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(Part Two of  A Tale of Two Lentils )
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Velveeta and Bob were a team when they went shopping. Bob was a special sort of dog, with powers beyond the usual sorts. He’d been the runt of a litter born to a well-known television personality bitch who’d co-starred in a 1950’s family comedy show. His mother had rejected him and her owners feared the worst: loss of income. For who would buy this little dog of the famous mother if word got around about this rejection? But Bob had made his own way, and in a surprising manner.

Bob had become a truffle dog. A self-trained truffle dog, to boot. Nobody knew exactly how it all started, but by his third month of life, Bob was digging up truffles where no truffles had ever been found before. This was in California, of course – so nobody was all that surprised, simply because, well . . . this was California, and all things were possible.

But Bob loved truffles so very much that when the ground was barren he took to attacking the refrigerator in the mansion where his owners lived part-time. It was the truffled pate he wanted, the truffle oil that was spooned onto scrambled eggs, the shaved truffles carefully saved for pasta. And this, was beyond the pale. Truffle-dog he may have been, but it was much more important to his owners that the refrigerator front surface remain pristine and elegant. So they took Bob to the pound, and that is where Velveeta found him – as she visited the poor strays to delight them with a few pounds of raw chicken livers left over from her latest cooking project.

She and Bob locked eyes the moment she entered the gated area, and that was that. History was made. Their love affair started with that one, single, startlingly instantaneous and knowing glance. She took him home that very day, only to discover his truffling skills upon entering her kitchen. Bob, without a moment’s hesitation pawed open her cupboard door and chewed apart a small tin of truffle shavings in oil.

Destiny. It could have been nothing else.

(To be continued . . .)

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A Tale of Two Lentils

Velveeta was a small round woman who didn’t know what to cook. When passing Velveeta on the street you might notice the faint aroma that rose from her – it was the scent of oranges, pickles, vanilla and sealing wax.

Velveeta always wore a sorry-looking old beige trench coat outside, except on rainy weekends. Then she and her dog Bob (named after ‘Bob’s your uncle!’ which Velveeta liked to chuckle out at Bob now and then as they walked to the market together) wore matching shiny bright red slickers. Velveeta’s high round pouf of rich mushroom-brown hair matched Bob’s flapping little dachshund ears just perfectly.

Each weekend they walked downtown together to the market to seek the perfect food. Walking along, Velveeta reminisced of days past – back in the small Italian village she’d lived in as a child. The fresh eggs from the happy chickens, the floury scent of the soft golden strings of pasta blending together with the scent of home-cured prosciutto as her grandmother stirred the pot of green-flecked menastre over the wood fire at the hearth . . . but wait. No. Those were not really her memories. Velveeta shook herself, momentarily remembering her skinny long-nosed mother and her fat father whose wedding ring was imbedded, almost invisible, on the rolls of his big finger and whose pants were always too short, too tight, back in the brick ranch house in the suburbs of Philly where she’d really grown up.

But what did that matter, after all. It was the food that mattered. The perfect food. If only it could be found, it would make the world a beautiful place. A place where everyone could live in harmony, just like the John Lennon song. Velveeta hummed her favorite part of the song as she walked along, and even Bob seemed to perk right up, his tiny sharp nails hitting the pavement in time.

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope some day you will join us
And the world will be as one

…………………………………………………..

(Part Two linked here)

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