To the Boy in All My Culinary Classes
First of all, allow me to apologize for not sleeping with you. I'm sorry. If I'd known the mess it would make to refuse you, perhaps I would have reconsidered. Since it is too late, I will offer several reasons as to why I did not sleep with you, and you may choose which one you like the best, as they are all true.
A). I got back together with my ex-boyfriend. Why, you ask? Because I care
for him, and not for you;
B). You're really not my type;
C). I'm thinking about getting some girls into the mix, and you're not down
for that, or;
D). You're a fucking creep and you said creepy shit about me to my sister.
So, my friend. We have every class together at school (again) this semester. We work at the same table again. In order for this not to end in bloodshed or with me drowning your little punk-ass in the pot sinks, there are a few things we're going to have to make clear.
Let's say that I am dicing onions for the table's mise en place. Let's say that everyone needs four ounces of onion. Let's say for a braised red cabbage dish. Well, my friend, that's what they get. Me, you, and the other two people at our table, get four ounces of onion.
But let's say that you are measuring wine for the table's mise en place. Let's say that everyone needs two ounces of wine. Let's say for a braised red cabbage dish. Well, my friend, that's what ALMOST ALL of us get. You, and the other two people at our table, get two ounces of wine.
Me? I get at least six ounces of wine.
Can you tell me why this might be? Why can you measure two ounces of wine accurately for everyone else, but not for me? And when I am in a hurry, and trust that your part of my mise en place is completed correctly, and, trusting in this, I grab the little dish into which you have portioned my wine and dump TRIPLE the amount into my cabbage, and the Chef strolls over, takes a whiff, and dumps my cabbage into the garbage--why am I not allowed to be angry?
While you stand there and grin fit to bust, stirring your fucking non-alcoholic cabbage with your fucking wooden spoon, why am I not allowed to throw a pan at you, or at least, brandish my knife in your face in a threatening manner?
Or, let's say that I am measuring flour for the table's mise en place. Let's say that everyone needs ten ounces of flour. Let's say for chocolate-chip cookies. Again, my friend, again, that's what they get. Me, you, and the other two people at our table, get ten ounces of flour.
But let's say that you are measuring sugar for the table's mise en place. Let's say that everyone needs five ounces of white sugar, and five ounces of brown. Let's say for chocolate-chip cookies. Again, my friend, again, that's what ALMOST ALL of us get. You, and the other two people at our table, get ten ounces, combined, of sugar.
Me? I get only about five ounces total.
Again, I wonder what it is that makes you incapable of measuring the sugar accurately when it comes to me. Do I distract you? Or perhaps you enjoy the Chef throwing my dough into the trash, and me having to start all over again? You certainly seem to, judging by that smile.
The funny thing is, I know you're getting laid. You're getting laid, every night, by that leggy freshman. And it's not only me who knows this. Everyone knows this, because you felt compelled to tell us all while we were smoking cigarettes on break one day a few weeks ago.
I wonder how she would feel, the leggy freshman, if she knew that you were walking around making jokes like "dude, I steeped the saffron with HER last night," or "dude, I peeled HER melon." But that is beside the point.
This is what I don't understand. You're getting laid. It's not like you're fucking Quasimodo or some shit. It's not like you have to get revenge on me. You're getting laid by an attractive woman. I'm getting laid by an attractive man. We're ALL getting laid, OK? We're all happy, we're all satisfied, and we should all be able to use a fucking kitchen scale by now.
So why do you sabotage me?
Let's make this clear, fuckface. I'm watching you. Oh yes. Next time you weigh something out for my mise en place, I'm watching you. From behind the dry goods racks, or peering out from the dish room. I'm watching.
If I see you fuck up my shit one more time, you're losing a finger.
If not a thumb.