It was my first entrance into a genuine American household; my first meal at a Gentile--yes, a Christian--board.

Would I know how to behave properly?
I do not know whether I betrayed my anxiety; I am certain only that I was all eyes and ears, that nothing should escape me which might serve to guide me.

This, after all, was a normal state for me to be in, so I suppose I looked natural, no matter how much I stared.

I had been accustomed to consider my table manners irreproachable, but America was not Polotzk, as my father was ever saying; so I proceeded very cautiously with my spoons and forks.

I was cunning enough to try to conceal my uncertainty; by being just a little bit slow, I did not get to any given spoon until the others at table had shown me which it was.
All went well, until a platter was passed with a kind of meat that was strange to me.