Enough with dialog; action is what people want. Plot. One book I’m reading at
present is by Joseph Bryan III, who traveled in Russia, Persia and East Africa,
wrote for American newspapers, served in the army (first lieutenant), Navy
(lieutenant commander, and Air Force (colonel) so on and so forth. That’s the
stuff to give the troops. None of this poultry dialog. Or if there is to be
dialog, let it be in the service of high drama, as in today’s NY Times obit
page: the moon landing is happening, there’s a software problem, Jack Garman,
age twenty-four, has to say “go” or “abort.” Short on talk; high on adventure
and drive.
To goose up chicken plot elements this week I engaged the services of a little
bird and a mole. Surely with spies such as these in my employ I’d learn
something thrilling? But no. We did get word that Hamish had been barking
while we were out and that Cheddar had been roaming in the gloaming, but no
tales of listening devices, middle-of-the-night surveillance and bird derring
do. The nearest we came to an exchange of gunfire was a bit of a barney over
the meanings of cheese.
E. did not intend to start anything extraordinary. She merely rose from where
we were sipping afternoon tea in autumn’s sunshine and announced she was going
to get something to have with the biscuits. “Cheese” she said at the door, "or
as the Italians say ‘formaggio.’”
Cheddar wandered up. She seems done with brooding, but the results of
prolonged reflection and learning from passing birds are very much in evidence,
"Well that’s odd,” she offered.
“What?” I asked.
"French people say fromage, Italians, formaggio. That r seems to be wandering
about: f-o-r in one language f-r-o in the other. Funny."
Mimo approached, with a practical answer, "I bet the Italians wrote it down
wrong."
Pecorino said, "Bet it was the French."
“Italians."
“French."
Cheddar had an idea, "Possibly we should consider the Romans?"
Mimo, "They’re bloody Italians too."
"I don’t mean Romans who live in Rome; I mean Romans who lived before now, back
when there were Romans all over."
The plot took a surprising turn; turns out that some chickens have a pretty
good sense of their own history. Appenzeller asked, "Even in Gaul? Where they
had roosters?"
Mimo, “What’s that supposed to mean?"
Appenzeller, "Some Roman bloke named Suetonius noticed that rooster (gallus)
and Gauls (Gallus) sounded the same. So the Frogs took poultry as their
national symbol. Everyone knows that.”
“Yes, yes,” they agreed, looking at one another sideways to see who among them
had been ignorant of this vital fact.
“National symbol."
"Smart move."
Rocky asked, "But what’s that got to do with cheese?"
Mimo, “Good question. Don’t need to bring up Romans when the actual subject
under consideration is cheese…"
Cheddar, "Let’s ask god."
Rocky, "Hoi, god?"
“Yes?"
"Do you speak Roman?"
“Nope.”
“Or cheese?”
"Try me."
"We were attempting to understand…"
“…why Italians say formaggio and the French say fromage."
"I think E. said it had something to do with moulding—the Latin is formare or
something like that…of milk. She’ll be back out in a minute…bringing cheese.”
Widespread murmuring of approval, “Cheeeeeeeeeeeese.” Off they went in search
of same, walking steadily forward, eyes on the ground. “Must be here
somewhere, girls. Spread out."
Cheddar remained, cogitating, looking puzzled, “Why would you make milk mouldy?"
I said, "M-o-u-l-ding not m-o-l-ding, though of course both are part of cheese
making."
“Really?"
"Oh yes.”
Cheddar walked up and down for a bit, digesting new information (in the absence
of food).
"’strawdinry."
I continued, "And you’re all named after cheeses."
"Now you’re pulling my leg."
"I kid you not."
“But Pecorino means 'little chick who pecks' was what I was told."
"By whom?"
"Wensleydale. Who was certainly no cheese herself."
I proceeded carefully, "So what does Wensleydale mean?"
"I imagine a Wensleydale is a Dale who has some expertise in when things are
likely to occur."
"And what’s a Dale?"
"No idea."
"And a Cheddar?"
"Well we’re Cheds is what we are. Cheds that are.”
“So Cheds are a gang or a breed or something?"
“Exactly. And an Appenzeller is…well I think they missed out some letters. It
should be Alpen-seller, one who sells Swiss mountains. A realtor."
"And a Mimolette?"
“A small Mimo."
"And a Mimo is?"
“One who rounds the world in a submarine. Everyone knows that."
"Which leaves Rocky Roquefort."
"Strong chicken with rocks for brains.”
She spied E. emerging. So the others might not hear, she asked in a stage
whisper if this was the day’s denouement, the big cheese action finish.
I told her it was.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
