July 3rd, 2007
Damn! Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the kitchen! But no, there she is. The invader. Whipping up a little peach cobbler. Damn, damn, damn.
The girlfriend in question (”R”) showed up with son #2 and became the bete noir of my diet. An aspiring pastry chef who ruined my attempts to avoid becoming known as Eva the Hutt, she came with her candy thermometers, with her decadent ice cream recipes with extra egg yolks. The situation was rapidly becoming dire, bathroom scale-wise when youthful inconstancy stepped in to save the day. An unhappy breakup, poor child. I put on a sad, sympathetic face for my son, but inside I was secretly triumphant. Saved!
But no! In a convoluted turn of events that would strain credibility had they been mere fiction, son #1 falls for the SAME GIRL and once again, sounds of clattering spoons and oven timers emanate from my once-diet-friendly kitchen.
In the meantime, son #2 has found a new love - a line chef at a trendy shorefront bistro.
I’m doomed.
(Don’t worry, R honey, we love ya. Welcome back. I’m not sure I’ll survive, but death will be delicious)
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