Behind My Door: Step aside, Martha Stewart! (part two)

By Sandra Bernhardt

Readers might remember that in Part One, I wrote about being “gifted” with a rabbit from Ralph, my brave hunter. I recalled how, without warning, he’d bolted through the kitchen door, a creature of some sort draped across his shoulder. 

Proudly, he tossed a naked creature to me.  Fortunately, I missed.  “It’s such an incredible surprise!” he exclaimed.

“For the best flavor,” he announced, “this plump rabbit really should be ‘cooked up’ right away. It’s ready to go!” 

Who will be doing the “cooking up”? I wondered. 

It was me.  

“Get the fryer! Ralph yelled at a volume reserved for the Packers. (As a wedding gift, we’d received a shiny deep fryer. Since I didn’t know what to do with it, I determined it would provide great storage for my socks.)

 Ralph was so excited, the silver crown on his second molar beamed brightly toward the waiting fryer.

Launching into what I worried might end our marriage, I pitched my socks into a brown grocery sack, grabbed the doomed hare, and dropped the “incredible surprise” into boiling oil. “Two hours should do it,” I muttered, turning the temperature up to 425 degrees. Then I left it to “cook up,” transforming itself into a plump, tasty dinner. 

At last, it was ready for serving! With new confidence, I couldn’t wait to see.  After all, this was my moment!

Eagerly, Ralph plunged his fork into the crispy entree. It went AWOL. Flying across the room, it hit the birdcage and crashed on the floor, breaking into three pieces. Devastated, I fought back tears. Clearly, this was a cremation.

Uncomplaining, my hero crawled under the table, retrieved the steaming carcass and choked down every bite. I, however, secretly gobbled down a cold, shrunken bratwurst. Thus ends this true saga of the “fryer and the hare.”

Note to readers:  The socks are back in the shiny deep fryer and Ralph no longer hunts for another “incredible surprise.”

 With apologies, another true saga: Not long after our September wedding, we took a gigantic step and invited a few people to join us for Thanksgiving. Early that morning, I designed an unforgettable table setting: Soft blue tablecloth (the only one we had), nice ironed napkins with a cute turkey sticker on each, two tall candles and a gorgeous fall centerpiece.

Next, I struggled to free the turkey — both legs adhered to the sides of the Nesco. After that, I whipped up the potatoes. It was then that I had a brilliant idea. I grabbed food coloring and deftly added drops to the potatoes until they were the exact shade of the tablecloth. Ecstatic, I celebrated having invented a stunning new creation.

As Ralph passed through the kitchen, he pointed at my “stunning new creation” and asked, “What are those?”

“They’re potatoes!” I answered irritably. “Haven’t you ever seen mashed potatoes before?”  

“Not blue ones,” he muttered. Picking up the pace, Ralph dashed to the door. (Was he rushing to warn our guests?)

“Men are heartless,” I whined to the blue potatoes. “They never appreciate real beauty!” 

I’ll admit, it looks like the “culinary genius” won this round, but I’ll never give up.  As President Calvin Coolidge once said, “Press on … Nothing can take the place of persistence.” (That is my new mantra.)

Note to readers: Wait! My muse just inspired me to “Mail the recipe, and astound that uppity Martha!”