Wednesday, October 10, 2012


We hired a cook. Her name is Thanh. She prepares dinner for us four days per week, Monday through Thursday. She is friendly and warm, is an excellent cook, brings us flowers every Monday and, lately, has taken to painting Elia's fingernails for her in the neon colors that only an 8-year old can love. For Asher, she makes fresh juice and dessert - this despite the fact that we specifically asked her not to make dessert. Our thinking was that we would spend less money (less take-out) and eat healthier, fresher foods.

I think she's trying to kill us.

After two months, I believe that I can now say, quite easily, that I have NEVER eaten so much fried food in my entire life.  Our stomachs are clenching. our butts are filling out, our pores are oozing. Going through my daily activities, I am sometimes overwhelmed by the smell of french fries. A surreptitious sniff in my general direction confirms that it's me. My stomach is beginning to bulge over my waistline. I am developing a deep disgust of food. Sitting here at the computer, I can hear the oil for the night's dinner sizzling and bubbling, calling out to me from the depths.

My theory involves family genealogy, prior historical conflicts and personal wrongs never righted.

Whatever - I am off to get my cholesterol checked.