|Raoul says, “I’m helping!”|
|Ours was not this pretty|
We cooked together a lot. We’d make big pots of chili and pans of cornbread for our post- football game parties, and actually used our crock pot—a standard issue wedding present in the ’70’s. Another house specialty in those days was our famous spaghetti, always accompanied by crunchy garlic bread and lots of jug red.
|Fueling up for the hunt|
We dragged out our electric rotisserie (a generous wedding present from a great-aunt) and placed it on the shelf above the sink, directly underneath the dangling duck. This immediately blew a fuse, which meant we had to unplug whatever else was plugged in for the duration of the drying-out period. Plug in, blow fuse, repeat. Meanwhile, juices from the duck hit the red-hot heating element below, producing a sizzling siren song for the cats. The three of them:–Catrina the calico with the crooked tail, Midnite, the skittish long-haired black cat, and sleek, gray Kinky Raoul– lined up and posed like ancient stone cats, their eyes glued to the flightless indoor bird. Six eyes narrowed to slits; an occasional ear twitched. If that duck made a move, I’m sure they would have jumped straight up in the air like cartoon cats. I don’t know what was more amusing–the cats watching the duck, or us watching the cats watching the duck.