I’m known for my cooking. How I wish that were not so.
I burn things, forget half the ingredients, forget what I added then put them in again. It’s right there in my books, on my blog, and in the memories of everyone who knows me.
And now nobody trusts my cooking.
“Do come for lunch”, I say.
“Oh, great,” she says. “You choose the restaurant.”
What’s the point in visiting a person at home if you’re going to go out for lunch? But I was so glad to see Marilyn, I didn’t fight.
Then there’s Elaine.
“You make the tea,” she said. “But I’ve read your book. So I’ll bring something for us to eat.”
Then Jane took sick.
“I could make you a roast chicken”, I phoned Jane and said, not revealing the thing was already roasting in the oven.
But Jane declined immediately. “I…
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