Cornish pasties, I whisper without any hesitation. "What?", they ask. I again tell them, in a slightly irritated tone, that I want Cornish pasties...that's pass-tees, not paste-tees. I want them just like my mother used to make them.
As they head off to the kitchen to prepare my meal, my mind wanders. I think of all those old tin miners back in merry old England that used to carry this very meal with them into the mines (without sauce), there in SW England...Cornwall County, to be precise.
It was the perfect meal, a complete meal in a small package. It could be eaten without cutlery and the thick, crimped edges allowed the miners to hold their food without polluting it with toxins.
Oh, I'm sure going to miss painting! That last painting I did, I was really happy with the composition. That little corner market in St. Austell, right there by Mevagissey on the eastern coast of Cornwall, just said England...and right there on the wall was a large painting advertising Cornish pasties. Ahhhh!
"John, wake up. How long are you going to stay in bed? Don't you need to get a painting done for that show so you can get it shipped off this week?" Awakened and dazed by the muffled sounds of my wife, I stumble out of bed and wash my face.