Cooking with Baxter
By Robin Zemek
Olive oil was all he smelled. It saturated the air, and sunk deep into his nose.
“Baxter?” he called at the kitchen. Sizzling noises wafted down the hall. He called out again.
He dropped his magazine and got up off the couch. He whistled.
“Baxter?”
He whistled again.
“Are you there?”
The closer he walked to the kitchen the more intense the smell got. His eyes started to water as he reached the swinging door. He nudged it open.
“Baxter, what are you doing?”
Baxter turned around and jumped down from the stirring his fried potatoes. He cocked his head.
“I thought I told you not to cook with that much oil.”
Baxter just barked.
“You remember the grease fire last time. You use way too much olive oil.”
Baxter walked up to him, nuzzling his jeans.
“Don’t try and cute your way out of this one.”
He dashed to the stove, studying it.
“You didn’t even use any basil. And what’s this?”
He held up a clove of garlic. Baxter whimpered.
“Were you even going to marinate the pork? You can’t just roast it bare. This better be the second garlic. I expected more of you.”
Baxter lay down on the tiled floor.
“Baxter! The oven isn’t at 350! You’re going to under cook it!”
Baxter barked.
“Don’t give me that. And don’t tell me you misplaced the rosemary.”
He barked again.
“I told you, third shelf on the left! Have you peeled the carrots?”
Baxter rested his head on the cold tiles.
“No, of course not. Ugh. Jan is going to be here in like ten minutes. What am I going to do?”
He looked at Baxter.
“I told her I could cook. She was supposed to be impressed with this meal. If it’s bad I can’t blame it on the dog. That’s crazy. OH MY- Baxter! Bad dog! Bad-d-d-d dog. This maple syrup isn’t for you. Bad dog. It’s for the braised carrots. Bad dog.”
Baxter licked himself.
“What am I going to do with you?”
The door bell rang.
“Jan! Baxter, up. Cook, Baxter, cook.”
He wiped his hands on his dish towel and bustled out of the kitchen to the front door. He peeked in the eye hole.
Jan was standing in the hallway, wearing a purple jumper and tight black jeans.
He undid the bolt and swung the door open.
“Jan!”
“Roger, how are you?”
A slightly awkward hug later he was leading her down the hall to the living room.
“Mmm, smells good.”
“Wha- oh yeah. I think I used too much oil. Oh well. Just a little extra braised. You know how it is.”
“Yeah. What are we having?”
“Pork, some veg. It’s gonna be off the hook.”
“I can hardly wait.”
A pan dropped in the kitchen and rolled around.
“What was that?” she asked.
He ran his hands through his blonde hair.
“Nothing. I’ll go check on the food.”
He rushed off to the kitchen leaving her on the white couch, admiring his collection of crystal doodads.
“Baxter? Bad dog! Bad dog!”
He was licking the carrots off the floor.
“We’ll just have to forget about the carrots.”
Roger rummaged through the fridge.
“We have some broccoli. That will have to do.”
He rummaged some more.
“And a beet. Half a beet.”
He stood there for a moment staring at the bright red beet, turning it over in his hands.
“Jan,” he called, “do you like beets?”
“That’s fine,” she called back.
“Hear that Baxter, she hates beets.”
He threw it back in the fridge and tossed the broccoli on the counter.
“Steam that. I’ll be back.”
He walked back into the living room and tussled his hair.
“Got it all under control, dinner will be soon.”
“Sweet.”
“Yeah, sweet.”
“Uh, so, how have you been?”
“I’ve been good.”
“Where is your bathroom?”
“I’ll show you.”
He led her into the bedroom and then into the adjoining bath.
“I’ll leave now... let you do your business.”
He closed the door behind him and walked back to the kitchen.
“Baxter?”
The water was boiling over.
“Baxter?”
The pork was burning.
“Baxter?”
The floor was covered with half eaten unpeeled carrots.
Someone tapped on his shoulder and he reeled around.
“Roger? Are you nervous or something? You led me into a closet.”
He tried to quickly close the kitchen door behind him.
“What’s going on in there?”
She pushed her way into the disaster zone.
“What happened here?”
Roger tried to gasp.
“Baxter! Bad dog! Bad dog!”
“I hope he didn’t mess everything up.”
“Well he certainly isn’t helping, good for nothing mutt.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dumb dog can’t even cook.”
“Well of course! He’s a dog!”
Baxter brushed by their legs and walked up to the oven.
“Oh, he can make a casserole just fine.”
He opened it and shoved a meat thermometer into the pork.
“Damn mongrel can’t even braise carrots...”
