Please be seated while you read this, my darling, for I fear that your heart may simply stop beating due to the magnitude of the tragedy that has befallen me. Oh how I loathe to distress you, but I need your prayers, for now it is only G-d that can assuage my pain.
Lalita is leaving me. She has been running our kitchen for over seven years and the last time she left for two days we packed up and stayed at the Ritz until she returned. Mother always says that if a person is unable to hire a chef for whatever awful reason, they should simply commit a crime and go to prison, because the loss of freedom is a small price to pay for the dignity of at least having your meals prepared. I've heard about people on welfare who have to clean their own homes and prepare their own food and I positively weep for the tortured souls.
Lalita came to me this week with some lame excuse about her husband having cancer and how she had to go back to Mexico to care for him. Does the woman actually think that her husband's health condition is more of a priority than my nutrition? And what of Muffy?? The vet has her on a special high fiber diet because she simply cannot properly digest the store bought doggie foods. I can't feed her just anything! Does she want Muffy to develop irritable bowel syndrome like she did last winter?
Roger does not understand the gravity of the situation. Men can be so obtuse sometimes. When I insisted that he buy us burial plots because we were going to starve to death without Lalita, he said I was being melodramatic. Can you imagine my pain, Vivian??? He is so insensitive.
It gets worse. I decided to summon my inner strength and humility. Yes, it is degrading and painful to get to the point of having to prepare one's own food, but I vowed to at least try. Oh, Vivian?
Why did I not simply stab myself instead?? I decided to make chicken. I Googled a meat store in our neighborhood and asked them to send over a chicken. The man on the other line asked me what kind of chicken I wanted. What does he mean what kind of chicken?? Does he think I have a preference as to what ethnicity, eye color or personality my chicken has??? What a dreadful, discriminatory man! "I want a regular, Caucasian, American chicken", I informed him. The awful man hung up on me.
I always knew that people who work in stores have no manners, but at least in places like Saks and Vuitton they don't hang up on people. I will never call a meat store again! I sent Hector, out driver to go into the store and get me a chicken for dinner. Hector brought home just the right thing, but it had these little hairs poking out from it's skin. Why did he get me a chicken with such abominable hygiene! I called Marcia at the Spa and asked her if she ever performed hair removal on a chicken. Being the dear friend that Marcia is, she said she would come right over and have a look. She managed to get most of the hairs out with a tweezers and assured me that they wouldn't grow back before dinnertime.
But then there was the issue of the onion which the recipe insisted that I cut, which I clearly could not cut because of the dreadful smell. I have a charity benefit tonight and refuse to go stinking like that homeless women of 3rd Avenue who probably also cooks her own meals. So I skipped the onion. Then it said to mix brown sugar, ketchup and soy sauce. Well, sugar and ketchup are not foods that my nutritionist allows me to eat and if I gain so much as an ounce mother is going to insist that I fast for a week. So I decided to just use the soy sauce and poured some over the nicely tweezed chicken and put it in the microwave for ten minutes.
I was feeling exceedingly proud of myself as removed the chicken with soy sauce from the microwave and placed it in front of Roger. He took one bite, made some sort of horrid face, but finished it nevertheless. Although the whole experience was quite distasteful, I realized that this cooking thing was really not as complicated as it seems.
It was not forty minutes later when Roger began vommiting something awful and since Roger is one of the only members of the entire extended family that does NOT suffer from bulimia, I was genuinely concerned. Eventually, I called the paramedics, who carted him off to the hospital. It turns out that Roger had food poisoning and they had to pump his stomach of any trace of my soy covered chicken.
I cried then, bitter tears of anguish. Partly I cried because now with his stomach pumped, Roger is thinner than I am. But mostly I cried for the poor lot the universe had cast on me and I prayed that Lalita's husband would get better or just die already so that my life could resume some semblance of normalcy. I think that the problem is that I am too selfless and I let people take advantage of me. So I am going to look for a new woman to cook for me and if her husband even gets so much as the flu, I'll kill him myself. And even if I get sent to prison, it will have been worth it. Because either way, someone else will be cooking my food.
All my love,
The author of Priscilla has invented the characters purely for entertainment and comical value and is no way meant to be taken seriously or offensively.
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