The Big Meal

The Big Meal

We’ve been awaiting you.

We’ve been preparing for days.

Can you smell the heavenly aroma?

It may be winter, but Flower is at large.

(Yes, I did use the words “heavenly aroma” in reference to Tabby’s Place. Yes, I realize this is does not align with our default odors and vapors.)

It is not the scent of jambalaya, although our celebrants ordered that. Someone smuggled Gator a Cajun cookbook, and now every suite has heard that there is a real recipe calling for pork, chicken, and whatever the heck shrimp are. (Gator calls them “meat larva.” Cassie calls them “proof that the universe turns on an axis of mercy.”)

It is not the scent of King Cake, although this provides our residents with Reason #992 to laugh at us. (Gator: “You mean they hide a plastic human kitten in a carbohydrate and congratulate the person who breaks his teeth?” Cassie: “Yes, and it isn’t even a cheesecake.”)

Eartha is several planets worth of Mardi Gras unto herself.

It is the scent of celebration.

Yes, that does include the usual odors and vapors.

Odors and vapors mean that lions are living. It means that blessings are digesting. It means that once-forgotten cats are feasting like beasts and metabolizing miracles.

It means that cats whose futures were ash are now afire with tomorrows. It means that “hopeless” has been hogtied. It means that Gator doesn’t need to worry about survival, so he can devote his time to investigating the absence of hogs from the premises.

It means the cats who the world missed out on are not missing any meals.

It means that every Fat Tuesday, you can count on this blog to parade Portraits in Size. You can count on the largesse of our largest cats. You can count on our robust residents long past Lent.

It’s the least they can do. After all, they count on you for The Big Meal.

Yon Cassie does not have a lean and hungry look. OK, maybe a little hungry. OK, maybe a lot.

I do not mean the world’s largest muffaletta, although Gator has written impassioned letters to Guy Fieri, Congress, and the Vatican requesting this.

I mean Tabby’s Place.

Tabby’s Place is The Big Meal.

Don’t take it from me. Take it from the man attempting to sell fundraising software.

When the man attempting to sell fundraising software calls, I let it go to voicemail. Our phone system provides a transcription of each call, and his messages usually read, “Hello! I am the man attempting to sell fundraising software!”

But this time, technology failed. Or rather, it succeeded. The transcription read:

A well fed Lorna Doone is not a forlona doone

“Hello, I’m calling for Angela at The Big Meal. I have heard so much about The Big Meal. Please call so we can talk about how I can help The Big Meal.”

He was saying “Tabby’s Place.” He was saying more than he realized.

It was hilarious and profound. The best things in life are generally both. I almost even called him back.

Instead, I’m writing to you.

If Tabby’s Place is The Big Meal, that means you’re in the kitchen, shoulder-to-shoulder with us. You make this feast possible. You love exclusively in size large.

You bear our cats’ weight.

May your Mardi be extra Gras, dear hearts.

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