It should have been one of my first hints. We passed her books in Barnes and Noble, saw her on the cover on magazines, and he would hiss as if they’d come to drag him back to the confessional.
“She’s soulless, that Rachel Ray.”
“Her empty eyes, that cold smile. Soulless.”
I would murmur some sort of blankness, a hmm or a aha. This impressed me yesterday that for the duration of that sort of strange companionship, how little he asked about my opinions or thoughts. How I was being molded into something for him alone, into a girl that existed parallel to me, but without the experience of moi, he hadn’t the balls to talk to… I digress.
But catching Rachel Ray on Oprah yesterday reminded me about the admittance that I could never make.
I like Rachel Ray.
I really do. I mean, Five Minute Fudge? She’s plucky, that one. I can relate to her too. She’s the only grown woman that I have in my memory, aside from my Mom and Aunt, that will squeal when she’s happy. Life is so much better with the occasional squeals of joy.
There is also something in the above mentioned description I should be relating to. But before that I need to share with you that I am now a triple threat. I can make an entrée, dessert, and now, hors d’oeuvres.
Look, deviled-eggs by gum.
I went to look up the spelling for hors d’oeuvres because appetizers wasn’t four dollar enough, and with appetizers I think Chili’s, not socializing with high heels. What did Merriam Webster suggest for my first awkward spelling? Whoredoms. Let’s hear it for the soulless. We can cook.