Batter Up!

Betty Lou Batters was a legend with an egg beater. Her cakes rose higher and her cream whipped up the fluffiest. Rumor was she could whip whiskey to soft peaks. Betty Lou wasn't always tied to the whipping post. As a barefoot youngster she honed the skills that would win her countless County Fair blue ribbons and a more reasonable number of young mens hearts by winding in near about every catfish in Crater Lake with her Zebco 202. The same motor skills and muscle memory that conquered the Crater cats made the egg beater a natural extension of her body. Lumps stood nary a chance in her batters, sauces and gravies. It was all second nature but sometimes, when she was in the zone, she really had to fight the urge to set that hook.

Got A Match?

An orange tabby with white tape on her paws sat up where she knew she shouldn't be. Her tail swept the counter like a windshield wiper while her head poked inside the pie safe licking merengue from a slice of lemon pie. Ordinarily Hank would have shooed her away, smoothed the divot in the merengue with a fork and thrown the latch to foil future attempts. Today though he was hunkered over the calculator with a folder full of receipts trying to swing Ruby's estimate. The cafe was decades overdue for paint and a new roof.

Hank met Ruby for a beer at the Lonesome Whistle to break the news he would have to wait a little longer. Ruby reminded him she could probably save him a third if he went with tin instead of shingles. Hank said he'd consider it but he wasn't crazy about the idea of Tennesee's tender paws on a tin roof come summer.