Subject: Manse Diaries: Cat Pate
Date: 28 Nov 1997 00:00:00 GMT
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (MegaLiz)
Organization: MotPU: Where Binary Moodswings are ALWAYS on the Menu
Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free, alt.slack
My favorite Thanksgiving would have to be the first one after we got
married. We were hosting lots of family for the first time, and it was
Fat Slack, for me, anyway.
Since so many of our sponsors were going to be around, we made a point
of making use of EVERY wedding gift, we used an icky carved platter
for the turkey, the oval white damask table cloth and matching
napkins, the baking dishes with little fruity designs, the black
plates and tumblers, BOTH food processors and ALL the knives.
I had even had a sort of bridal SHOWER (hurk hurk) but I have to admit
that if I'd realized how much sheer LOOT we'd get out of getting
married, I bet we would have quit shacking up a lot sooner. Before all
this we had a fully functional kitchen, but AFTERWARD we had a
I was a little bit surprised that the Rev volunteered to cook. He
viewed all this stuff as TOYS and was happy to dervish around and
pound spuds with the proper gadgets for once. So he did. For my part,
I got to enjoy my people and the way they just help themselves to all
the OTHER toys in the house in order to make some music or expound on
geology with a good rock or a good book in hand.
We had a nice gross-out moment when my dad sidled up to me to ask, "Is
there anything unusual in the pate... aside from the cat?" I just love
the way my family leaves food on low tables and is ALWAYS surprised
when one of the beasts claims it.
Afterward I looked at the dishes and then looked at the space where a
dishwasher would fit just right. The standard agreement is that the
cook doesn't clean. I pushed the table back toward the wall, still
covered in plates and glasses and all that, and went to bed instead.
The next day I looked at it a little more briefly.
When it was beginning to remind me of Miss Havisham's wedding table, I
finally dealt with the mess. I vowed to be the cook NEXT year. A funny
thing happens to me, however. I forget things. I not only forget
things, I forget them over and over again. EVERY year since then, the
Rev pounds his chest with a wooden spoon and says, "Me cook. You
relax," and I SWOON and fall for it EVERY FUCKING TIME. He still uses
every bowl, every pot, every bit of culinary firepower we have, except
for the wok. He does a MEAN turkey and it's worth it, prettymuch. But
SHIT, I'll be doing dishes until he's ready to take command of the
NEXT holiday dinner.
The Rev likes to say, "Every day is a new day for you, isn't it?" My
brain is made by the people who brought us cat pate. Yep.
"There's dogs in the ROAD!" -- Sparky
"Hit them." - Spunky
* alt.foot.fat-free: where you can collect yummy cheese!