“But there’s a real need for cooks.”
“It’s only food for two hundred.” My Corgi whined. “I know I can do it.”
“I’m sorry, but I think it’s a disaster in the making.”
“What if I prove I’m able? Would you let me then? Huh, would you? Pleeeese?”
I have a hard time resisting Carl’s groveling, especially when he smiles in his special way.
“For you I will cook my rendition of spaghetti called, ‘Pasta Strings with Catsup a la Carl.’ You’ll love it.”
“As long as you don’t use real cats.”
Carl’s ears drooped. “I suppose I can alter the recipe.”
I left the kitchen to my Corgi and the house teamed with cooking-noises. But moments later, the activity seemed to drop off. A whimpering cry came from the kitchen. “Help. Help me please.”
I found him in the undignified situation shown below. Apparently Carl had lost an epic struggle with a whisk.