Apples and Tacos
Ivo had taken Gentlemen's Housekeeping (the masculine equivalent of Home Ec) in school to make him a well-rounded individual. In truth he adored cooking and approached the task – as he did all others – with tremendous zeal. He was accustomed to making supper for himself but once Danny moved in, he undertook culinary experimentation with an unbridled passion to rival the French masters. Relying entirely on his taste buds he would whip up dishes identifiable more by the unidentifiable elements in them than the converse. Dandelions and other grasses from the garden were added to salads; seaweed was substituted for spinach in vegetable lasagnes; raisins, shredded carrots and Grapenuts were added to ice cream. The conversation at the dinner table approached mutiny on the sole other resident's part.
"I'm not eating that," came the daily objection as Ivo laid the plate in front of Danny.
"You don't even know what it is yet," replied Ivo mildly.
"My point entirely. I'm not eating anything I cannot readily identify," he prodded the large-ish serving.
"Try some," coaxed Ivo, undeterred by his mate's resistance. "I assure you there is nothing in it you cannot readily identify."
Danny scowled at him and took a smallish bite before grimacing. "Ugh! What is that?"
"Apple tacos," said Ivo primly, settling himself to devour his portion.
Danny's expression was priceless.