Thursday, December 17, 2015

Flan-again



I'm in my office doing some very important work on the computer, when I hear Mark screaming from out in the kitchen. The problem with Mark is that he will scream like he's being murdered whether he is actually being stabbed to death, or he's caught a hangnail on the cheese grater. I just never know, so I put my gin rummy game on hold and go see what all the hubbub is about. I get to the kitchen door and there is a thick cloud of white smoke.
"I've ruined it... waaaaa.... my flan, it's ruined. Waaaaaaaaaa!"
I make my way through the smoke and find Mark by the stove with a sauce pan in his hand. The sauce pan is smoking and Mark does not know what to do with it, so I steer him out the back door, into the dog run, where I proceed to hose it down.
"I looked away for two seconds, two damn seconds."
What it was, was sugar. Mark was making flan and it involves melting sugar. You have to understand that Mark almost never makes a mistake like this. He is an excellent cook and it is very seldom that I have to come into the kitchen to put down flames. In the end it all turned out just fine. I handed Mark another pan, and he proceeded to melt some more sugar. This time without burning down the kitchen.

I am not the only one who likes Mark's cooking. Our dog Bette has become completely spoiled. She will only eat what we are eating. I started her out on dog food, which she quickly determined was not the same as the stuff Mark was handing her under the dining room table. I have tried every brand of dog food that is sold at the supermarket. She hates it all. So yesterday I had Mark bring me up to the Petsmart, where I bought some gourmet dog food in a can. Somewhere I had heard or read that dogs like sweet potatoes, so I bought a small can of venison and sweet potato dog food. It cost around ten dollars an ounce, but I figured that if I could wean Bette off of people food it would be worth it. When I got home, I opened the can of dog food and scooped some into Bette's bowl. Bette walked into the kitchen, over to the bowl, and then looked at me as if I had just put dog shit into the bowl.
"Sorry, I don't eat shit." And she turned and walked away.
Fine, but if that little bitch thinks she is getting any of my flan, she is dead wrong.

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