The Cookhouse

Every Saturday at 4:30 PM, I have had a reservation for one person at the Cookhouse at Eagle’s Trace, the retirement community. In the brand-new dining room with dark wooden furniture, my meal, which is efficiently prepared and served, lasts forty minutes. Regular, it consists of a small dinner roll with butter; a small wedge salad, chopped, with blue cheese dressing and, to go, another small salad to be eaten during the week; a small grilled fillet mignon rare, a scoop of mashed potatoes with chicken gravy, and vegetables such as green beans or zucchini; and one or two small scoops of ice cream, usually coffee, butter pecan, or chocolate. This meal, moderate in size and healthier than what restaurants in the city proper offer, is free to me on my mother’s meal plan. By eating steak weekly, I am contributing to the drowning of chicks of Emperor penguins that the premature breaking up of ice is causing. Similarly, I use and love Claude AI. I must determine how to be a good citizen.