Chiffonade

By P. a. Lafraise

Chiffonade chronicles the adventures of New York native and best-selling author Blakely Ellison as she struggles to cope with the tragic dissolution of her marriage. Still reeling from her unexpected abandonment, a barely functioning (and food-illiterate) Blakely accepts a guest judging stint on a Tampa cooking show. There she encounters-and unwittingly offends-the domineering Lenore Chester, Queen of Cajun Cooking, and her son, Jack, an unapologetic lothario.

What follows is a comedy of northe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628383201

Book preview

Monday, June 27, 2011

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Jack

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I remember the exact shade of green her eyes appeared when they first meet mine. Although our gaze lasts for only a fraction of a second, they remind me of Spanish olives, without the pimentos of course. I know it doesn’t seem like a glamorous comparison, but working in the food industry, I can’t help making the association. At first glance, she isn’t a stunner. Her hair is cheaply highlighted probably in a feeble attempt to mask its naturally bold red hue. It’s also limp and clings too much to her scalp, as if it were freshly drained linguini. Her nose is perfectly straight, but dotted with a thousand freckles. The minute dots fade as you scan across the pale cheeks towards her ears. I find her mouth way too tight, pensive, and not interesting. Her skin is in dire need of a long day in the sunshine and it also doesn’t help that this shade blends in with the white walls surrounding our place of introduction.

The production assistant of my mother’s local cable cooking show, Stephen Coyne, makes our brief exchange of names. She mumbles her name inaudibly in a dreadful New York accent to which my ears cannot decipher her first name from the last. It’s tossed together like an average house salad. It doesn’t help that I’m dissecting each one of her features and ignoring the words as they pass over her lips. I make a mental note to ask Steve later for her name, should I even want to know. Momentarily, I’m still tangled up in the raw emotions encased inside her eyes.

They seem not only stressed, but genuinely sad. She’s making every attempt to appear engaged in the show’s celebrity pre-production shoot happening around her, but it’s obvious that she’s mentally miles from this location. Continuing to observe each of her facial features for my personal analysis, in combination she’s exotic looking as her wide green eyes and long dark lashes attest to an interesting genetic code. Each feature by itself is mundane, but altogether she’s a looker and I guess she’s probably in her late thirties; far too old for my palette.

Nice to meet you, she generically greets as we shake hands.

Her handshake is firm and assertive, the antithesis to the look in her eyes.

The pleasure is mine, I reply, looking over her body from head to toe. I’m certain she’s followed my blatant assessing eye movement. I want to feel embarrassed by my actions, yet I don’t even know anything about this stranger to elicit this sort of reaction.

Her physique is a perfect match to the woman’s appearance: not brilliant or earth-shattering. She’s slightly round, but not fat by any means. A body probably having an extraordinary ability to metabolize, but hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in quite some time, I surmise. Her breasts hang with boredom or simply because her bra lacks proper support. It’s apparent this person doesn’t care about her looks. The absence of makeup or a proper manicure is the prime tip-off.

After our quick exchange of words, she’s scurried down the hall to a place that will hopefully help transform her into something more easily digestible for the camera. Mama insists on the best makeup and hair people in the Tampa area while shooting her gourmet food series. If my mother can look twenty years younger, then there’s hope for this guest to be made over with the expert hands we keep on deck. I briefly wonder whether the staff will put in as much effort on this woman who’s here only to serve as a substitute tasting judge today.

I exit the former office building that houses Mama’s sound stage to smoke a cigarette. Shooting makes me extremely nervous. Although Mama is the focus of this food series, when she struggles to make the episode engaging, she’ll insist I integrate into the scene. I don’t particularly care for the camera. I’m uncomfortable being under the microscope. I’m a businessman, not a chef. Or, to be more exact, a financial investor that enjoys cooking as a hobby.

The stranger’s eyes are haunting me during my own time in hair and makeup later in the hour. In addition, Mama’s conveyed she’s not feeling confident that she has enough material to fill the episode being shot today. Therefore, I’ll be brought in to help tell stories about my childhood and the food our family made on special occasions. Hell, every picnic, cookout, and holiday provided much of the same food. Now I need to conjure the correct buzzwords to help the audience relate. My mind is experiencing temporary difficulties. I need to see beyond those green, ever-so-green eyes.

Jack, a voice cries out. You’re needed on the set, immediately!

Shaking my head free of any thoughts pertaining to meeting this new guest judge, the staff begins expediting getting me camera-ready. Apparently, from the current gossip amongst them, this new person doesn’t know much about food. It’ll be interesting to see her analysis and critique contribution about Mother’s cooking. Her vacant look didn’t encourage much of a celebrity judge expertise persona. In fact, I’m positive that she’ll crumble quickly when the pressure of the camera is centered on her fragile nature.

Jack, your mommy needs you, Steve taunts playfully.

I’m coming, I reply, removing the white towel the makeup people have placed around my shirt collar to protect it.

I love my mama to pieces, but she’s a very complicated Louisiana Cajun woman. As many southern women of her generation did, she married right out of high school to the man she thought was the love of her life. Apparently, she discovered her poor decision four children later. I was five when my father abandoned the family for a much younger female. It was hard to see my homemaker mother struggle to raise us. That’s where family becomes important to the Chesters. My grandparents, aunts, and uncles all played pivotal roles trying to fill the shoes that my father too willingly vacated. Mama shut down emotionally and seldom left our home as her depression worsened and became chronic.

Being the youngest member of the family, I only knew I felt a double rejection. Initially, my father rarely came around because he was extremely busy with his new family. This caused Mama’s condition to worsen, and she wasn’t able to hold us together as a family unit for the next several years. My uncle Ray and aunt Mimi were my primary caregivers and relocated me to Tampa, where I resided throughout my elementary years. Through the course of time, they were able to help explain Mama’s circumstance in a way that left me compassionate for her, rather than angry. There’s not much I wouldn’t do or sacrifice for her; murder is included on the list.

I amble towards the kitchen set that’s identical to Mama’s kitchen at home. She’s already behind the counter, barking demands at the staff for specific ingredients that aren’t either chopped properly or are missing entirely. I immediately recognize the crazed look in her eyes and internally cringe at having to intervene. Mama’s bite can be quite severe when under pressure.

The carrots are supposed to be diced, not minced! She huffs as the hairstylist is still working to tease and hairspray loose ends in place.

Mama won’t remain stationary. Her face has all the classic signs that she’s in her usual pre-shoot turmoil and making everyone in her path more stressed as a result of her own personal anxiety. Knowing the pre-production ritual, I wonder which staff member has drawn the short straw to be the chosen one to deal with Mama’s drama.

Stepping into Mama’s mock kitchen, I squint at her to catch her attention and then instantly display my brightest and widest smile. Knowing this won’t totally diffuse the situation, I flash my light blue eyes to continue smoothing over the distressed situation.

Son, they’re trying to make me look foolish today, she cries.

Her frosted gray hair has pieces sticking out in several directions. If anyone knows my mama, this is highly uncharacteristic of her. Two things Mama will never been seen in public without: a perfectly coifed hairstyle and four inches of makeup. The other two conditions are a perfect manicure and a piece of gum for her to snap in your ear when she’s stressed.

And why would they want to make you look foolish? You’re Tampa’s very own Queen of Cajun Cooking. I try to be reassuring.

Because, Son, she huffs. I face off with that bitch from New Orleans who claims to have a better low country boil than I do for the season finale.

I chuckle. Mama, that’s weeks away. These people have been part of your production staff for three years. Why would they interfere now?

Three words, Son: Lacey Sue Madden! she howls louder.

For heaven’s sake, Mama, you have the highest rated food show in the Tampa area. I try to rationalize. Don’t forget we’re aiming for the bigger picture, the Gourmet Channel! But here and now we’re only shooting episode seven for this season. Walter Gibbons is the foe of the day.

Mama has been thrown off her game this season. Prior to this season’s premiere, the network told Mama they were changing the format of her show. Instead of it being a purely hosted half-hour show, they wanted to grow an audience and decided to have Mama go one-on-one with another southern expert to ultimately be judged in front of a critical panel at the end of an hour cook-off. The format change was devastating for Mama to adapt to. She’s not someone to take criticism of any sort well. The thought of losing to anyone might put her back into intensive therapy.

Thankfully, the network realizes the draw of Mama’s magnetic personality and southern sense of humor. Everyone wants to believe they’re either an offspring or grandchild of hers. In order to help appease her nerves, the network agreed for each competitor to cook on separate sound stages. The only time Mama meets the challenger is when they come together before the judges. It was the only compromise that made both parties satisfied.

The hairstylist is running to catch up to Mama, who’s uncovering the boiling pots on the stove and inspecting each prep bowl already filled with ingredients.

It’s a conspiracy, Jack. Lacey Sue is twenty years younger than I!

I step directly in front of Mama’s path, in part to give the hairstylist a break. And twenty years less seasoned than you.

My hands firmly find the tops of her shoulders. The stylist works double time to finish her job. I cough when Mama’s hair is sprayed down with a gaseous cement after some serious teasing.

Listen to me, I beg. Your popularity is what draws the audience to watch your show every week. They adore and love you. You need to focus on your gumbo today.

Mama sighs heavily. She stretches up and gently kisses my right cheek.

You’re my precious baby boy, she coos before the vile becomes apparent. Walter is no Cajun. I’ve competed against his gumbo on various occasions and it’s nothing more than a loose mess and tastes like okra swimming in shit.

I blush, knowing my forty-third birthday is a little more than two months from now. There are a few oohs and aahs heard from various staff members about Mama’s gushing over me. I’d rather they express their surprise hearing Mama swear. However, curse words are readily used as adjectives when she’s filled to the brink with anxiety.

She stares directly into my eyes and strokes my cheeks right in front of the entire production staff as if I were five. This moment couldn’t be more humiliating.

Did you have a chance to meet Blakely? She conveniently switches the subject.

Pardon?

The celebrity guest judge, she sweetly answers as if I should know the response without explanation. She’s not really a true foodie if you ask my opinion.

The red-haired girl? I put the pieces together.

That’s the one. Dreadful color, like the devil.

We met briefly. I try to sound nonchalant. What’s her story?

Son, she’s some Yankee writer with a bad Northeast attitude, not to mention accent. I’m laughing, Son, because what do they know about southern cooking anyway? How the hell is she supposed to judge me? The entire network is going down the crapper!

Mama hates everyone from the Northeast. My daddy up and left Mama for a woman he met in New York on a business trip. It’s not a surprise to hear her negative analysis of this woman without much personal interaction. Thankfully, this judge is a temporary fill-in for today, only as the other judge has a schedule conflict.

To top it off, she thinks she knows everything because she’s a Columbia graduate and calls herself an author, she hisses as her fingers move over the food props. Why did these lazy SOB’s even bother to chop my vegetables? I swear they’re trying to do me in. Look at how unevenly they’ve chopped them!

I see you’ve done your homework on this girl already.

Just because this woman is college educated and from the Northeast doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand food, I defend.

Son, Mama speaks forcibly. This woman only knows words, not tastes, smells or techniques. How can she possibly be deemed a fair judge in today’s southern competition?

An author, how convenient, I respond. It seems like another failed attempt of the local press to innocently gather information for their next headline to sell newspapers, and the network to hype Mama’s show.

She’s a New Yorker, Mother reiterates as if she we’re talking about a serial killer.

She looks perfectly honest to me, Mama.

Boy! She shrieks in an ear-piercing tone. Look at her! She thinks she’s better than all of us put together. Why does the network continue to inflict such people on me this season?

Mama, you need to concentrate everything you have to give on this episode. I’m refocusing and consoling her nerves.

What am I supposed to do about the other ten episodes they’ve ordered me to shoot for next season?

Be positive. Your audience admires and loves you! Besides, that’s a worry for another season, not today.

Jack, be reasonable, she shushes me. Admiration might be too much…

Mama, you’re right. Your only true admiration is for butter and mayonnaise. Who on earth would be so in love with your show than other fellow southerners? Nobody else stands a chance in your demographic audience.

And that Lacey Sue bitch is pretending to be Cajun, if that’s not a threat in itself.

You don’t know that, I interfere.

Oh no, she whines. She sulks over to the crafty located to the left side of the kitchen set, flush against the wall. She picks up a poster and hands it to me.

As I view Lacey Sue and her younger men on the advertisement, I can’t help but be intrinsically motivated to watch her cable series. What normal man wouldn’t want to watch a hot blonde with oversized tits cook a romantic meal for an alleged boyfriend who’s twenty years younger than she is in a too-tight and too-little outfit? I consider myself one accomplished man.

Blakely

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The room is pitch black when the phone rings. I don’t see the point in rolling over to answer the blaring device. It has to be some ungodly hour to be awakened for some nonsense reason. The ringing echoes throughout the hollow room. Relentlessly, I’m forced to turn onto my right side and fumble in the darkness for the telephone seated on an unfamiliar nightstand. Lifting the receiver to my ear only to hear the automated wake-up message, I drop the phone and don’t care if it lies next to its cradle. At least I know the phone has no chance in hell to ring again.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, trying to recall what city I’m visiting today. I believe it’s somewhere in Florida, but don’t readily know any major city in this state other than Disney World, and I don’t think that’s even the name of a city. I’m not fond of hot and humid climates, so I’m grateful to be passing through this area quickly.

It will no doubt be another miserably long day. I glance at the clock. It reads seven thirty-one. I have eleven more hours until I’m able to crawl back and hide in this foreign bed. Tomorrow’s schedule is much easier, as I’m only required to be a part of life for six hours before I can retreat back into my self-absorbed bubble.

I can’t do this today! I’m not feeling good! I start mentally panicking.

Today is way overbooked in my mind’s unrealistic expectations for me. I have to be at Haslam’s Bookstore by ten for a two-hour book signing, followed by some guest judging spot for a local cooking competition that’ll prevent me from returning to this temporary residence until at least six o’clock.

I don’t know why I allowed my publicist to talk me into this mini book signing tour. I should’ve just pulled one of my usual excuses and politely declined. My mind has been fuzzy since Allison Petry, the one responsible, has actively made me her personal project, urging me back into the land of the living. Lately she’s been applying pressure to get me to eight different southern cities for a book signing tour. My brain is reluctant to use my stockpile of excuses for delays or cancellations. I only want to be left alone until I feel ready to face life again on my own terms.

I’m not great at letting people down once I commit to something. A cheesy text or email from me to back out right now to Allison is out of the question. It’s inevitable that I need to drag myself out of this hotel bed. Hopefully the water pressure in the shower will be strong enough to massage away the knots plaguing my shoulder blades and neck. This is the first time I’ve been away from home in half a year and it has mentally and physically drained every ounce of energy from my meek existence, even though this is only the third stop on the tour. I want nothing more than to be home, with my door double bolted and to lie in bed all day with my cat. No phone, no Internet, no television, no music. I want to remain permanently disconnected from society.

Allison caught me during a moment of weakness in order to get me to consent. She encouraged me, saying it would be fiscally smart to promote the latest installment of my best-selling young adult series. I agreed to it before realizing I wasn’t ready to move forward from my biggest life changer. I give Allison a ton of credit for carefully orchestrating her words to entice, then trap me. It was her line about the bookstore having four resident cats that sealed the deal. I was slow to start the book tour and after it concludes next week, there’s no telling whether I’ll ever go out on the road again or write another word. My future is ambiguous and bares no direction other than what’s under my covers in this dark room.

I’ve barely managed to proceed through life’s normal morning activities like showering and dressing for the day. I still can’t bring myself to style my hair or put on makeup. There isn’t much point, and as long as my body odor is regularly dealt with, why should I be concerned with any other part of my appearance? Clean clothes and a new fragrance I purchased at the airport terminal are the best I can promise my fans today. These thoughts have already exhausted any energy I have to be remotely connected to the real world.

The limousine picks me up promptly from the hotel’s lobby at nine fifteen. I’m somewhat comforted by the fact I always stay at the Hilton. Part of my creative weirdness is being a creature of habit. Maybe creativity has nothing to do with being an obsessive-compulsive over my choice of hotels. I can’t sleep in other hotels like I do at a Hilton. This became a huge bone of contention with my now former husband. He was the adventurous one and loved the mom and pop bed-and-breakfast places. Any sleeping arrangements apart from my own bed must be at a Hilton, and in my vulnerable mental state, continuity and structure are vital to maintain my existence.

The driver and I ride in silence for at least a half hour from Tampa’s city center into a surrounding suburb. He pulls up in front of a strip of stores on a busy major St. Petersburg street. Haslam’s bookstore is at the end of the block and because of the vehicle congestion, the car is forced to double-park further down the block. I sit motionless in the backseat, not making any move to extricate myself from the safety of this vehicle. I have five full minutes to sit in the peace and solace of this car before the inevitable. Every hair on the back of my neck stands up when I finally catch a view of the long line that’s already formed outside the bookstore. These book signing appearances were far more interesting and welcoming in my former life, before it permanently changed. I no longer wish to meet and greet the fans of my literary works because not much currently holds value for me.

Surveying the crowd, I observe them diligently watching and chatting with each other as they stand proudly in line, displaying their freshly purchased copy of my most recent book. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I sincerely wish each and every one of my fans enjoyment reading my latest installment because there’s no guarantee I’ll ever be right again to…well, to write. If this was their dream for a personally autographed book, this is probably their last chance. Although I’m only forty-two, retirement isn’t a financial stretch. I’ve written enough books and the royalties are more than I could possibly hope for. The latest retirement encouragement came right before my retreat into solitary as my team successfully negotiated the sale of the movie rights for the first two books of this young adult fantasy fiction series. Working closely with my business people, I know a lifetime of sitting and doing absolutely nothing is an imminent and much wanted part of my future.

The two-hour book signing was emotionally torturous. I love my fans. They cannot display any more support than my closest circle of friends. The problem with being a public figure is that your own life is a constant open book. That being, the fans make comments and well wishes which make me relive thoughts of my life I’ve been struggling to put behind me. I smile superficially at them, void of feeling, wishing the bookstore staff would rush them through the line as fast as possible. I don’t want their pity. I will survive my personal turmoil; maybe not today and perhaps not tomorrow, but someday…hopefully.

After the mundane book signing is finally over, I’m being ushered back into the awaiting car. I welcome the isolation of the backseat. Nobody’s here to offer words I don’t want to hear or accept. Nor am I expected to smile or return a polite thank you that’s totally insincere. I want to go home. I’m in dire need to be back to my safe harbor in Manhattan where my four walls are familiar with my pain and need for silence. This book signing tour is an unnecessary stop on my cut-too-short life. I could do other things with my life, like pining for the past, for example.

However, the driver is showing off his southern hospitality in an effort to raise my spirits. He compliments how many hundreds of people I’ve drawn to the area. He’s also remarking how his own daughters are huge fans of my books. The statement passes through one ear and right out the other. I stare mindlessly out the window. I just want him to bring me to my final obligation of the day to get it over with. The sooner I begin this venture, the sooner I can crawl back into my innocuous cocoon in the hotel room.

The city streets pass me by in a big blur. I try to take in the scenery, but my brain won’t process any information. I’m becoming more concerned with the next segment of my day. Allison arranged for me to be a guest judge on a local cooking show. It sounded like a perfect distraction when she approached me six weeks ago. But, forty-two days ago, public flogging would’ve sounded like an interesting idea to participate in. Allison’s an integral and positive force in my life. There wasn’t much counter energy I could muster to fight her well-intended ideas.

The driver is babbling about how unfortunate it is to be in the current weather pattern Tampa is currently experiencing. The past four days have been filled with several sporadic, torrential downpours throughout the day. He also mentions that the mosquito population would be unbearable this summer. I eagerly try to block out his nonsense conversation. In my own defense, I’ll be in another city twenty-four hours from right now.

Excuse me, where are we going? I question.

You’re about to meet our local Cajun Queen, Lenore Chester! he announces proudly. You’re in for quite a treat.

Oh, I mumble, not registering her name from memory.

She’s a true blue southern belle, ma’am, the driver comments proudly. She’s a Cajun gal who cooks her own mama’s recipes that she learned from her mama.

I see, I reply, trying to sound polite.

Food doesn’t interest me much these days. I’m going to make Allison repay this favor ten-fold when I get back home.

Mrs. Chester is the real deal! She’s the darling of Tampa/St. Pete! he continues.

The driver pulls into a large parking lot that has two substantial office buildings located towards the back of the property. There are several palm trees surrounding the perimeter of the lot, attesting to the tropical climate. Without the plush vegetation the area appears terribly businesslike. Imagining a cooking competition being filmed here and a need for tasting judges is difficult for me to grasp. Practically every space in the lot is filled, mostly with white pickup trucks with darkened windows. How many people could possibly be involved with a food show? There’s a lot of movement happening around both buildings. Several people are actively unloading boxes, crates, cameras and light equipment from various trucks parked along the curb right outside the main doors.

I sit restlessly in the car while the driver enters one of the buildings to inquire where I need to be. Thankfully the driver has enough sense to leave the car running with the air conditioner on full blast. I can feel the warmth of the sun blazing straight through the dark tint of the windows. It would be a hardship for me to live in the South. How can people stand to be outside in this heat? And to see so many people wearing jeans in this miserable weather completing manual labor is appalling and inhumane to me.

The backdoor of the limo finally swings open and startles me from my labor-driven thoughts. Ms. Ellison, the set you’ll be reporting to is inside those doors. They’re waiting for you in hair and makeup. He gracefully points in the general direction.

Thank you, I respond without much effort.

I feel bad that there’s not one ounce of motivation in me to ask the driver something basic like his own name.

I’ll pick you up promptly at 8:00 p.m.

Eight o’clock! That’s seven hours from now, I sputter as my mind tries to concoct a last-minute excuse to back out. Why on earth would it take seven hours to shoot an hour episode? I’m just supposed to taste food and tell people what I think!

I don’t know, ma’am. The driver offers his hand helping me out of the car.

I grab it more firmly than I intend. What was Allison thinking, booking me for a food show? I wasn’t sure if I was angrier at her for arranging such an event, or at myself for accepting the proposal. I’ll need to pay closer attention to my publicity calendar from now on.

As I step through the front doors of the lobby I encounter two people carrying clipboards and fitted with earpieces greeting me by name. They’re way too upbeat for my surly mood, but I’m immediately being squired from the lobby and down a long and bright hallway with several clearly labeled doors. The shorter of the assistants, a young girl, is jabbering on about how she’s my biggest fan. I truly wish that I received a quarter for every time I heard this expression; an early retirement would be a no-brainer.

There are two younger-looking men walking down the hallway from the opposite direction. The taller, dark-haired gentleman is blatantly checking me out from head to toe until our paths actually intersect. He gives me a fast wink as he shoves his hand into mine for a swift shake. No wonder he works on a food series. He ogles me as if I’m a piece of raw meat and he’s one very hungry dog.

I realize I’m the outsider on this set so I can only think to be polite. I’m in the heart of the South and wonder if this is the accepted behavior from the men. The creepy feeling is incredibly unsettling and I’ll be mindful to count down the minutes until I’m excused from this set.

Nice to meet you, I say without inflecting my voice. His semi-arrogant smile comes across as too egotistical for me to even want to know his name. I simply don’t care from the get-go. I keep in mind this is a temporary situation and I’ll make sure to spend the next several hours avoiding this undignified piece of scum.

The pleasure is mine. He makes another attempt to wink with his pompous light-colored eyes.

His actions irritate me and I squeeze his hand harder than what’s customary, but want to send the message that I’m not weak or subservient. We hesitate awkwardly in the hall for another partial moment. He makes no effort to be subtle as he performs a personal body scan on me with his dog-drooling eyes. I want to tell him off in a very abrupt New York way, involving several words of profanity strung together in an intellectual manner. As I’m assessing his redneck appearance, I decide he’s not worth the effort to organize a verbal assault. I keep walking with the female assistant who’s still insisting she’s my biggest fan.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

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Blakely

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The bastard of a phone rings again loudly, echoing throughout the dark hotel room. It’s like a really bad déjà vu. I curse a few times, intentionally neglecting to roll over to pick up the receiver to quiet the annoying sound. It feels as though I’ve just crawled into bed. How could five hours pass by so quickly? My body feels as though it hasn’t slept more than twenty minutes. I need at least nine more hours huddled under this blanket, minimum, in order to function.

Ms. Ellison, this is your 7:00 a.m. wake-up call, the gentle, southern male voice drawls on the other end of the phone.

I’m grateful that my request for a personal wake-up call has been honored as I detest the automated ones.

Whatever. I exhale and drop the receiver back onto the cradle. It doesn’t quite make it again and I leave it where it’s fallen. I reposition back onto my side and shut my eyes.

Please, just five more minutes.

I’m peaceful and utterly comfortable here under the bedding with the air conditioner fully cranked. Shards of yesterday’s cooking shoot creep into my thoughts. A violent thunderstorm passed directly over the Cajun Queen’s set location, temporarily knocking out the power. When it was restored, there were several issues trying to get the technical equipment working which caused me to wait for endless hours after the judging panel tasted Walter Gibbons’ World Famous Gumbo, almost as if he were putting a hex on Lenore with Mother Nature’s blessing.

When 8:00 p.m. came and went on the sound stage, multiple staff bustled around as if it were early morning yet without any signs of being close to finished for the evening. I sat in a corner and pouted with the best attitude I could affix to my face. I had to fight the lump that formed inside my throat when the production staff informed me that I had to stay at least another hour and a half. Since when did a celebrity tasting judge’s appearance become like a sequestered jury?

Not only did I feel captive by this cable appearance, but I was strictly told to wear the same clothes from yesterday. It’s the second time in two days I’m thankful about my decision to purchase perfume for this trip. This was the only attempt I’ve made to wear perfume and makeup in more than half a year. Now I’m being forced to take a step out of my retreat from society by having to sit in day-old clothing. Unlike yesterday, I won’t count the hours before the highly anticipated return to hibernation, which almost caused me to have my first meltdown in five weeks. Unfortunately, because of yesterday’s weather catastrophe, the judging scenes for Walter’s gumbo must be reshot. I struggle to remember anything, regretting not taking notes like the other diligent judges.

But here I sit at