Page 16 - Lulu and Bob in Verbo City

Lulu checked the thermometer on the thermostat in the hall of
the right wing as they went toward the kitchen.
“It’s still warm enough in here,” she said. “That is, too hot for
humans but just right for these exotica. I wonder how they survive in
cold climates: a lot of languages beyond the temperate zone are full
of egregiously extended expressions.”
“Obviously, they don’t live long in that environment. I’ll bet they
die of exposure long before they can even grow legs.” Bob was
pretending to wisdom he did not possess, but his sister let him get
away with it in the interests of finishing their urgent task. “Now what
can we find in here? The pantry is locked tight, the refrigerator and
stove are closed up, and all we can examine is what’s out on the
counter.”
“And that, of course, is books: books on food, books on cooking,
books on dieting, even a few on gardening—although Uncle doesn’t
have a vegetable patch out in back.” Lulu scowled. “Unless he’s been
feeding us weed salad.”
“Not worth speculating about that,” said Bob. “Here’s
‘counterintuitively,’ clutching the picture of French fries on the cover
of Stuff Yourself Skinny in Six Weeks.”
“Excellent!” cried Lulu. “No more on the cookbooks? Let me see
the list again. Hmm. I think you’d better look at those skillets hanging
over the stove. I’ll bet at least one of them is coated with Teflon:
they’re certainly old enough.”
Bob examined the frying pans. “You’re right about that, Sis. In
fact, this is the only place that ‘polytetrafluoroethylene’ could have
felt at home.” He tapped the skillet over the open wordsack and the
sesquipedalian slid right into it like a skier down a slippery slope.
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