The Cake Is Not A Lie

*** continued from previous post ***

I doubt that I've had a better salad in my entire life. The bread was akin to Manna. Warm, but not too hot. Sweet, yet not overpowering. I look over at your mom. She has devoured half a loaf already and I'm prepared to protect my portion should the need arise. Rock and shank be damned! This was some fine, fine bread we are talking about here.

We ate slowly and steadily in silence. The soft noises that did reach our ears were soothing, like an aural massage after the assault of a droning motor, wind, whimpering and screams that comprised the background music of our day. As soon as we neared the end of this soul-smart salad, Leeza appeared with two covered plates that she promptly sat before us. She removed the covers with a flourish and the scent of heaven wafted towards me.

"You both look so tired, I won't go into the details, but here we have stuffed pork tenderloin with wild mushrooms and a red wine reduction, wild rice pilaf, and a variety of steamed in-season vegetables from our gardens and our own hand-churned butter."

Here she paused, clearly fighting the urge to inform us as to the lineage of the cow that produced the cream, and how each night before bed they read said bovine selected passages from 'Animal Farm', skipping the parts that she would find objectionable or disturbing. It leaves rather slim-pickings, but they manage.

Both of us offer appreciative comments, and satisfied that we are satisfied Leeza returns to the kitchen.

The meal surpassed the salad. It was, in a word, bliss.

Nary a squeak passed between us for the next 15 minutes. I know! That may very well be a record for me! Well, at least without sedation. We each scraped our plates clean, which may have been a first for your Mother. I was a tad distraught that I had not been required to help her finish her plate.

"That was incredible. I'm not fond of wild rice," your mom said, and dabbed a napkin to the corner of her mouth, "but that was tasty."

"Oh Man! That was one fine meal. I can't believe how much I ate."

Mom shook her head in agreement. "I know. That's the most I've eaten at a single sitting in years."

Stuffed, exhausted, and getting drowsy, we relaxed a bit leaning back in our chairs and exchanging smiles. If all went well, I may yet get out of this day alive.

”Oh my God," Mom exclaimed and my heart jumped into my throat. BEAR? MOOSE? UFO with probes at the ready? What? What manner of death was approaching us now? But then I realized she was watching as Leeza returned with two huge - and I do mean huge - plates of cake.

*** the journey continues ***

With Apologies To The Bees

*** continued from previous post ***

As Leeza puts the plates in front of us, she says,"The Honey-Raspberry Vinaigrette is one of our trademarks. The honey is collected in the wild, where IOUs and apologies are issued to the bees. We also set them up with a Health Care Plan. The greens are supplemented with native foliage gathered daily from our forests and meadows. Mostly native grasses and root shavings. We harvest our own apples from a Heritage Orchard in Carnack, and process them into the vinegar you are about to taste, as well as some delicious apple cider. The wheat for the bread, unbleached of course, comes from eco-friendly ranching cooperatives on the plains of Alberta."

Leeza nods her head as she speaks, plainly proud of their food, and rightfully so.

"The hazelnuts," and here she pauses, clearly bracing for an admission that will blow our socks off, "are from . . . the Costco in Calgary."

She dips her head slightly as if embarrassed. I want to tell her that like her hazelnuts, my underwear and socks are 'Kirkland branded' as well, but in a moment of clarity I realize she may not care to hear about my skivvies.

"Enjoy!", she says with a smile. "I'll be back in a few minutes with your main course."

I feel slightly saddened that in my state I am unable to appreciate the nuances of the food set before us. You could have popped a can of cat food, (and not the good kind either - the cheap stuff from China that may or may not be made with political dissidents and a dash of cyanide), and I would have devoured the pasty goo without pausing to taste. However, as anyone knows the ultimate insult to a cook - well, non-verbal anyway - is to scarf your food like a hyena, never giving it a chance to register on your taste buds. I was sure we were being watched by the cooks, and as I wanted a mucus-free dining experience I fought my nature and ate at a respectful pace.

*** the journey continues ***