People knew Bushy Evergreen as the elf who designed toys for kids, but Samantha knew him as an inventor of cooking machines and ovens. Bushy Evergreen also knew Samantha as the world’s worst cook. That is why he was here every Christmas, spending 2 hours in her kitchen, making the best dinner. His crunchy roasted potatoes melted in the mouth, providing just the required spice and seasoning. His pudding made you wonder whether it was cranberry or strawberry that was blended in with the chocolate sauce.
Samantha closed the kitchen door to her family on Christmas. Her three family members salivated, waiting for the sole tasty food they got the whole year unless they dined out. The thirties-something dad paced around the room, wondering if it would be salmon this year. Last year they had turkey and now he was sure he could smell smoked salmon. The youngest pressed her nose to the kitchen door wishing for a chocolate pudding.
The eldest son pulled a stool and peeped in. His mother was seated on the kitchen chair, her back towards him, drawing a red tail. Confused, the boy stared around the kitchen. There was a big circular object in the left corner of the kitchen, apparently an oven. He saw a tail protruding from the oven. He jumped down, “It is a cat,” he whispered to his dad and sister. “A cat is cooking. His head is buried in the oven. His tail is red.”
“Is he cooking himself?”
The boy’s sister pushed him and got onto the stool. “It is a baby with a mustache,” she cried.
The dad stood in the middle of the room, gulping. He was too scared to peep in.
The dinner done to satisfaction, Bushy Evergreen turned to Samantha.
“That smells wonderful. See you next year?” she asked eagerly.
“Sorry. I got a message from Santa. They have found a cook worse than you. I will have to go to him next year. This will be our last meeting.”
Samantha gaped in dismay as Bushy Evergreen flew out of the window.
Samantha closed the kitchen door to her family on Christmas. Her three family members salivated, waiting for the sole tasty food they got the whole year unless they dined out. The thirties-something dad paced around the room, wondering if it would be salmon this year. Last year they had turkey and now he was sure he could smell smoked salmon. The youngest pressed her nose to the kitchen door wishing for a chocolate pudding.
The eldest son pulled a stool and peeped in. His mother was seated on the kitchen chair, her back towards him, drawing a red tail. Confused, the boy stared around the kitchen. There was a big circular object in the left corner of the kitchen, apparently an oven. He saw a tail protruding from the oven. He jumped down, “It is a cat,” he whispered to his dad and sister. “A cat is cooking. His head is buried in the oven. His tail is red.”
“Is he cooking himself?”
The boy’s sister pushed him and got onto the stool. “It is a baby with a mustache,” she cried.
The dad stood in the middle of the room, gulping. He was too scared to peep in.
The dinner done to satisfaction, Bushy Evergreen turned to Samantha.
“That smells wonderful. See you next year?” she asked eagerly.
“Sorry. I got a message from Santa. They have found a cook worse than you. I will have to go to him next year. This will be our last meeting.”
Samantha gaped in dismay as Bushy Evergreen flew out of the window.
