As part of our Canada Day festivities on July 1, we went lunching at the bland but uncrowded Pickle Barrel. I ordered spaghetti without the meatballs; two others ordered spaghetti with. After a considerable wait, our affable server brought our food, and began passing the orders out to their respective orderers.

"You're the one without balls, right?" he said as he planted my meal in front of me.

I had not looked at him, so I did not see his expression; he sounded sincere. There was, however, a meaningful pause as I exchanged glances with the diner across from me.

As they all caught on, my pals gave out a roar of laughter, and I sighed.