A Food Related Story Involving a Foreign Country

A Food Related Story Involving a Foreign Country
When I was twelve, and our family was living in England, I would ride to school with a family called the Boils. The school was in a town called Seven Oaks, and Mister Boil would drop us off at school, park his car at the train station, and ride the train to London to work. The drive from our little town of Mark Beech to Seven Oaks took about forty-five minutes, and took us through those narrow country back roads that crazy English blokes love to zip around regardless of cumbersome lorries coming in the other direction.
On the very first day of school for me in England, I climbed into the Boil’s little Renault or Vauxhall, or whatever weird little car they had, for my first trip round the Kent country side. Little did I know. The family chatted happily, while Mister Boil careened effortlessly around blind curves and complicated round-a-bouts. The trip came to a nerve rattling halt when we all heard a loud thump under the car.
“Wha wos that?” Nick, the oldest, said.
“Bet it wossa pheasant.” Robert, his brother said.
The father and the two sons got out of the car to investigate, and sure enough, it was a pheasant. A now very dead pheasant.
We drove on and the family started making plans for dinner. We would pick up the pheasant on our way home from school. Robert suggested that his Mum make a white wine sauce for the bird. Nick wanted a Béarnaise. How about Fricassee, Mr. Boil suggested.
This was all at the same time horrific and amusing to me. This family just took this dead bird as an opportunity for a good meal. They were going to let it sit in the dead leaves until late afternoon, and Mrs. Boil was going to work her magic on it that night. I was a long way from the land of Velveeta.
We did pick up the pheasant that afternoon. I don’t know what sauce they decided on, I wasn’t invited to dinner.