I don’t know if it’s Christmas approaching. Maybe not, because it’s not the first time this has happened.
All that I can tell you is, mes lecteurs bien-aimés, that I returned home the other night to hear my maid in the kitchen speaking in tongues.
This is not the usual sound that comes from the kitchen…the usual sounds are dishes breaking and cursing in a foreign language. Bucky was barking wildly. Yours truly had a fairly good idea of who was here.
So your faithful correspondent entered the kitchen, which, to be honest, is relatively unfamiliar territory to moi. And there I found Jesus making himself a cheese sandwich.
Bucky was in the corner, barking, the hair on his back up. Not a good sign. The last thing I needed was for my dog to sink his teeth into Christ’s ankle.
Ever since I said something nasty about people who thought Jesus Christ was on a grilled cheese sandwich that sold on (ugh) Ebay, Jesus started coming around every now and again, helping himself to my larder. And it’s almost inevitably aged diary products.
I drew myself up to my full height (Jesus is several inches shorter than I) and said, “What are you doing here, Jesus?”
“I was hungry,” he replied. It was a little hard to hear him with my maid on the floor ululating, so I pushed her out of the kitchen into the butler’s pantry and shut the door. I also shooed Bucky out of the kitchen. He growled but trotted away down the hall.
Of all the gall, showing up in my kitchen. Freeloaders, even if they are deities, work my last nerve, as the young people say. “You always have several kinds of cheese,” he added. “Tonight it’s sharp cheddar.” The toast popped out of the Dualit Combi toaster, and Jesus dropped it onto a Ming Dynasty plate.
“Do you have any Branston pickle?”
“No.” I sighed in annoyance. I folded my arms. “I have asked you not to barge in here any time you feel like it, Jesus.”
He turned and glared at me. Really, that crown of thorns was most unbecoming. At least this time he was wearing robes instead of only a loincloth. Not that he doesn’t have a nice body, but it is inappropriate anywhere but a swimming pool, in your faithful correspondent’s opinion.
“That’s MISTER Jesus to you,” he snapped. “Besides, didn’t I imprint my face on food for you to sell on Ebay?”
“It was scrambled eggs,” I retorted. “You know they don’t hold together.”
Jesus started rummaging through the cabinets above the stove. “You’re out of Marmite.”
“Why don’t you conjure some from an old packet of yeast, Mister Jesus?”
The maid was still speaking in tongues in the butler’s pantry. It is extremely irritating to listen to, but what can one expect when an uneducated woman encounters Christ in the kitchen? I’ve lost several maids that way.
At least he had made me some lovely built-ins for my office. He’s quite a talented carpenter.
“I don’t believe in God, Mister Holy Trinity, but if I did, I would DEFINITELY send in a complaint. I mean, who died and made you Savior?”
“Our heavenly father, you heathen.”
“Maybe he’s your father, but he certainly isn’t mine. I have a hard enough time coping with your existence–and there are many millions of Muslims who would agree with me. I’m not so sure about the Jews. I’ll have to ask Michael Kors.”
“I’m not getting into this argument with you again,” he said. “Watch it, or I’ll start playing with the space/time continuum. You’ll find yourself pretending to be eleven years old again.”
“Don’t bring my mother into this!” (cf. earlier entries)
“Thanks for the sandwich,” he said sarcastically, and disappeared.
After a few minutes,I yelled for my assistant to come and quiet the maid.
Thank goodness Jesus had left the building.
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog