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This column first appeared on HuffintonPost.com. Comments not included here.
By Beth Arnold
IF THERE'S ONE thing I'm good at, it's picking meat off the bones of any steak, chop, roast, or joint of beef, pork, or lamb--but best of all a bird--that happens to be sitting on a plate or carving board in front of me. I can't take all the credit for my acquired skill. I inherited being a good picker as an Arnold family trait. In my nuclear group, I wasn't even the best one. That honor goes to my younger brother, Brent, who honed his talent to an art, even though my older brother Blair and I were avidly pursuing, and not unremarkably, our own picking gifts.
By Beth Arnold
IF THERE'S ONE thing I'm good at, it's picking meat off the bones of any steak, chop, roast, or joint of beef, pork, or lamb--but best of all a bird--that happens to be sitting on a plate or carving board in front of me. I can't take all the credit for my acquired skill. I inherited being a good picker as an Arnold family trait. In my nuclear group, I wasn't even the best one. That honor goes to my younger brother, Brent, who honed his talent to an art, even though my older brother Blair and I were avidly pursuing, and not unremarkably, our own picking gifts.
Our mother, Bobbye, was not necessarily pleased by this particular motor skill though we tried to follow her picking rules. With Mother's waste-not want-not mindset, it wasn't that she minded us going for every scrap we could bite off, but there were limits to where and how we could do it. We could nibble any meat to its frame in the sanctity of our own home, but in polite society, we had to contain ourselves--except for pork ribs and fried chicken, which in any sophisticated life is a mortal sin not to pick up, since there is no other proper way to eat them.
