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COWBOY’S WAY
Copyright 2007 Cowboy
All Rights Reserved
Does your food taste different lately?
OK Let's Get Started
If the cuisine around here seems to be moving in a more supple tone, a
somewhat feline taste and texture, suggesting fluidity of movement and
springing, biting spicy flavors, you can thank me for that. When you
look at what is placed before you at mealtime and you don’t know
whether to taste it or pet it, you can thank me for that. When that
first bite or spoonful has just been swallowed and you just want to
say “MEOW!”, you can thank me for that.
You're Welcome
You see, I have found my niche in this densely populated cat house.
Ever since Mum took me in, soon after I was born, right after being
weaned, I’ve been looking for a definition of my relationships with
all the other indoor kitties and with Mum and Old Muldoon. Mum loves
me just like she loves all her other kitties, and Old Muldoon is
easier than a cheap date.
But I have my own sense of needing to make my statement, to fulfill my
role here in my own individual style. You see, I am different from the
others. They have their own personalities, and mine is also distinct.
But mine is a tad more aggressive that all the rest. I want to be
involved in something useful in a direct and hands on way. I finally
found it. I like joining in with Old Muldoon when he is in the kitchen
making meals.
Chef and Sous Chef
I like the smells of the kitchen when it is in gear, rocking and
rolling. I like the look of the kitchen. I like the action of the
kitchen. I like the company in the kitchen when Old Muldoon is at work
in there. Old Muldoon and I have found that we are very simpatico,
kindred spirits so to speak. He is aggressive too. He has his very
definite opinions about everything, as do I. We have become real pals.
Booger is also his very special pal, and I have to respect that. But
he and Booger are early morning visitors with each other, and I come
along when it’s kitchen time. Booger and I don’t have to fight over
his attention.
I think it all began to come clear when I decided that my favorite
spot in the kitchen was Old Muldoon’s chopping block. It’s a large
section of a tree trunk that has been oiled and rubbed smooth. He
chops veggies on it. He uses other cutting surfaces for meat and fish.
When his knives aren’t flying there, I like to just perch myself on
that chopping block and that becomes my vantage point from which to
survey everything that is happening in the kitchen. Doctor Muffy asked
Old Muldoon if the food here tastes differently because I am perched
on that chopping block, and she now refers to me as the secret
ingredient – you can just imagine the implications of that
description.
My Vantage Point
Can't Wait To Taste Those Meatballs
There are also other places where from time to time I will establish
my presence in the kitchen. Old Muldoon doesn’t mind and other people
don’t have to know. It’s kind of like when you drop some chopped onion
on the floor by accident and pick it up and look around to see if
anyone is watching before you decide whether to throw it in the pan or
in the trash. Mum knows but pretends that she doesn’t see it.
Did He Just Drop Something
I also get to patrol the kitchen counters after the meal is served,
and I look for and enjoy little crumbs and smidgens of this or that.
When I am done, the counters look clean and everyone thinks that Old
Muldoon is very careful about keeping his kitchen surfaces immaculate.
Little do they know. When people are visiting who claim that they are
allergic to cats, I have to stay out of sight until they leave. They
never have any adverse reactions. So it is rather obvious that what
they don’t know about they aren’t allergic to. Is there such a thing
as a non cognitive allergic reaction? If you didn’t see the allergy
report on the morning news, would you ever get clogged up? Old Muldoon
says that people have been conditioned to feel allergic for
generations, and that this was engineered by drug companies to make
them buy allergy medicines that don’t work anyway. He tried to get Dr.
Muffy to specialize in allergies, telling her that all you need is to
rent office space, write prescriptions for allergy treatment courses
that last years, and then take up golf so that you have something to
do between trips to the bank to make deposits.
All my licking of countertops, and scrounging of smidgens of food
dropped or left here and there before final cleanup after every meal
have exposed my to a rather wide variety of tastes and textures. Most
of these are preferences that I have in common with Old Muldoon, but
of course that would be the case since he wouldn’t be cooking anything
he didn’t like. He and I both like just about any kind of meat –
chicken, fish, pork, veal, beef. I bet I’d like rabbit too, but Mum
won’t eat rabbit, so it never gets prepared in our kitchen. But I’ve
heard Old Muldoon talk about how much he likes rabbit, and I have
also, of course, heard all his joking around about how everything
that’s weird somehow tastes just like chicken. I like bread too. The
bread around here is always artisenal with crunchy crusts and
toothsome in the middle, like old fashion bread that folks – so I hear
– used to eat a long time ago. The best bread is always the bread that
High Fibre Hoffman bakes and brings over as a good will offering. He
never comes over empty handed or empty headed. I don’t even mind some
spiciness, but I can’t hack fruit or vinegar, and I hate wine. I can’t
understand how he drinks that crap. He just loves it. There aren’t any
cats still alive here who remember when he used to drink martinis, but
from what I hear, I doubt I could handle those either. I hear that old
Oscar used to snuggle up with him in his fat boy chair over martinis,
and Mum said that Oscar would eat Texas chili, but I never heard that
Oscar ever actually drank a martini.
I and my sister, Little Girl, have our own private bedroom. We don’t
sleep amongst the other kitties here because we are too nocturnally
energetic. The others are more sedentary than we, and they are content
to retire when Mum and Old Muldoon turn in - but not us. We are night
owls and would gleefully run around the house and tear everything up
most of the night were we not put into our own private quarters. We
have plenty of room and toys to play around with in that rather
spacious room, so it isn’t really a bother at all.
It is December as I start to write this story, so we are approaching
Christmas, a very happy time here. Old Muldoon’s birthday is in
December also, so much of the entire month is consumed in celebratory
activity, especially the preparation of really sumptuous meals. Stock
pots are frequently going, and stocks are being differently seasoned
in different smaller pots for various soups, sauces, stews and
braises. Roasts are rubbed with herbs and garlic and Chef Muldoon’s
special spice mix, The Belinda Blend. When something goes into the
oven the aromas here are unbelievably divine. Of course, corks are
also frequently pulled from wine bottles so that they can “air
out”/breathe and be ready for sipping whenever anyone might be in the
mood.
I put my nose into everything. No good cook would ever remain aloof
from what is to be prepared, and I am no exception. Everything must be
tasted before it is presented to anyone else, and I enjoy the taste of
anything new. So, if you are a guest here at meal time, you may rest
assured that The Cowboy has personally vetted whatever it is that you
are enjoying.
This Needs More Salt
Right now Old Muldoon is contemplating his birthday luncheon at his
favorite Latin restaurant in Houston, Sylvia’s. It will be a small
affair, but he is debating (and we have discussed) whether he should
appear wearing funny clothes and a stupid looking hat and pretend that
he has Alzheimer’s disease – stare vacantly into space and pretend to
be slow to comprehend and react to his surroundings and tell stories
about things that he experienced long ago that are of interest to
absolutely no one.
Birthday Boy and Toys
High Fibre Hoffman and Loretta will be there, and it is not likely
that High Fibre will let Old Muldoon steal the show without
participating in some even more humorous manner. The two of them know
every dirty limerick that has ever been recited anywhere on the planet
in the last 70 years, and they will willingly recite every one of them
for the delectation of everyone in the building at the slightest
suggestion, whether or not anyone wants to hear them. High Fibre can
always outdo Old Muldoon in any contest of oratorical diversity,
because he knows all about, and will instantly launch upon a
recitation regarding Avogadro’s number, Ockham’s Razor (Pluralitas non
est ponenda sine neccesitate'') and other assorted arcane mathematical
subjects that he has mastered just to be ever ready to one up anyone
on earth.
After the birthday luncheon, Old Muldoon and I played one of our
favorite games, called Tooth Brushing. He goes into the bathroom to
brush his teeth and I go in there with him. I jump up on the counter,
and while he is busily brushing his teeth, I play in the running tap
water and in the water in the sink. He knows that I really enjoy this
game a great deal, so he prolongs the brushing so that I may have more
time to play in the water. The result, we just learnt today, is that
this longer time spent brushing his teeth and massaging his gums with
the toothbrush has produced the best report he has ever had regarding
his overall oral health. The symbiosis of this relationship has many
dimensions.
Brushing Our Teeth
Booger and I consider ourselves to be his emotional escape hatch
through which he may from time to time – every day – escape from the
unbelievable lack of stress in his life. We only know what we have
heard from time to time, snippets of conversations here and there,
from which we have been given to believe that he once lead a very
stressful life. It was once said to him by someone who knew him well
that if the stress ever let up on him, he might crack. Having all
those years thrived on stress, he has these last almost 17 years been
practically stress free, except for the odd moment here and there. The
problem, we believe, with this situation is that when you are
stressed, you know that you are on someone’s mind – maybe several
people – who have an adverse agenda against which you must defend
yourself. When you then become relatively stress free, it’s as if all
of a sudden no one cares about you any more. So you need to be able
simply to turn to someone who has no conflict and is constantly at
your service to drop everything and simply demonstrate concern about
you. That is the role played in Old Muldoon’s life by Booger and me.
Mum is there for him, to be sure, but sometimes she is busy. We are
never busy. Our time and our attentions are our own to bestow as we
may please. We have adopted him, and share him between ourselves
throughout each day, either giving him gratuitous cuddles or being
with him in some participatory manner when he is working in the
kitchen or brushing his teeth, as it were.
Consequently, he is the happiest of men, and it is certain in this
world that happy people are healthy people. He is both. He jokingly
claims that it is the consequence of red meat and red wine, but we
know better. Right now, for example, he has found something new to
celebrate this day, a day when he has just removed an enormous fresh
leg of pork from his smoker where it gently hickory smoked all night
long for about 15 hours. He is celebrating that, with the change in
control of Congress from Republican to Democrat, the changing tax
policy to remove tax breaks favoring those who make over $ 500,000 a
year, he has nothing to worry about.
Distractions! Distractions! Distractions! As I am writing this we
realize that on the early morning of Old Muldoon’s birthday yesterday,
there was a meteor shower in the early morning eastern sky, and at
that very moment, Mama Kitty had four more kittens! So right now Mama
Kitty and her four new born kittens are getting a lot of attention
that by rights should be going to us. From the look of them, it is
obvious that the father is that grotesque looking stray tom cat named
Michael Jackson, a really disgusting looking cat that happens to make
really cute kitties when Mama Kitty is his partner. Now I suppose one
of them will be named Seamus because they were born on Old Muldoon’s
birthday. If Mum names one of them Seamus, Old Muldoon will want to
name one of them Belinda – I just know it. I hope they don’t name any
of them Don Rumsfeld or Barak Obama. Actually, if one does turn out to
have really big, protruding ears, they just might name it Barak Obama,
or Wing Nut. Don’t mind me. I’m just joking around here.
Excuse me if I sound overly exuberant, but I just had a taste of that
smoked pork leg, and I can hardly stop licking my lips – that
wonderful, moist/greasy taste of a juicy haunch fresh from the smoker,
perfectly seasoned, is simply more than he or I can resist. We are
both stuffing it into our mouths and making grunting, slurping sounds
like the primitive beasts we wish we were. Oh God – this is soooo
good!
I look forward, as any young kitty would do, to a long and loving
relationship with everyone here, but especially with Old Muldoon. Mum
is right when she insists that cookin endures longer than kissin –
except that I do see them kissing a lot. I didn’t think that the boss
was supposed to be hugging and kissing the cook, but you know what
they say – “Familiarity breeds.” But at their age, the only thing that
is getting bred around here is Mama Kitty. The four new kittens now
have tentative names – Sissy, Prissy, Blondie and Butterbean.
Gotta go now. I need to check out a big red pot before we make soup in
it tonight.
My Favorite Red Pot
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