He came home late from work last night, which gave me plenty of them to make the bars I wanted to for work today, and clean up the kitchen both. He opened the refrigerator looking for something to eat for dinner, and picked up a storage container, holding the translucence up to the light. "It's tofu," I say.

"Tofu? TOFU!?"

"There is almost always tofu in there. I use it in the wraps I make for lunch. It's really good—" he shudders—"It tastes like whatever you marinade it in."

He says we have to have a talk, that he's not sure the tofu can stay in the house, leastwise not in the same refrigerator as the "normal" food. Goat gotten, as he had hoped, I hiss that there's also shredded broccoli, sprouts and, gasp, soy cheese in there. That last one got him.

"WE LIVE IN WISCONSIN!"

He would have liked Fred, my feline friend that we always referred to as a Ca-human due to his fondness for human fare. We often muse that he is in Heaven now, thoroughly irritating God who keeps slapping his forehead with regret that he ever thought to splice the two species. Fred was not a glutton—he wouldn't eat just ANYTHING...he didn't like ham, or anything grilled. He hated while I was staying with him to take care of Mom because I was too clean of a cook and didn't drop things like dear Aunt Debbie. Though, the one time I did drop a bit of some soy-derived product, he looked at it, licked it, and looked at me with his mouth open like, "You eat that crap!?" Brenda exorcised their refrigerator of all of that after I was back in North Carolina and I imagine Fred did a heathen dance dressed in boar's teeth and vulture feathers.