A few nights ago I prepared some fish with a potent herb, spice and salt rub, then I washed my hands and went to cuddle Louis Catorze.
With hindsight, I should probably have done those tasks the other way around – maintaining the hand wash in between, naturellement – because my hands clearly still smelled of the rub and Catorze was confused by this.
His actions and facial expressions were as follows:
1. “Je voudrais des cuddles!”
2. “Merde, it’s her. I didn’t want her. I wanted mon papa.”
3. [Sniffs hand] “What the absolute merde is this?”
4. [Glares] “Does the rest of her smell like this, too?” [Sniffs whole arm]
5. “What even WAS that?” [Goes back to hand again]
7. [Accepts cuddles in an insincere and resentful fashion, in the same way that I do when small children offer me pretend food from their pretend café and I’m secretly wishing it were real food]
This wasn’t quite as bad as the time I decided to make my own green curry paste, and the bashing of the pestle and mortar outraged him beyond belief. But it still serves him right; after those torturous months of having to water his Orijen, throwing away countless portions which didn’t meet the required standard, it’s about time the tables were turned and that HE was inconvenienced by the preparation of OUR food.