
But no… she expected me to EAT THEM.”
He shivered, clutching himself. “I cannot do zis anymore. I am just one man!
I cannot eat thirteen pounds of… of…”
He whispered, as if afraid someone might hear:
“…testicules de mouton.”
The farmer laughed so hard he almost fell over. “Son, she meant them for the whole family! Not just you!”
The Frenchman froze.
“She… she did?”
“Yes!”
He blinked several times as if processing information that could have saved him from emotional collapse. Then he slowly sat back down. “So… I did not need to finish the entire plate?”
“No!”
“And she was not testing my… how you say… masculinité?”
“No!”
“And it is not a tradition in America to eat all of zis alone?”
“Good lord, no.”
The French worker placed his face in his hands and let out a long sigh of relief.
“Mon dieu…”
The farmer clapped him on the back. “Come on. Let’s go back.
My wife’s making mashed potatoes tonight.”
The Frenchman smiled weakly. “Ah… mashed potatoes… A dish without consequences.”
They walked back to the house, but when they stepped inside, they heard the farmer’s wife cheerfully call out from the kitchen:
“Dinner’s ready! I made EXTRA sheep fries, just in case!”
The French worker collapsed onto the floor.
