A First Class Mook

A healthy start to the day. As Mister Kosher from the far away Firangi pani lodge was going over his morning options, it suddenly dawned upon him that the easiest way to the laundromat is through the kitchen. A holistic hostelier if there ever was one, Mister K happily nonced up the ladder to the buzzard-me-timbers and took down his coattail which he then proceeded to dangle from his ear like a neanderthal antenna of the soul. Ah the kitchen, he remembered. But the way to the kitchen is hard and its difficult for the righteous man to pick his way through the gravelly shite that lurks in the hearts of men. So he curved up the pantry way, took a sharp right from the bottle of Sherry and took three steps back over the upholstery and hey presto! He was in the kitchen. The kitchen was wearing its usual morning face, which is the same as its evening and night faces, but different fropm its lunchtime face. Never one to mess with the natural order of things, Mister K hit the mountain of pans like a hurricane in winter and blasted a way to the laundromat. But what's the use of a way to the laundromat if there isn't one at the end of the road? So he took off his coattail, attached a few rubber bands to the hook and stretched it to the nearest kettle snout. Now taut, he started thrumming on the vibrating rubber a curious melody of bass notes and higher, rising falling, till all the utensils were singing that same music of the spheres and vaguely cuboid life forms. Finally, as if magic, the first faint shapes of the laundromat began to throb into focus. Maybe if Mister K had been intent on this marvellous phenomenon, he would have continued till the event had reached fruition, but now his nostrils were tickled with the most delicious aroma of pan-fried chicken dancing in warm honey down from Mook's Corner. Needless to say the thrumming stopped. And then there was siilence. No, not really. There was the sound of Mister K carefully camouflaging the way to the laundromat with casually placed items of everyday kitchen-ware. There was also the sound of Mister K tiptoeing his way out the kitchen and through the rose alley and finally into the roling meadow called Mook's Head on Mook's Hill. Ah yes, there was Mook, a happy jumping presence in the hazy noon day sun. garnishing the chicken with love and care and doing an occassional happy jig whenever he thought of the mmmmm creation ending up in his gullet. Mister K decided to make his presence known. He was never one for sneaking up on food when he could stride to it.

Hallo there young Mook, he said, what's cooking by the brook?

Oh Great Mook, gasped young Mook, by the book, isn't that the lanky frame of Mister K dashing this way?

Surprised but eager to show off his new cook-book souped-up schtook, young Mook of Mook's Head on Mook's hill elaborately bowed and inwardly vowed that Mister K would not leave this day without uttering wow at the remarkable chicken that he'd been cooking this wide day.

What ho there Young Mook? Is that a delicious chicken I smell old fruit?

Oh yes Mister K, I dare say, a little something to pass this lazy day, said Mook.

Ah, capital, young fellow, it looks too good to eat, by my jowls, exclaimed the devious Mister K with a slight twitch of his snickered whiskers.

Too good to eat? Exclaimed the surprised Mook, who looked even more like a Mook when he was surprised. But my dear Mister K, as I live today, I say this chicken is for the pallette.

And of many hues too, cried the notorious K and pirouetted around on tippy-toes. The fried yellow here, and that honey red there. Ah my master artisan, what a veritable feast of the senses hast thou made!

A surprised young Mook gave way to a pleased-as-a-peach Mook. Words wouldn't come to his mouth even if he had sallowed an entire book. Thank you dear Mister K, its nothing really. Would you care for a bite?

A bite? Screamed an enraged Mister K. Oh to take a bite out of this most precious creation would be a sacrilege akin to eating all of it. No dear young Mook, what would your other Mooking relatives say? You don't want to be the black Mook in the family book would you? I tell you dear boy, this is a work of art and it deserves to be shown to all the humble parishioners of this county. Tell you what, said the mischievous Mister K, I know an Under Assistant East Coat Agent who'll be overjoyed to get it shown at the MeeRakow Institute Of Distinguished Feasts. Give me this chicken this instant and I guarantee you immortality.

Young Mook could already see himself rising to the top of the Mook pile. Why, maybe coming generations would gaze with awe on this spot and say, Now look here me hearties, for that is the very spot where young Mook authored his swan song!

Our story is near an end. It ends as you all imagine....a happy lunch for the noncing Mister K of Firangi Pani lodge and the shaming of poor unfortunate young Mook. For what its worth, story of this great Mookery became a happy bedtime story and a cautionary tale about gullible Mooks, and long afterwards, people would gaze with awe at Mook's Head on Mook's Hill and say, by my grand mam (may Heaven bless her breeches) , isn't that the selfsame spot where young Mook met his denouement!

Understandibly, not many people know of the Laundromat. A healthy start to the day for Mister Kosher.