A Symbolically Significant Supper Scenario

Does that alliteration sound forced or corny? I can't decide. It just came to me.

I concocted a triumphant weeknight casserole this evening for supper. I can't tell you proportions, but here's what I did:

I peeled and sliced a few yellow potatoes and a few small carrots and minced half of a large red onion and put them in a greased baking dish. I also threw in about an ear's worth of frozen corn. I salted and peppered that generously. Then I added about a cup (maybe more?) of shredded havarti and Jarlsberg cheeses. I embedded two quartered fresh bratwursts in the top of the cheesy veggie pile (the all-natural kind made by Amish people) and salted again. Then I stirred together about 1/4 cup of arrowroot (it's a substitute for cornstarch) and about 2 1/2 cups of milk and poured it over everything. I baked it at 375ish for about an hour (until it was thickened and all brown on top).

As I happily assembled our dinner, I thought about how I can trace the origin of about 80% of its substance to a kindly farmer who lives no more than 40 miles from me. I was thinking specifically about how glad I was that the pig that became my sausage had never been the property of any conglomerate when

knock knock knock

Odd. No one ever knocks on my door at 5 pm. I dry my hands and go to the door. Standing in my driveway is a rotund, ruddy man in a dirty cap and a thin, white wifebeater.

"Hiya ma'am! I's makin' a delivery in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop here ta do a little advertisin!"

I glance at his van. It has a silhouetted steer on the side. Uh-oh.

"Y'all them vegetarians, or d'yall eat meat?" I swear I'm not making this up.

"We eat meat that was humanely raised."

"Uh, what now?"

"We eat meat that doesn't come from factory farms. You know, the animals eat what they're supposed to eat, and they're pastured."

"Well, these cows're free range. S'at what that means?"

"If they have free access to pasture and eat nothing but grass for their whole lives, and if they're slaughtered in a low-stress environment, then yes."

He gets this condescending smile on his face and shakes his head a little. "Now ma'am, ya know, all of 'em grain 'em at the end. Fer the marblin'."

"No. They don't."

He chuckles. "Name one."

"Well, we buy our beef from Seven Sons in Roanoke. Call them, and they'll explain to you how to raise cows humanely. Bye."

I went back to the kitchen and continued to ponder my sausage. The man got in his van and drove away.