Pollettes, for the three of you out there who somehow don't already know, are women involved in the promotion, and presumably the eating, of polled hereford cows.
How that leads to this thing is beyond us.
The cow, a stand-in for your typical Pollette, is the picture of domestic solicitude. All gussied up with her gingham bow, she oozes polite/poll-ette charm. As the fragrant steam from the slab of cow meat reaches her flared nostrils, her tongue peeks out. She is demure, but piqued: the steak she dare not taste—not yet, not until you have been served—lies bookended on her plate.
Will she finally give in, to the deliciously forbidden? To her truest nature?
Will the country gal enter into the wider world?
Will the bow, the pristine bow, come down?
(Thanks to Dr. Heath for the referral.)