grateful for the job. In the interview I told him I had thought about Mormonism and I was “looking for answers.” I put it exactly that way so he would hire me, thinking he could convert me.
I like to believe that my culinary skills helped in the hiring decision. I was self-taught. My BiMo was not so much a bad cook as an inconsistent one. I had to read labels carefully whenever she was too lethargic to do so. In her last two years she became increasingly careless about avoiding eggs and shellfish. One time I checked the label of a new protein powder. One of the ingredients was apovitellin. I had not heard of that substance before and I told her to wait until I checked it out. Apovitellin, the Web site said, was derived from the low-density lipoprotein of eggs and could cause even worse reactions in allergic individuals than the egg itself. It could have killed her. She gave the tub of protein to her then-boyfriend and thanked me for being so conscientious. I was eleven, by the way. In her last year, I did most of the cooking for us, at least when she was at home. By doing this, I saved her life. Or, rather, I prolonged it a bit.
I said I wasn’t going to mention my BiMo any more and I meant it.
For weeks, Mr. Ferguson had been giving me pamphlets about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. At the end of every shift he would ask whether I had any questions. I said I had read them, which was a lie, and that everything was clear, which was also a lie. This led Mr. Ferguson to keep badgering me to ask questions.
After a few weeks, my questions turned silly. Do astronomical associations have any qualms about each faithful member of the church having his own planet? If the Garden of Eden were really in Missouri, would St. Louis be a holier place than Boston? If Satan was Jesus’ brother, is the main conflict in the world sibling rivalry? He valiantly struggled to answer, treating each question as if it were the key to unlocking my appreciation of his religion.
Mr. Ferguson asked at beginning of every shift if I had made any “progress” at school. Progress to him meant leads for new customers. I told him I had not, and that it was a new school, and it had only been in session for a few days. “A bright young man like you should have no trouble making friends,” he said.
It was flattering that he thought I could pull in business. But it bothered me that he expected me to do his youth outreach for free. After a few days of pestering me about bringing in new business, I told him there were two students who wanted an engagement party. He lit up like a kid in front of a bottle rocket.
“There won’t be any tobacco. Jenny quit smoking because Amber hated the taste of nicotine when they kissed.”
Mr. Ferguson looked like he accidentally swallowed a marble. “Those are girls’ names.”
“Right. There won’t be any alcohol or caffeine. Wicca ceremonies usually have punch and cake.” I started to enjoy this ruse.
He squinted as if trying to see something in the distance. He said he would think about it. For the rest of the shift, I worried he might be desperate enough to accept these fake clients. Maybe Wiccan lesbians were more acceptable than caffeine. What did I know? As it turned out, either Wicca ceremonies or lesbianism was a bridge too far. When I clocked out, he thanked me for my efforts. He sent me off with some more LDS reading materials and an extra weekend shift.
I disliked organized religion because of my BiMo. She hated it because her biological mother had basically disowned her for not accepting Jesus Christ as her savior. I hadn’t heard from my grandmother since my BiMo’s death. She was sure it happened because the Lord was angry. And she was sure that I was tainted for having been raised for thirteen years by a heathen. Whatever.
On the bus ride back to Carl and Janet’s, I made a chart of the costs and benefits of keeping the catering job versus finding a new one. A man wearing a t-shirt
I like to believe that my culinary skills helped in the hiring decision. I was self-taught. My BiMo was not so much a bad cook as an inconsistent one. I had to read labels carefully whenever she was too lethargic to do so. In her last two years she became increasingly careless about avoiding eggs and shellfish. One time I checked the label of a new protein powder. One of the ingredients was apovitellin. I had not heard of that substance before and I told her to wait until I checked it out. Apovitellin, the Web site said, was derived from the low-density lipoprotein of eggs and could cause even worse reactions in allergic individuals than the egg itself. It could have killed her. She gave the tub of protein to her then-boyfriend and thanked me for being so conscientious. I was eleven, by the way. In her last year, I did most of the cooking for us, at least when she was at home. By doing this, I saved her life. Or, rather, I prolonged it a bit.
I said I wasn’t going to mention my BiMo any more and I meant it.
For weeks, Mr. Ferguson had been giving me pamphlets about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. At the end of every shift he would ask whether I had any questions. I said I had read them, which was a lie, and that everything was clear, which was also a lie. This led Mr. Ferguson to keep badgering me to ask questions.
After a few weeks, my questions turned silly. Do astronomical associations have any qualms about each faithful member of the church having his own planet? If the Garden of Eden were really in Missouri, would St. Louis be a holier place than Boston? If Satan was Jesus’ brother, is the main conflict in the world sibling rivalry? He valiantly struggled to answer, treating each question as if it were the key to unlocking my appreciation of his religion.
Mr. Ferguson asked at beginning of every shift if I had made any “progress” at school. Progress to him meant leads for new customers. I told him I had not, and that it was a new school, and it had only been in session for a few days. “A bright young man like you should have no trouble making friends,” he said.
It was flattering that he thought I could pull in business. But it bothered me that he expected me to do his youth outreach for free. After a few days of pestering me about bringing in new business, I told him there were two students who wanted an engagement party. He lit up like a kid in front of a bottle rocket.
“There won’t be any tobacco. Jenny quit smoking because Amber hated the taste of nicotine when they kissed.”
Mr. Ferguson looked like he accidentally swallowed a marble. “Those are girls’ names.”
“Right. There won’t be any alcohol or caffeine. Wicca ceremonies usually have punch and cake.” I started to enjoy this ruse.
He squinted as if trying to see something in the distance. He said he would think about it. For the rest of the shift, I worried he might be desperate enough to accept these fake clients. Maybe Wiccan lesbians were more acceptable than caffeine. What did I know? As it turned out, either Wicca ceremonies or lesbianism was a bridge too far. When I clocked out, he thanked me for my efforts. He sent me off with some more LDS reading materials and an extra weekend shift.
I disliked organized religion because of my BiMo. She hated it because her biological mother had basically disowned her for not accepting Jesus Christ as her savior. I hadn’t heard from my grandmother since my BiMo’s death. She was sure it happened because the Lord was angry. And she was sure that I was tainted for having been raised for thirteen years by a heathen. Whatever.
On the bus ride back to Carl and Janet’s, I made a chart of the costs and benefits of keeping the catering job versus finding a new one. A man wearing a t-shirt
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