SC - spoons at 20 paces...

[Mary Morman]

On Thu, 3 Sep 1998, kat wrote:

> I told him I accepted.  He chose the weapons (Thai food, a 4-dish
> course each) and I'm choosing the location and time.  We haven't chosen
> our seconds yet, but...  
> 
> 	- kat

Long ago in a kingdom far, far away a certain talented cook was disraught
about his baron's unkind comments on the cooked kasha that accompanied a
certain course.  Taking his mightly stirring spoon in hand he faced his
baron across the head table and and threw the spoon in challenge at his
feet.  One of the young scullery girls from the kitchen, horrified to see
the dirty spoon laying on the dance floor, immediately swooped it up and
presented it to the baron.

The baron, accepting the challenge, did advertise throughout his land for
a mighty, stalwart, and non-Polish cook to represent him in the coming
battle.  Many and varied were the applicants to support the baron's
culinary taste, and from them he chose a young and talented lady.  The
baroness made the champion a huge white apron appliqued with the badge of
the barony.  A date was chosen, and event announcement sent out, and the
barony waited with bated breath for the beginning of the guerre culinaire.

And on the appointed day, the opponents met.  All chivalry, they shared
the kitchen.  In gracious kindness, they even passed the salt. The face of
seeming charity, the challenger brought with him a huge bag of groats and
offered the champion a little kasha here, a little there.  But steadfast
in her purity and documentation, the young champion made the sign against
the evil eye and backed quietly over to the stove to stir her pots.

It was a mighty feast.  In each and every dish, the challenger managed to
hide a bit of cooked kasha.  Even in his piece de resistance - a turkey,
stuffed with a chicken, stuffed with a game hen, stuffed with sausage,
stuffed with an olive, stuffed with a pimento, stuffed with a single
groat.  But his efforts, though magnificent, did not bring him victory.
At the end of the feast, replete unto rotundity, the guests clapped and
stomped their accolade, and young Keilyn Far-Traveller's groatless feast
was pronounced the winner.  Sad, but unbowed, Master Igor Medved, called
the Bear, wandered back to his kitchen and his cooking wine (always the
- -best- cooking wine...) shaking his head and wondering at the ways of
foreigners.

Elaina

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