He would slip out of the living room whilst everyone else about was noshing on a bar, or a slice of pie, a piece of cake sipping their last cup of coffee for the night.
He would set the oven’s temp, wrap all kinds of russets in tin foil, set em to bake, then he’d start in on the supper dishes. After being in their home a couple times I caught on when he slipper’d his feet and headed for the kitchen, from then on, I was right behind him. Mostly I emptied and filled the dishwasher, he scrubbed the cast irons and pots.
We’d be there, I’d be just listening, mainly hunting stories from his past, sometimes he talked about his business, he never did want to ever retire.
I couldn’t wait to be done with my career, it was great and all, but never quit working, wouldn’t work for me.
And after about an hour and half, he’d turn off the oven, out would come the baked tators, he left them on the counter top to cool, before he turned in for the night he placed them uncovered in the refridge.
Next morning he grated them spuds into the crispiest hashbrowns ever to come off a breakfast skillet. He fried them in pure butter, and to his credit, there may be extra sweet rolls, a piece or two of toast, maybe some ham bacon or sausage leftover, but never once, was there ever, any leftovers of Larry’s hashbrowns.
- The Trout Whisperer
