[Originally published April 7, 2010.]
I will cook a quiche for us in my Easy-Bake Oven. It will be delicious and romantic. You will eat my Easy-Bake Oven quiche and say it is the most amazing fucking thing you have ever put in your mouth. We will eat at a tiny little table like the ones in pediatricians’ offices and we will set the mood with little, tiny fucking birthday candles that will probably melt before we finish eating.
I will first put some pie crust and some whipped eggs into that tiny little Easy-Bake Oven tin pan and then I will add a little onion, mushroom, some parsley, salt and pepper to taste. I will put that tiny tin pan in the oven and we will wait for the Easy-Bake Oven light bulb to heat that fucking quiche up. It will take a very long time because it is just a 100-watt bulb. You might start to become irritated because you will be hungry but you won’t mind because I will look cute standing over my tiny Easy-Bake Oven with my fucking miniature utensils.
While we wait for that light bulb to work its magic, we will drink some boxed wine from sippy cups. I will mention that there is a National Toy Hall of Fame and that the Easy-Bake Oven is a member, and you will say, “No way, that’s so fucking cool.” We will slurp the cheap wine through the four tiny holes in the spigot of the sippy cup and we will laugh at how long it’s taking us to get drunk. The wine will taste so damn good, one tiny sip at a time and, since we are persistent motherfuckers, we will get drunk faster than we thought. We will keep uncapping the lid and filling our sippy cups with wine until the kitchen starts smelling fucking tiny and delicious, and then our Easy-Bake Oven quiche will finally be fucking ready.
Before cutting the tiny quiche in half, we will blow on it to cool it down. We will then be all sexy and shit and feed each other, and our teeth will be numb from all the wine, and we will make pouty faces as we wrap our lips around our tiny bites of Easy-Bake Oven quiche. The quiche will taste so fucking good that you will softly moan, “Damn. I fucking love tiny French cuisine,” and then you will be sad because it will all be gone. You will try to make a profound connection between Paris, the “City of Lights” and our dinner being cooked by a fucking light bulb. Then we will sit there silently, trying to figure out exactly what you said because it will not have made sense.
Then, suddenly, I will start dancing around the kitchen holding my sippy cup singing a song about how beautiful life is. You will join me and together we will shout, “If You’re Happy and You Know It Clap Your Hands!” and every few seconds we will do just that, we will put our fucking hands together and CLAP, CLAP, CLAP.
Then our mothers will come in and tell us their book group is over and it is time to go home.