Ä The Phoenix Main Board (1:346/11) ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ PHOENIX Ä Msg : 200 of 200 Cra From : Dave Laird 1:346/11 Tue 15 Jun 93 11:44 To : Everyone Subj : Pretty kitty ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ Hello Everyone! Just for a change from writing hard fiction, here is a real-life experience that recently happened. (With embellishments, of course.) Recently, when I had visiting dignitaries (my mother and a friend) coming over for dinner, I was forced to put on my faded chef's hat and actually do some work in the kitchen for a change. At least, fixing dinner for five persons required that I do something greater than to boil water or pour milk over something. So with loathing and trepidation, I laid out my arsenal of war in preparation for the grand affair. A fat goose, his legs grotesquely akimbo, lay mute and cold on the sideboard, ready to leap into the broiler pan at my command. Also close at hand was a small picnic ham, still packed in its pale, wiggly protective gelatine, which in no way resembled the piglet from whence it came. I would never undertake such a monstrous task without reinforcements. So, with an eye to the future, I had carefully laid in a bottle of the best scotch, and arming myself with a dollop of that fine fluid, which would probably kill or at least stun a full-sized horse, I sallied forth into the kitchen with all the bravado that I could find in my first glass of scotch. One-half hour later, elbow deep in goose guts, who should chance to come calling but D.C., my lifelong (well, at least her life- long) white cat. She probably was did a double-take at seeing me simultaneously swearing a blue streak, guzzling six months' worth of scotch and waving a dangerously sharp butcher knife without becoming an amputee. "Whaaaat?", D.C. cried plaintively, entering the room on dainty kitty-paws. She took one look at me, up and down, covered with goosie gore, grease in my ohmigawd hair and reeking of high- priced scotch, and screeched, "Caaaarl!!!!" Before you ask, please understand that I have a very unusual cat. In times of uncertainty, D.C. regresses to a time when I was once fond of Carlos Casteneda which I consumed in marathon reading sessions with her reclining on my lap, and to this day she calls him by name when she is not sure of what is about to take place. If you do not believe that, write it off to a philosophical mating call of a cat in heat. "Bullshit, cat!" I muttered thickly, waving the greasy knife in midair to further demonstrate my disinterest. "This is not your run-of-the-mill goddamn dinner. This is haute cuisine and there are guests coming over for dinner. So butt out!" "Eeeaaat!" "Bullshit. Your cat food is right there, where it always is, on top of the dryer. Eat some fish-flavored wheaties and be damn glad you've got it." I must admit that I lost track of the cat for a time. In retrospect, since she made no further attempts at conversation, I regressed into becoming a soused chef. I always wanted to be a soused chef, but never had an opportunity. There were too many others well ahead of me in line, no doubt eager to get soused and get well paid for it. I had to study English. I had turned my back only for a moment to adjust the amount of scotch going into my glass. One must maintain vigilance in order to be a fully-functional soused chef, so I am told, so the glass must never be empty. While I was at it, I also turned the flame under the wine sauce on the stove from simmer to blowtorch, since I was about to put the goose and the sauce together and let them commune together in the oven for a few hours. I turned my attention to the sauce on the stove and started stirring it, according to the directions in the Betty Crocked Cookbook, my favorite. When my mind returned from whichever back road it sought out, who should I see carefully tending the stuffed goose, but my loyal and wholly self-serving cat. D.C., no doubt seeing my temporary lapse of awareness, had jumped up onto the sideboard and was greedily devouring the last of the goose gizzard. "Arroint thee wench!" I screeched, and grabbing a greasy handful of cat fur, I held her up to eye level. Not one iota, not one tiny bit of remorse could I see. "You are destined for the hubcap of a Ford doing 90 on the Interstate...the dog cage at Spokanimal Care...inside the blender set to puree." "Yes, that's it," I chortled. "I'll put your ass in the blender since it is the biggest container right at hand." So with a few minor scratches and a lot of discussion, I somehow managed to squeeze the offending feline into a two quart blender that set up on top of the refridgerator. Out of mind, I forgot the cat and proceeded to set new standards, either for a goose cooked in wine sauce or a cook goosed by wine sauce cum-soused chef extraordinaire. During the feast that followed, everything was proceeding in a fine fettle. The guests were awed at my culinary expertise, as the goose was cooked to perfection, the rice pilaf-out-of-a-box looked just enough like something a soused-chef would create for visiting dignitaries to be credible and the frozen vegetables from hell would have mollified even a vegetarian. The only flaw in the entire evening occurred as I was about to present my piece d'resistance, a rum chocolate mousse which I had prepared with my own hands, after appropriating a certain amount of the rum and buying the rest of it in a box at Fred Meyer. As I served the chocolate dessert, I was describing to my guests about how I made the mousse in the blender earlier in that morning, since I lacked the necessary cookware to really do an effective job. "It was really difficult to make it work. I had to mix the ingredients in two batches and slowly combine them together to make enough to go around. Thank god I have a 2 quart blender, since without a electric mixer, I'd have been stuck." "Ouuuuuttt!" A cry of torment and anguish echoed from out in the kitchen. "I wonder what the hell that is?" I muttered under my breath, then more directly to my guests, "What the hell is THAT?" Somewhere today in the Universe, there is gaily decorated hallways through which children, visiting guests and sauced chefs all dance without fear of being chastised. Somewhere, on some remote island in space talking cats have their tongues cut out at birth. However, there is no peace in Clayton. My mother and her guest both practiced staring at me fish-eyed the rest of evening, and furthermore declined seconds of the delicious chocolate mousse after I extricated D.C. the goose-grease cat from the blender atop the refrigerator, where, hours after the mousse, in my haste, I had left her on puree with the cord unplugged. Dave --- * Origin: Creative American Anachronisms, Inc The Phoenix BBS (1:346/11)