acmespaceship (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
acmespaceship) wrote2013-12-13 02:58 pm
acmespaceship) wrote2013-12-13 02:58 pm
Crockpot: An Exercise in Perspective
F
ROM THE EXPEDITION JOURNALS OF R. COSMO BROWN
Field research, cruel mistress! Shall you never cease in testing me? Once again the Kitchen and its familiar massive oval crockpot are a wellspring of discovery and vexation in equal measure.
I feel a moral obligation to act as a loyal companion to "Mama" while nonetheless maintaining my objective reasoning as an embedded anthropologist. Hence I assist "Mama" in those many endeavours which gain from the unique talents of a feline adventurer. I do not allow myself to nap on the radiator when she needs me on the Kitchen counter. Nay, I do not! And yet, the difficulties!
In the first place, onions. <sneef>
In the second place, in the name of all that is holy, could someone please elucidate to me the purpose of potatoes? It seems to me they exist only to take up space that would be better filled with meat. Omnivores! Bah!
In the third place, and it is a heartbreaking tale I must now tell, my responsibilities as Back Porch Supervisor require me to venture outdoors -- where The Humans have lately forgotten to turn on the heat despite my reminding them at every opportunity. Thus preoccupied outside in the bitter cold, a closed door barring me from the warmth and hidden mice of the Kitchen, I could do nothing while "Mama," clearly in a fit of madness, chose that exact time to remove two (!) chuck steaks from the icebox, trim them, and brown them magnificently. By the time I captured her attention and the door was opened, said glorious meat was already sequestered in the oval pot and covered by a lid. Yet I could have helped her.
By God, woman, this is not a job you should be doing alone.
I am now dutifully guarding said oval pot from the mice I know to be hiding under the stove. I shall serve here for five to seven hours or until the meat is fork-tender and the potatoes are done, my only reward being the odd scrap of pot roast and the sure knowledge that someday, somehow, "Mama" will forget to close the porch door behind me. Thus ever are the hopes and tribulations of those who love Science.
I remain your humble correspondent to the Geographic Society,
-- R.C.B.
ROM THE EXPEDITION JOURNALS OF R. COSMO BROWNField research, cruel mistress! Shall you never cease in testing me? Once again the Kitchen and its familiar massive oval crockpot are a wellspring of discovery and vexation in equal measure.
I feel a moral obligation to act as a loyal companion to "Mama" while nonetheless maintaining my objective reasoning as an embedded anthropologist. Hence I assist "Mama" in those many endeavours which gain from the unique talents of a feline adventurer. I do not allow myself to nap on the radiator when she needs me on the Kitchen counter. Nay, I do not! And yet, the difficulties!
In the first place, onions. <sneef>
In the second place, in the name of all that is holy, could someone please elucidate to me the purpose of potatoes? It seems to me they exist only to take up space that would be better filled with meat. Omnivores! Bah!
In the third place, and it is a heartbreaking tale I must now tell, my responsibilities as Back Porch Supervisor require me to venture outdoors -- where The Humans have lately forgotten to turn on the heat despite my reminding them at every opportunity. Thus preoccupied outside in the bitter cold, a closed door barring me from the warmth and hidden mice of the Kitchen, I could do nothing while "Mama," clearly in a fit of madness, chose that exact time to remove two (!) chuck steaks from the icebox, trim them, and brown them magnificently. By the time I captured her attention and the door was opened, said glorious meat was already sequestered in the oval pot and covered by a lid. Yet I could have helped her.
By God, woman, this is not a job you should be doing alone.
I am now dutifully guarding said oval pot from the mice I know to be hiding under the stove. I shall serve here for five to seven hours or until the meat is fork-tender and the potatoes are done, my only reward being the odd scrap of pot roast and the sure knowledge that someday, somehow, "Mama" will forget to close the porch door behind me. Thus ever are the hopes and tribulations of those who love Science.
I remain your humble correspondent to the Geographic Society,
-- R.C.B.