Runs up to your house, cracks three eggs into a bowl, whisks them with a fork (Jacques always uses a fork), neatly places the bowl on your doorstep, rings the doorbell. As you open the door, he throws chives, parsley, tarragon and a hint of chevril at your face. He scampers off into the night shout-whispering “Oh mon ami! Mon ami!”
Carefully breaks into your house, sneaks into your bedroom, hangs sausage links around your canopy bed frame, fires up a hot plate, and starts making an eight-ingredient omelet. Each time he adds a new ingredient he whispers “Bam” a little louder, eventually waking you with one loud “Bam!” Once you’re awake, he jumps out the window, leaving everything behind. Your bedroom has never smelled so good. You crack a wry smile and lie there ensconced in olfactory bliss, ready to take on the first day of the rest of your life.
Tunnels his way underground from his home to yours. While directly below your home he decides to improvise and poach your house instead of egg it. After spending months building a gigantic whirlpool water cauldron below your home, he recruits Wylie Dufresne to place C4 charges that look like donuts around the foundation. Once you click your bedside light off and fall asleep, he fires them off, sending you and your two-story home into Alton’s Whirlpool Water Cauldron™. It’s filled with a boatload of kosher salt and super-premium white vinegar. You swirl around for five minutes until a timer goes off. You and your house don’t even come close to being poached. Alton and Wylie storm off, very upset, very unsuccessful, and very broke.
Shows up at your house on the night of a supermoon. Rachael doesn’t throw eggs but instead soaks your dog in E-V-O-O while shouting “DELISH!” at the top of her lungs. When the outdoor sensor light goes on, she cowers and runs off down the street, dumping E-V-O-O on her own head, shouting “YUM-O!!” at the top of her lungs. Your neighbors call the cops.
Approaches your house with one arm cocked ready to launch cage-free, farm-fresh, organic eggs, but stops when something catches his eye. It’s the shoddy craftsmanship and lackluster paint job on your bay window shutters. Robert rings your doorbell, wakes you up, and demands to know who did the bulk of the exterior work on your home. You tell him “I think it was McCarthy & Sons Home Improvement but I’m not 100% sure.” He asks you to accompany him to McCarthy & Sons Home Improvement, located 10 miles from your home. You go and sheepishly stare at your feet while Robert berates every worker he meets, citing problematic layouts, passé paint swatches, disrespectful molding, and basic carpentry mishaps as their litany of failings. You feel like a child in trouble for something you didn’t do. Robert leaves without you. You sigh deeply and question your life’s path on your way back home.
Julia Child’s Ghost (& Company)
Amy Adams, Meryl Streep, Nora Ephron’s ghost, and Julia Child’s ghost ring your doorbell in the middle of the night. You wake up, open the door, discreetly read the situation, and ever-so politely ask them if they’d like to come in. Once they’re inside you bolt to the pantry where you keep your emergency Ghostbusters lever. You pull it and breathe a deep sigh of relief, thinking you’ve just alerted the correct enforcement group designed to deal with celebrity ghost vandals exactly like this. However, it didn’t work — Ephron and Child were on to you before you knew it and dismantled the Ghosbusters lever while you were sleeping. Ephron and Child then proceed to tie you to a kitchen chair and place multiple colanders on your head. They hover with folded arms while Adams and Streep take turns cracking eggs on the colanders. But since there are multiple colanders on your head, the eggs don’t really go through them and instead end up sliding all over your shoulders, and down the back of your shirt, and getting in and around your shoes and maybe even a little inside your socks. Julia quietly repeats the phrase “If you’re afraid of butter, use cream” over and over and over again in a polite but ghoulish tone. It’s fucking maddening and you wish you were dead. This continues until daybreak.
Heads to the store and attempts to buy eggs but can’t. Guy hates eggs. Instead, he wheels his Steamin’ Pork Scooter BBQ Canon™ over to your yard and fires it at your house. Once your windows are doused with Guy’s Rootin’ Tootin’ Kansas City Blurbin’ Bourbon BBQ Sauce™ he plants a sign in your yard that says: THIS IS FLAVORTOWN. POPULATION: ME. You don’t hate the sign and decide to leave it up.