Grand explode arrive. I am shot by out-rush of stewed steam which jump
out amidst delicious flavour. Hon. Bag flop back completely exhausted.
No more puff up for him. He droop amidst them meat and vegetables like
a wet sail in a shipwreck. I close oven door deceptively. Hon. Book say
nothing about this angry behaviour of food. Maybe that will improve its
nourishing qualities.
After it had been some time in baking condition I was enabled to enjoy
the perfume of this aroma. Each food when it cook make some odor of
smell. Apple pie smell like joyful hunger of schooldays. Roast beef
smell like powerful appetite of athelete. But paper bag smell like fire
among newspapers. I notice this.
While this food was roasting I look out of window and observe Hon.
Robert Jackson, near neighbour, approach and make knock to door.
“Mrs. Madam,” he report when that Swingle lady come to door, “I
announce your house is afire.”
“How you know?” requesh she with pale voice.
“Because I smelt burned wall-paper distinctually!”
Loud screem by Mrs. S. W. Swingle. They rosh to cellar. Nothing was
burning there--not even the furnace. They trot to roof. Nothing was
smoking there--not even the chimbley.
“It must be Uncle Oliver burning autumn leaves,” explan Hon. Jackson.
How could he know it was my cooking he smelt?
When nextly I peek into oven I observe Hon. Bag afire around edges.
Otherwise he was cooking nicely. I put him out with slight splosh of
water. He look quite contented swimming around in midst of juices
containing vegetables. 17 more minutes remain to cook him.
Night approach. I notice by alarm clock that time have now relapsed for
Hon. Paper Bag to be completely cooked. So I take him out on platter.
He look somewhat quaint. Paper bags is like spinach; they seem most
beautiful when raw. It was alarmed for to see how Hon. Bag had shrunk
away. He seemed insufficient for healthful family of four persons. Next
time I must cook two. Howeverly, it was necessary to make most of what
was, so I rolled Hon. Bag out longwise like a omelet. Then I surround
him with meat and vegetables in diagram of beautiful art.
“Togo!” holla Mrs. S. W. Swingle exploding into kitchen suddenly like
a gun, “Togo, what you been cooking to make my home smell like a
fire-insurance?” She cough in soprano.
“I have baked you a paper bag,” I report with words containing smiles.
I point to plate where it was.
“Paper _what_?” she howell.
“Bag,” I repartee.
She walk to platter and poke Hon. Bag irreverently with fork. She make
scorn with her nose. Then she open kitchen door and urge me to it with
enraged broomstick.
“I give you your choice,” she say horesly. “Either you can go at once
or depart immediately.”
“I shall not wait that long!” I collapse with cruel expression peculiar
to eagles. “If you discharge me, I shall obtain mean revenge. I shall
quit.”
Thusly speaking I promenade forth into unemployment. I am still there.
Hoping you are the same,
Yours truly,
_Hashimura Togo_.