Today The Boy and I made our first venture into Indian cooking with some left over chicken and a whole bunch of spices. None of those spices, I might add, are the three new containers of Indian spices that I bought last week from vague recollections of recipes I had read. So now I’ll be looking up recipes that specifically call for curry, turmeric, and coriander. Woe is me.
As I was mixing the marinade for our masala, I was having a pretty awesome day. And then I started to pull chicken, left over from Sunday’s dinner (a story in itself), from the bones and dropping it into the marinade. Just as I reached the point of no return – and no stopping – I realized that I’d forgotten to pick up our vegetables from the co-op. And I had half an hour. I put my poultry picking into overdrive.
Meanwhile, Obi was circling my feet and crying. Wouldn’t I please give him some chicken?
No time for feeding a little brown mooch, I finished with the chicken and threw the marinating shreds into the refrigerator. Because I’m not oblivious to my poor starving kitten’s plight, I tossed the chicken skeletons back into their baggie and put it into the refrigerator as well.
Then I was off! Luckily, the co-op is at a store that is only ten minutes away from my house. I had time to get there, gab with the ladies at the store, load up my veggies and get home before my time was up. While I was gone, The Boy came home. He put away veggies.
Then I put him to work.
While The Boy finished cooking the masala, I found a quite respectable amount of chicken left on the bones. I picked it all off and made a pile on the two plates in the breakfast nook. I called the kittens. Since The Boy and I had said “tuna” about forty times in the last ten minutes, Kitten Thunder was a little surprised to find chicken on their plates.
The Boy grilled chicken for dinner tonight. As we sat down to eat, on the couches in the living room, The Boy suggested that Oliver might be coveting his meal. This just because Oliver was sitting on the arm of the couch, eying and sniffing.
Oliver was taken aback by the accusation.
To prove The Boy wrong, Oliver’s legs went away. A kitten without legs obviously can not covet.
We finished eating and The Boy, who is coming along nicely with his training, set his plate on the floor. But the grey kitten had no legs. He looked at the plate. He looked at The Boy. Floor. Boy. Floor. Boy.
The Boy had no pity. He would not raise the plate to the lips of my legless grey kitten.
Obi tried the plate but found nothing of interest.
I put my plate on the floor. Obi thought it was very interesting. Evidently, horseradish is more appealing to the feline palette than barbecue sauce.
Oliver’s legs returned and he was able to make it to my plate for his share. His reward for not coveting.
The Boy and I were standing in the kitchen when we heard a thunk from Kitty Playland. Obi is the main user of the playland but we thought he was in the condo so we stepped into the breakfast nook to see what was going on.
Kitty Playland, you may recall, has been downsized to one box that has a flap on it. Earlier in the morning, The Boy had pushed the flap over to close Obi in the box. The lid was still closed but this time there was a grey tail hanging out. As we watched, the tail slowly pulled into the box and there was a thunk. The tell-tale thunk of an Oli plunking.
I lifted the lid to see the grey kitten – “hello!” I said and closed the lid. I did this a couple times. Then Obi walked in.
Obi approached the side of the box. He put his nose to the opening. A white paw darted out and punched him. There were a couple seconds of brown paws against white paw.
Then Obi got on top of the box. The lid clamped tight on the box. Then it slid down a little into the box. Then a little more. A little more. A…little…bit…THWUMP! Oliver was trapped under the triangle of space left by the flap being pushed in. Obi sat next to him on the outside triangle. He looked confused.
Then he was bored. And feeling a little peckish. So he gave up the game for kitty crunchies.
I liberated the grey fuzzy.
As soon as Oliver left, Obi went back to the box. And pushed the lid back down while trying to get in. Trying to be helpful, I lifted him up – and gave him kisses until he squeaked in protest – while The Boy lifted the lid back out. We inserted him into the box and closed the lid.
We went back to cooking breakfast.
THWUMP. Obi was on top of the lid again.
Sometimes we humans just don’t understand the rules of the game.