*This is a continuation of the book "Un leu, un leu...", which was written in Romania by my late godfather and uncle Bill Edwards, and published by Evenimentul, a now defunct Romanian publishing company. The book is being released for the first time in English exclusively here on Steemit, as a serial. I hope you enjoy his writings as much as I do!*

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I consider myself a good cook, as my girth from time to time attested. The weight crept up on me to almost 300 pounds over the years from sampling my own wares, and that of others. But that is all over. I have lost over 100 pounds in the past five years, so much so that many of my old friends do not readily recognize me. 

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<center><em>Image from bayouwoman.com</em></center>
How did I come to like cooking, and when did I start? I guess that I came by cooking naturally. My paternal grandfather who immigrated to the United States from the British West Indies in 1900 listed as profession on his declaration of intent to become a U.S. citizen, "Cook." My father was also a good cook, though not a professional. He was a tailor. I remember him well into his senior years preparing his specialty dishes, generally of West Indian or Cuban flavors. He affectionately called them his "pots", "mulls", or "steams and stews." Many of these dishes are lost to posterity; though I know of a few he taught me and one of my older sisters. One dish, called crawfish (lobster) chelau, has been adopted by one of my boyhood friends, [Floyd Sweeting](http://keysnews.com/node/29938) — now a barber in Key West — of whom I remember asking my father to teach him how to make it as his specialty. This friend, who still lives in Key West, is now considered one of the premier chelau makers in Key West. And when he visits friends and relatives all over the U.S., he brings along the basic ingredients of his chelau to regale them with.

I began cooking seriously when I was about 12 or 13 years of age. But as I remember, I could always cook myself an egg. I remember at about age 14 or so I decided to make an apple pie. My grandmother indulged me with the ingredients and lo and behold the pie was excellent, and a great success. I made pies for months.
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After my pie period, I thought that I would try my hand at cooking rice, a staple of West Indian (actually Bahamian from where the majority of the original settlers on Key West came from) or Cuban (the other majority on Key West) cooking, the two main styles of Key West cooking. One had not arrived in Key West unless he or she could cook a pot of "one one" rice. That is, a pot of rice in which each grain was cooked perfectly and could be separated from each other one; not a glutinous, sticky mess. After mastering the basic art of cooking plain white "one one" rice, the budding chef could move up to other rice specialities— rice cooked with shrimp or other seafoods, with chicken or pork, rice with peas or other vegetables, or rice with a combination of the above in amazing variations. It was said in Key West when I was growing up, that housewives would put on a pot of rice and then decide what she would cook along with it for the rest of the meal.

When I was mastering the simple art of "one one" rice something happened to me, which almost ended my cooking career, and for that matter almost convinced me to be a thin man for the rest of my life. But I obviously overcame it.

One afternoon when I had taken on the task of preparing the evening meal for the house, I decided to make "one one" rice to go with fresh fish that I had caught earlier in the day. This along with some canned vegetables and possibly a green salad would make up the meal.

As I became engrossed in cooking the rice after carefully washing it, and watching it come to a boil, I reached into a cabinet for a lid to place on the rice. The secret, I had learned, of cooking "one one" rice, was to place a lid on the pot as soon as it came to a boil, turn the fire down low, and not stir the rice anymore until it was done.

Not taking my eyes off of the just starting to boil pot of rice, I found a lid with my right hand, and not inspecting it first, clapped it onto the pot of rice, then turned the fire down as low as I could to let the rice simmer and steam. I then turned my attention to preparing the remainder of the meal. I fried the fish, warmed the vegetables, and made the salad.

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When all was done, I lifted the lid on the pot of rice, and to my horror and utter disgust, there lying, as if asleep on the bed of perfectly cooked white rice, with each of its hairs steamed off and surrounding it like a gently glowing corona, was a tiny pink mouse, also perfectly cooked.

##### *Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, be sure to read the rest of Bill's works that are being published exclusively here on Steemit:*
- [Chapter I: Four Corners](https://steemit.com/writing/@robrigo/un-leu-un-leu-ch-1-four-corners-for-and-in-consideration-of-the-sum-of-love-and-affection)
- [Chapter III: Cat Food in Romania](https://steemit.com/writing/@robrigo/un-leu-un-leu-ch-3-cat-food-in-romania)
- [Chapter IV: My Story About the First American in my Family](https://steemit.com/nonfiction/@robrigo/un-leu-un-leu-ch-4-my-story-about-the-first-american-in-my-family)
- [Chatper XII: A Tale of Two Rings](https://steemit.com/writing/@robrigo/a-tale-of-two-rings-coming-full-circle)