Afterwards, he could have sworn that Ellen did no cooking. She merely reached into a cabinet adjacent to the electric range, (must get a radar range one of these days, he thought, especially with no more Fanny around and the servant situation being what it was) and came out with the platters, piping hot. "Hey," he'd said between mouthfuls of savory white meat which tasted like a rare Centaurian fowl he had eaten in that interplanetary restaurant on East 48th once, "this is all right." The dessert was Sirius, and brother, what they could do with those whipped toppings. And to finish it all off with the proper pleasant glow, Ellen had even managed to find a bottle of good old French brandy which must have been corked when Napoleon was a boy.
"The devil with Fanny," Channing declared, loosening his belt a notch. "I've got myself quite a cook. Say, if you don't want to tell me about that Qui Dor thing, honey...."
"Ha!" Ellen laughed triumphantly. "If that isn't just like a man. Give him something good to eat and he'll be licking the palm of your hand. But I said I'd show you. I already have."
"Huh?"
"You've eaten it. That's what the Qui Dor people sold me, that food cabinet. How to keep a husband, they said. You see, no one can cook that well, not in such variety. Mad at me, dear?"
"No," Channing admitted. "It was delicious, every bit of it." But he patted his slight paunch reflectively. "Sometimes food can be too good, though."
"Listen, big eyes. Qui Dor's food cabinet was made for guys like you. Are you full?"
"Lord, yes."
"There wasn't a single calorie in what you ate. Nor any vitamins, minerals or—"
"I've heard of that," Channing said incredulously. "But, but I've eaten. I know I have. I tasted it, all of it. I felt it going down. I feel full now. I couldn't eat another thing."