We’re going out with a bang, so to speak. An upbeat bang. Nothing somber. Although, I say that an the last one isn’t written yet.
I am the princess of the Yukon gold potato. Root vegetable royalty. In the flesh. Promoter of starchy goodness be it fried, roasted, baked, boiled, or saladed. And, no, saladed is not a word any more than I want to be princess of the Yukon gold potato. But here I am, standing behind a counter while hot lights shine on me, and a smarmy director calls me “sweetheart” and “honey” without paying me a smidge of the respect my years at the culinary institute and chef at Rooted! demand, because, I am, alas, an attractive woman whom he has pigeon-holed into the slot of dumb actress paid to read lines written by other people since, obviously, a woman such as myself cannot possible have the tendril of intelligence that it takes to speak my own original thoughts. One question: would he speak to Gordon Ramsay this way?
Am I clinging to the last modicum of patience I possess? Why, yes, yes, I am. Is it noticeable? Perhaps from my clenched teeth? The wisps of steam springing my ears?
“Dear, is it too much to ask you to concentrate? You’re supposed to pretend like you know how to boil water,” the director says. “Have you ever cooked? Forget that. How about boiled water? I realize they just needed a pretty face–”
I glance over at my agent whose jaw has dropped and now he’s looking at me, shaking his head vehemently, waving his hands, desperate for me to count to ten or twenty or whatever this week’s number is 1005, undoubtedly .
For a moment, I see myself wrapping my hands around the thick neck of this self-congratulatory male chauvinist, this so-called director, choking him until his misogynistic words become guttural grunts. Instead, I take the bowl of cold white slop emulating potatoes and dump the contents over his head, discovering unending glee as white goop drips down his face making him look a lot like a cartoon chick who just hatched.
“Good luck with your future, Mr. Potato Head,” I say before leaving.
Did my reign as princess of the Yukon gold potato just end? No doubt smashed and whipped. I’m certain I am not cut out to be princess of anything other than a commercial stove with burners blazing and ovens baking.