"We’ll go find you a knight in shining amour," I remark.
Twisty takes a look back to the woods, "Oh no, Barney’s and a green-truck are just what I need!"
WeenerMan has climbed out of his side of the truck, "So what’s the dilemma you’re facing here?"
"Oh I was going through the woods picking some early season mushrooms,"
"For pizzia?" I ask as I get out of the buck-truck.
Twisty rolls her eyes skywards, "The Burdock also features fine dining," she reminds me, "And we do have customers with discriminating tastes."
HM WeenerMan has a lid on apail partially raised, "Oh, you were picking the brown-stripped morrel indigenous to these woods, a good choice."
Twistine grins broadly, "Ah, a connesuer."
"More like an enterprenour," I say under my breath.
WeenerMan goes on, "The Native Americans first pointed them out to colonel WeenerMan on his survey, and they proved sumptuous in stews with the wild game they subsisted on on those first surveying."
"Oh brother," I grimace.
"Quiet you," Twisty shuhes me, "HM is imparting our local heritage."
"The rest of the story goes that as soon as the ice-box was invented the WeenerMans had one mounted on a horse-wagon so they could have cold-cuts out in the feild," I reply.
"Ingenious," Twistine is impressed.
The WeenerMan goes on, "I do see that you have these morrels between ice packs, you need to keep them chilled if you want to keep them tasting good."