No workmen came today so it’s an ideal time for a bonus blog from Anne.
Because we don’t have children, we have to take pride in our two “fur-kid” cats, Ruskin (11) and Clyde (5). One of the things I’m most proud of is Ruskin’s success as an undefeated, multiple-time world champion at refrigerator breaks. I’m not talking about the kind you enjoy when there’s a boring singer on American Idol, but the actual break-in kind… the kind that involves messy spills, raw meat contamination, and doors open so long they can air condition a large apartment building in August.
Over the years, he’s broken and entered four different refrigerator models (from dorm style to the more challenging 20+ cubic feet) and has scored everything from pizza slices to large pieces of poultry. One fridge in my old Cambridge apartment was so battered by Ruskin’s sheer dedication to his sport that the landlord at the time had to physically replace it.
Over the course of 11 years, I’ve gone through about 15 different child locks and at least two rolls of duct tape in my attempts to keep Ruskin at bay. He probably thinks I’m his coach trying to push him to his limit. It was almost a relief when we learned we’d only have the capacity for a small dorm fridge while the kitchen project was underway. It was filled with too little food for Ruskin to concern himself with it. (After all, he already won an Olympic gold medal when he got the Thanksgiving turkey back in ‘06.) Or was it?
Going for turkey #2 of 2006
Right before demo day, we were trying to consume everything in sight to avoid wasting the wonderful local and CSA-quality food I’d purchased on my many farmers’ market forays over the summer and fall. The only thing left to eat was a package of two breasts of organic chicken - too high-quality to throw away, so into the dorm fridge they went. We figured we’d cook them on the grill out back and have one last home-cooked meal before it was all Anna’s burritos and pizza. We were looking forward to it. But unfortunately, so was someone else…
Now, you would think, with continuous months (sometimes years) of failed kitchen break-in attempts (yes, the duct tape sometimes worked), that Ruskin would have given up… hung up his skates, so to speak (sorry, I only understand figure skating sports analogies). Maybe that’s true for dogs or underachieving athletes… but cats are much less obedient and defeatist and far more clever and determined. Our boy is no choker. On demo eve, while everyone was nestled all snug in their beds, Ruskin apparently was having visions of chicken breasts dancing in his head. When down in the dining room there arose such a clatter… well, you get the idea. The next time I went to the fridge, I found our chicken, raw and half-eaten on the floor.
I couldn’t bear the thought of wasting such expensive food (hello, Whole Paycheck?), so Jack grilled the remaining un-gnawed chicken for cat consumption. Never has Jack cooked such a perfect anything. So good that I started to question who was the true chef of the relationship. It was wonderfully moist with an amazing crispy skin (how does one even do that on a grill?). Apparently, Murphy’s Law for cats works in the opposite direction. Maybe that’s why the highly evolved ancient Egyptians worshiped them so. What did Jack and I eat? We promptly resurfaced those greasy take-out menus.
The good news is we think we finally outsmarted Mister Paws by buying a new fridge that has a freezer drawer on the bottom instead of doors. However, one thing I’ve learned is that you can never underestimate Ruskin. After all, he’s a creature that comes fully loaded with GPS, night vision, a precise accelerometer, and utter perseverance. I’m half suspecting he’s got a hidden bucket of tools, blowtorches, and pry bars stowed in some undisclosed cozy nook of the house.
If you’ve ever wondered why Jack was so particular about the electrical work, it’s because we didn’t want to admit to George that we intend to install a cat surveillance system in the kitchen. Just don’t give Ruskin the skinny. I really think it’s time he gave up the sport. I mean, what’s left for him to achieve? The dry-aged beef locker at Smith & Wollensky? Then again, nothing would surprise us.
[Editor's Note: Since writing this blog, Ruskin has broken into the fridge yet again (despite several rounds of tape) and has completely devoured my leftover chicken from Craigie on Main. At least I got to eat most of that dish.]
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cats, commentary, food
