Some days I wish I was someone else. Like that hot, irritatingly-skinny chef that runs this hip bistro in the suburbs and who whips up gastronomical storms that would melt a man’s heart.
Me — I wear old food-stained aprons, and can only cook a few boring, pronounceable dishes. I have only baked two kinds of cakes in my lifetime and, even then, not very spectacularly.
Alas! I can only be me. After all, everyone else is taken. Like that chef….