Well, they’re having a gathering. When that happens, they take my little table where I eat and use it for water and wine and other things they don’t want on THEIR table, and so I have to go find the place they’ve chosen for me for MY dinner this time and I certainly hope it works for me. Change is okay, but not where food is concerned.
I’m particular about my dinner. Who isn’t? They are, after all. I mean about THEIR dinners.
Even papa gets involved when they have a dinner party and he’s the best. I’ll bet there aren’t too many papas out there who set the table and chill the wine and fold the napkins just so and make sure the wine glasses aren’t all smeared up from the last dishwasher incident when there was no glass cleaner in the holder on the door and the glasses all looked as if someone wearing white lipstick had left his/mark on each one!
But I could have told them that, because I check out all the appliances in the house and make sure I have rubbed on all of them and left my calling card behind, just in case someone comes to visit with another kitty and expects me to entertain him/her.
Well, if it’s a “him”…hmmmmm.
So the long-cooked lamb is done in all its juicy glory and the little new artichokes are sautéed just so with a sort of crispy outside on each slice and the purée of carrot and potato and fromage blanc is awaiting its jump in the oven and the focaccia is golden
and ready for me to have a little piece of when no one is looking and the dark chocolate flourless cake is ready for its decoration (a stencil of a kitty, no doubt, in homage to you know who) with powdered sugar and here I am, staring at mama and not even giving her kitty kisses back because IT’S TIME FOR MY DINNER—-
Screw the dinner party. Who comes first around here anyway?
Do you remember Simon’s Cat? Huh? Huh? Remember what that kitty does every time, huh, at the end of a cartoon? Watch my paw—see where it’s pointing, huh? La boca, baby, la boca.
