Cheese Cutter

My cousin David and his wife Kate, here for IronMan, brought their organics with them. Totally, organic. Mi casa es su casa and they made my place their little hacienda. In doing so, they discovered that my kitchen is a few utensils short of gourmet. Small in size and limited on gadgets.

While scouting the contents of my cupboards, David asked, “You got a can opener?”

"Sure", I replied rummaging around the kitchen drawer. Just where is that thing? I would have sworn I did. After all, Dad was sick in February and I gave him a bowl of chicken noodle soup. How’d I open that? No such luck.

“Do you have a strainer for the pasta?” Kate asked preparing noodles for dinner.

“Ahh, nope.”

“A cheese grater, maybe?”

“That I got.” I proudly produced one I had shipped over in April.

“I know better than to ask for a cheese cutter.”

“That’s right, Cuz.”

And Kate never asked for a potato peeler when she scrapped the horse carrots, as she calls them.

Before they left David asked me if I could use anything. Sort of like a house warming gift. I looked at the living room wall with the inherited portrait of a young Hawaiian women holding a bunch of anthuriums. Every hotel room on the island has a similar poster. “I could use a big screen TV.”

“How about the box that a big screen TV comes in?”

“That’ll do.”

I said good-bye to my Other Side Cousins Sunday afternoon. I turned my attention to laundry and was sitting on the lanai reading the paper when I heard the monster 2500 Ram diesel truck pull into my parking stall. They returned bearing gifts.

Yep, I now own a cheese cutter. I do have a honking piece of cheese in the refrigerator.