What, were you raised in a barn?

In the rural county in which I was born, there was a family that possessed some quaint, not to say primitive, notions about etiquette. They lived in a large shack out in the woods, rather like the three bears (although there were far more than three). It was the custom of the house to hang a loaf of bread from the ceiling by a long string, and to grab a piece from time to time as one's hunger dictated. The family would occasionally sit on the front porch and eat peas out of a common bowl. When the matriarch died, they buried her in a crate that had originally held farm implements, and when the mule passed on, the family dug a large hole and shoved it in; however, when they filled in the grave, they discovered that they had not made it deep enough, leaving the mule's legs sticking out of the ground about a foot, so they simply cut off the exposed portion of the limbs (I've no idea what they did with the severed parts; possibly they used them to make soup). One woman of the clan, who became pregnant, became the first to visit a doctor for a check-up, and wound up tossing him bodily through the door of the examination room, convinced that he was taking indecent liberties.

Pacos were somewhat more sophisticated. I didn't care for them, myself, but my grandfather was adept at eating peas off a knife; attempts, although frequently unsuccessful, were made to suppress excessive belching; and I prided myself on the spring-like motion of my arm as I reached half way across the table to snatch the last dinner roll. My father, dipping his cornbread into a glass of buttermilk, would smile; "that's my boy!"

I've heard that, a couple of generations later, the bucolic originals mentioned above managed to get in line with what passes for civilization and culture in my native county. This is all by way of touching on the subject of table etiquette, concerning which I saw this article yesterday.

I was aware of most of these rules, but I was in awe of the photo of a table setting in the piece...

That looks like it's close to almost all the cutlery Mrs. Paco and I had in the early days of our marriage. and it appears, judging by the number of glasses, that whoever is preparing to dine is going to be plastered by the time they wheel in the baked Alaska. 

Well, bon appétit to everybody when your next meal rolls around, and remember not to slurp your soup (unless you're in a country where that kind of thing is considered a compliment to the chef).