Why Jack Sprat Could Eat No Fat

Jack was the kind of man who believed a week's worth of hard labor should be rewarded with a substantial Saturday supper. So when he entered his wife's kitchen that night and saw the table covered with his favorite dishes, he felt a great comfort, even though his back ached and his feet hurt.

"Mighty fine," he said, sniffing appreciatively. His wife, Bertha, set the roast into its place of honor in the center of the table. Jack could've been referring to her or to the food, but in either case she took it as a compliment.

"Oh, Jack," she giggled. "Sit down and eat. 'fore it gets cold."

Jack pulled out his chair and plopped down with a sigh. His eyes fell on steaming bowls heaped with fried potatoes, corn on the cob, and baked beans. And in the middle of it all was the dish he'd been looking forward to all week.

"That's it?" His brow wrinkled. The roast looked awfully small. Bertha always did a good job cooking it, but usually it was much larger.

Bertha took the chair across from him. "That's it. Price o' beef has gone up, Jack." She indicated the other food with a sweep of her hand. "There's plenty else, including gravy. An' I made some biscuits, too."

Jack nodded. Anything was better than the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he often ate on the job, or the cold suppers his wife sometimes left on the counter when he worked really late. "It's a fine Saturday night supper" he assured her. "Not as big as they used to be, but fine, just fine."

He picked up the carving knife and carefully scrutinized the roast. One end glistened with lush beef juice. It was a small part of a small roast, but his mouth already watered with anticipation. He started slicing it.

"Hold up, there," Bertha said. "Whad'ya doin?"

"I'm cuttin me a piece of this roast," Jack replied.

"Un-uh. That's my piece. Lessin you plannin' on takin' the whole other end there."

"I don't see your name on it."

"All the same, I worked all day for that end of the roast. You can have the other end."

"I don't want the other end!" Jack pointed to the chosen part with the carving knife. "You know how much I like the fatty piece."

Bertha jutted her chin out, narrowed her eyes and gave Jack a hard stare. It was the Look. He knew it meant she wasn't in the mood for arguing.

He laid the knife down on the table. He could be reasonable. He'd just have to 'splain it properly.

#

"I know you worked hard to prepare this here meal," he began.

Bertha glared at him.

"But ya gotta understand! I worked all week for this. Got up at the crack o' dawn, worked outside in the sun all day, not gittin' home til way after dark. Jus' so we could have a good dinner once a week. Our Saturday night supper."

Bertha folded her arms over her ample bosom.

Jack huffed and picked up the carving knife again. "I'm the breadwinner," he declared. "an' it's my right to have this here piece o' the roast."

Bertha cleared her throat. "An' I'm not?" she asked, emphasizing each word with a quick jut of her head. "I spent the week at your mama's house, helpin' her do the spring cleanin' a lil bit every day 'fore I come home and clean this un. Tuesday and Thursday I was workin' all day at the hospital, doin' my volunteer time. I still managed to pack your lunches and fix your suppers, and I spent all today gettin' this here dinner ready! So don't you go tellin' me how hard you worked to bring the bread home, 'cause I'm the one who has to make somethin' out o' it." She uncrossed her arms and picked up her fork.

Jack offered a sly grin. "All right, all right. No sense in arguin' over it." He looked at the roast. "There's 'nuff here for us to share it. I'll just cut it in half." Deftly, he sliced the chosen piece off the end of the roast and neatly slivered it into two.

Bertha smiled. "That's better. I knew you'd figure somethin' out, fair and square." She picked up her plate and held it out for her half of the slice. Jack put the carving knife down and was about to serve when they both heard the doorbell.

Bertha put her empty plate down. "Who could that be?"

Jack looked at her crossly. "Dunno. You expecting a delivery?"

"No. You?"

Pushing himself away from the table, Jack jumped up. "I'll only be a minute," he said, covering the serving utensils with a paper napkin.

But Bertha was more interested in the visitor than the roast and she followed him to the front door. The figure of a man was visible through a sheer curtain hanging over the door's glass inset, but it was too shadowy for them to identify who it was.

Jack opened the door.

#

"Surprise!"

Jack's jaw dropped as Bertha pushed her way past him and opened the screen door. "Junior! What on Earth...?"

Jack Junior stood on the porch dressed in his full Navy uniform. Offering his mother a bouquet of yellow flowers, he waited for her hug. "They're for you, Mama."

"Well, well," Jack's face split into a big grin. "Welcome home, Son! Come on in!" He opened the door wide and let Junior lead the way inside.

Bertha sniffed the flowers. "I'll go put these in some water," she said, her eyes shining.

As Junior took off his utility cap and tucked it into his trousers, Jack beamed with pride. "Come on in the kitchen," he told his only son. "We're just about to sit down to dinner. I hope you're hungry!"

"Boy, am I," Junior said, taking the chair between his parents. "I sure miss Mama's cooking."

After giving Junior a plate, knife and fork, Bertha added another glass of water to the table. "Now don't you be shy, you take what you want," she said, resuming her seat.

"This looks great!" Junior said, picking up his fork. "All we get in the chow hall is the stuff that's supposed to be good for you. A lot of salad and more steamed vegetables than I ever thought I'd eat. And the meat, well, it's not very good. Dry as kindling, and tough, too." He reached for the choice cut of meat.

Bertha's arm snaked out as she laid a hand on his fork. "Uh, just a minute, hun,"

Junior's eyebrows shot up.

Jack cleared his throat. "Uh, your mama and I were just sayin', well...it's like this..."

Junior pulled his fork back. "Is something wrong?"

Jack looked at Bertha, who looked back at Jack. "Not at all," Bertha said, and at the same time Jack said "It's just a small thing."

Junior smiled. "I'm a big boy now. I can handle it."

"It's like this," Jack said, feeling a little embarrassed. "Your mama and I had a discussion right 'fore you got here, and we decided we'd share that little piece of roast. But there's this whole other end here--"

"--And it's just as delicious as I've always cooked it!" Bertha interjected.

Junior looked at Jack, then at Bertha. "I'd rather have the fatty piece," he said, his voice cool.

Jack sighed.

Everyone looked at the roast. The delectable end piece, now cut into halves, lay in a puddle of brown juice. Little globules of fat were just starting to congeal around the edges of the roast's serving dish.

Junior picked up his glass of water and took a sip. Bertha switched her attention to the potatoes, nonchalantly using a spoon to give them a stir.

Jack thought hard. There had to be fair way to settle this.

"I know," he exclaimed, causing Junior to spill a little water. Bertha dropped the spoon into the potatoes. "We'll have a contest. A riddle!"

#

"A riddle?" Bertha dug out the spoon and used a napkin to wipe the handle.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll give each of you a riddle. If you guess it right, you get half of the end cut. If you get it wrong, I get your piece."

Junior gave a slow nod.

Bertha squinted at Jack. "Okay," she said finally. "As long as it's fair."

Jack's eyebrows popped up as he rubbed his hands together. "Of course it's fair. Now, let me think..."

While they waited, Junior piled potatoes and vegetables on his plate. Bertha took a biscuit, sliced it in half, and buttered it thoroughly before applying honey.

Jack snapped his fingers. "I've got one," Turning to Junior, he added, "you ready?"

Junior took his fork out of his mouth and nodded.

"Okay, then. Here goes. A man was takin' a walk outside when it started to rain. The man doesn't have an umbrella, and he warnt wearin' a hat. His clothes get soaked, but not a single hair on his head gets wet. How kin that be?"

Junior chewed slowly on a potato, his eyes on the roast. He took another sip of water. As he placed his glass down, he smiled. "You must be talking about my squadron XO. That man's bald as a cue ball." With a wide grin, he flourished his fork while putting half of the choice cut of meat on his plate.

Jack watched him take a bite. Then his eyes wandered back to the roast, which was now looking cool and a bit leathery. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, he thought. I wonder if it's too late to split the last piece with Bertha?

He put his elbow on the table and cupped his cheek in his hand.

Bertha looked at him expectantly. Yes, it was too late to back out now. Surely he could come up with something clever.

Junior took a biscuit and a helping of baked beans. Jack's stomach rumbled. His plate was still empty, and Bertha was still looking at him. Her plate was empty, too, but she had half a biscuit in her hand.

Jack cleared his throat. "All right, that was good, Junior."

Junior nodded and waved his fork appreciatively.

"Are you ready, Bertha?" Jack asked.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"Okay, then." He racked his brain. What was that joke he heard at the pub last week? It was a clever one. He hadn't gotten it, so he was certain Bertha wouldn't get it. What was it?

Jack smiled and looked straight at Bertha. She'll not figure this out, not in a million years, he thought.

He cleared his throat again. "If Fortune had a daughter, what would her name be?"

Bertha frowned. He knew it! That cut of meat was as good as his! His fingers tapped the table as he waited for her answer.

Bertha started to say something, then seemed to think better of it.

"Come on, then. The food's gettin' cold," Jack complained.

Bertha frowned harder. Her eyes searched the table, as if something in the vegetables would give her an answer. Then a big smile crossed her face.

"Oh, that's an easy one," she said, picking up her fork. "Miss-fortune." She stabbed the last half of the choice piece of meat and carefully transferred it to her plate.

#

Jack's face sunk. 

"Oh come now, it's just a piece of roast." Bertha said, putting a pile of potatoes on her plate.

Jack pouted harder.

Bertha sniffed. "They was your rules, after all." She added a spoonful of beans.

Jack looked at the roast. Without the choice cut, nothing about it appeared enticing. His lip quivered.

Bertha put her fork down, cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips together. "I'll tell you what," she said finally. "I'm such a good wife, I'll give you another chance."

Jack lifted his head, his eyes wide. "I'm listnin'"

"This time, I'll give you a riddle," Bertha told him. "If you guess it right, you can have this piece and all the good end cuts for the next month. But if you don't get it right, I get them."

A smile spread across Jack's face. He'd heard Bertha's jokes before. Usually they were silly puns she heard from his mother or one of the other women in the community. They were never terribly clever.

"Go on then," he told her.

Bertha thought for a moment. "A woman's got six daughters. Each of them has a brother. How many children has she got?"

Jack laughed. This was too easy. She must really feel sorry for him. No matter, he thought, it's her loss. Fair and square.

"That's easy," he said. "She got twelve children. Far too many for my likin'", he added with a chuckle to Junior.

Jack picked up his fork and leaned over the table to claim his prize.

But Bertha slapped his hand. "Not so," she said, forcing him to jump back.

Jack scowled. "Whaddya mean? I can do math."

Bertha shook her head sadly as she sliced her meat. "Meybe. But that woman ain't got twelve kids. She got seven. Six girls and a boy." She took a bite of the meat. "Ummm, ummm this is good!"

Jack thought about it for a full minute. Then his shoulders dropped.

Junior cut off a big chunk of the roast. "Here you go, Pop," he chuckled. " A nice, thick, lean cut of beef. If you don't chew it too much, it tastes just fine."

Resigned, Jack piled his plate with beans, corn, potatoes and biscuits. Then he liberally applied gravy over the entire mess and dug in.

From that day forward, Jack Sprat could eat no fat. His wife never could eat no lean. But between the both of them, they picked that platter, clean!