What's that!!!!

The Buffledog (i.e.: Chief Taster) and I were conscripted into the service of the Turkey-day chef - we were, after all, “extremely busy” with a book, the remote and other vitally essential T-day activities. We dubiously eyed our 3 square foot working space. The kitchen, though larger than our last, seems to shrink by a factor of 10 when more than one person is puttering about. Then add an island, a swinging refrigerator door, a yawning oven, gaping dishwasher and a dog the size of Kansas … ok, Delaware then, and the square footage of available space is 3 square feet ... well … actually ... it is less than 3 square feet - much less, perhaps 3 nanometers. One can uncomfortably stand in one spot and chop a few veggies. Gryphon settled in with a permanent grin, expectant eyes and a tongue a bullfrog would be proud to call his own. I looked down and thought, our floor had a black, white and rust carpet with a self-shaking feature. It also doubled as official greeter, feline deterrent (i.e.: turkey defense) and, with the drop of a morsel or crumb, the most powerful vacuum in the universe - complete with wipe cycle and built in duster ... the more crumbs the faster the duster oscillates.

This year we decided (actually I requested) some rutabagas. It is a generally acknowledged axiom in our household that if rutabagas are cooked, I have to chop them. Now, I don’t know about the rest of the planet, but it is my firm belief that a meat cleaver is the only acceptable tool for reducing these earth-born softballs into some cookable form. Since I was forbidden to wield an instrument of such lethal potential in such close quarters I was pondering sneaking the spheres off to the shop, sharpening the hatchet, perhaps the machete, and doing the little beasties in. Apparently none of these options were viable ones as far as the chef was concerned. I settled for a rather diminutive paring knife. The only male in the room that was happy about this was Gryphon.

The paring knife, though generally useful, creates a series of unpredictable cubic projectiles when applied to a root crop with the consistency of igneous rock. Gryphon responded to the first of the cubes with a look of “WHAT”S THAT???” followed swiftly with a sniff, then a tentative tongue. He rolled the cube around in his mouth for a few moments and decided that this was indeed food and the rest of the errant cubes disappeared from the floor.

… much later …

We wrinkled our noses, sniffed and said in unison, “WHAT’S THAT???“ - paying dearly for his ingestion of said cubic missiles.