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The inner workings of the mind of Malcolm, distinguished canine.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Log 009:
It occurred to me that I have been neglecting this journal, and therefore I have come here to document some of the recent goings-on in my intellectual journey. Time is of the essence, however. As I type this, a vitamin-fortified raisin loaf is rising in the oven, and I need to be sure not to allow the loaf to overstay its time in the 350 degree enclosure.
I have taken up cooking, it is true. Since scientific pursuits and the ramifications of bioengineering on agriculture are my bread and butter, if you will, it might come as a surprise to my readers that I have been dabbling in the domestic realm. Like any alpha Renaissance male, I concluded that one need not limit oneself to what are historically considered gender-specific pursuits. It is of little relevance, of course, that my teeth and gums are not what they once were in my youth and I have necessity of late for softer, more nutritious fare.
Recently, I happened upon a cookbook on one of the lower bookshelves in the house. After cajoling Callie into knocking her wet muzzle into the books to throw the tome to the floor, I flipped through and found several tempting recipes. I waited until the humans had left the house for the day, and logged onto www.netgrocer.com. Once there, I selected only the finest ingredients and arranged for their hasty delivery using the Bank One card I acquired under an assumed name and social security number during a desperate period in my life last November (when the Swiss Bank account was inexplicably emptied following a terse exchange with Helmut, my financier, when the electromagnetic power lines I had been developing failed miserably in beta testing).
Within days, boxes of organic flour, dried fruits, imported pure cane sugar and molasses and other refinements were delivered to the door. After safely securing Callie behind the laser alarm system I installed behind the shed, I used the ManoRobotic mechanism to open the front door, bring the packages inside, and open the cardboard boxes containing my scrumptious treats.
Later that same day, I again used the MR mechanism to reach the oven control panel, and whipped up the first of eight casseroles. I was pleasantly surprised by my own culinary abilities, once dormant but now set free like so many luftballoons.
There have been times since I have begun my culinary exploits when I feared it would all come crashing down on me. At one point, I was just beginning to heat up my propane torch to lightly toast the top layer of a light-as-air creme brulee I was working on, when I heard the telltale sound of a key in the front door lock. I frantically pulled everything into my basket, and sat down on top of it as Tom nonchalantly entered the house and began talking to my blubbering comrade, Callie. He never made mention of the faint stink of propane, if he did in fact catch a whiff of the remaining vapors.
Another escapade followed when, the next day, I happened to mistake baking powder for baking soda during an attempt at oatmeal cookies. I won't trouble you with the melancholy details of that particular failure.
Overall, my hard-earned robotic hands have been put to good use as I prepare nutritious food to replace the foul "dog food" that Lisa and Tom place down for me each night. Lisa often fusses and tries to cajole me into eating that sub-par processed travesty, and I admit I long to speak to her and tell her that I am not starving, I am simply eating on my own. But to paraphrase the great prince of Denmark-- to speak, or not to speak... that is, the question. For, 'tis nobler for a dog to hold its tongue in the presence of the simple-minded.
It occurred to me that I have been neglecting this journal, and therefore I have come here to document some of the recent goings-on in my intellectual journey. Time is of the essence, however. As I type this, a vitamin-fortified raisin loaf is rising in the oven, and I need to be sure not to allow the loaf to overstay its time in the 350 degree enclosure.
I have taken up cooking, it is true. Since scientific pursuits and the ramifications of bioengineering on agriculture are my bread and butter, if you will, it might come as a surprise to my readers that I have been dabbling in the domestic realm. Like any alpha Renaissance male, I concluded that one need not limit oneself to what are historically considered gender-specific pursuits. It is of little relevance, of course, that my teeth and gums are not what they once were in my youth and I have necessity of late for softer, more nutritious fare.
Recently, I happened upon a cookbook on one of the lower bookshelves in the house. After cajoling Callie into knocking her wet muzzle into the books to throw the tome to the floor, I flipped through and found several tempting recipes. I waited until the humans had left the house for the day, and logged onto www.netgrocer.com. Once there, I selected only the finest ingredients and arranged for their hasty delivery using the Bank One card I acquired under an assumed name and social security number during a desperate period in my life last November (when the Swiss Bank account was inexplicably emptied following a terse exchange with Helmut, my financier, when the electromagnetic power lines I had been developing failed miserably in beta testing).
Within days, boxes of organic flour, dried fruits, imported pure cane sugar and molasses and other refinements were delivered to the door. After safely securing Callie behind the laser alarm system I installed behind the shed, I used the ManoRobotic mechanism to open the front door, bring the packages inside, and open the cardboard boxes containing my scrumptious treats.
Later that same day, I again used the MR mechanism to reach the oven control panel, and whipped up the first of eight casseroles. I was pleasantly surprised by my own culinary abilities, once dormant but now set free like so many luftballoons.
There have been times since I have begun my culinary exploits when I feared it would all come crashing down on me. At one point, I was just beginning to heat up my propane torch to lightly toast the top layer of a light-as-air creme brulee I was working on, when I heard the telltale sound of a key in the front door lock. I frantically pulled everything into my basket, and sat down on top of it as Tom nonchalantly entered the house and began talking to my blubbering comrade, Callie. He never made mention of the faint stink of propane, if he did in fact catch a whiff of the remaining vapors.
Another escapade followed when, the next day, I happened to mistake baking powder for baking soda during an attempt at oatmeal cookies. I won't trouble you with the melancholy details of that particular failure.
Overall, my hard-earned robotic hands have been put to good use as I prepare nutritious food to replace the foul "dog food" that Lisa and Tom place down for me each night. Lisa often fusses and tries to cajole me into eating that sub-par processed travesty, and I admit I long to speak to her and tell her that I am not starving, I am simply eating on my own. But to paraphrase the great prince of Denmark-- to speak, or not to speak... that is, the question. For, 'tis nobler for a dog to hold its tongue in the presence of the simple-minded.
