Daddy Set the Cat on Fire

The Cube Steak Wars seemed to be going well.  I was really getting the knack of it.  I plastered up a ton of refrigerator art that reminded me of happier days.  I rearranged the kitchen drawers, cabinets, and countertop storage bins so that everything I needed to prepare the evening meal was never more than two steps away from my chilled schooner of draught amber ale.  When those little beads of condensation evaporated from my imported Belgian crystal beer glass, I knew that everything on the cooktop should be done to perfection.


The first thing that caught my attention was that I had not seen my daughter in nearly a week.  Now a self-declared vegetarian, she would avoid the kitchen area entirely to ensure that she would not be exposed to what she called "meat fumes."  Her cat, also a vegetarian, would nibble at "Vegetable Melody" that was placed in his bowl.  I would occasionally find a gopher limb or a robin's feather on the back porch, but for the most part Figgy, short for Figaro, took great care to mask his meaty breath with a taste of Oregano Onion Cheesy Puffs or a Faux-Squirrel Kitty Treat before venturing off into the rest of the house.


One late afternoon, I had decided to spice up my "Cube Steak du Jour" by splashing it with a little brandy while it was searing in a medium-hot fry pan.  Figgy, obviously having missed his afternoon meeting of "Meat Eaters Anonymous," came into the kitchen with a bad case of the meat-tweaks.  I poured a slug of two-dollar cooking brandy into the pan and, as I reached for my Belgian crystal kitchen timer, Figgy leaped up into the middle of the meaty fumes and went off like a bottle rocket.


I ate alone that night.  Figgy was unharmed, but he wreaked of meat and brandy.  My son moved the last of his clothes to the back room at the Mexican restaurant.  My wife joined several boards of women's organizations who featured monthly meetings hosted by local restaurants.  Clearly, something had to change, and I had this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that the something was going to have to be me.