Cajun Assholery: Part Deux

June 13, 2013

This past weekend, I cooked for other human beings. Eighteen of them. Cooking for any human being is a pain in the ass, but 18? That’s badvoodoojojo right there.

In my defense: the dinner was for charity. A charity devoted to providing legal, medical, and psychiatric services to kids who’ve been abused in unthinkable ways. Kids who live in my town and pump legs upanddownupanddown on the swings at the park and eat lunches at the same tables as the Minx-pack. What kind of person says no to something like that?

Someone with a lick of sense and who isn’t a complete __________*insert perjorative term of choice*, that’s who.

At first blush, the job didn’t sound that daunting. Not really.

A couple of charlatan whores nice ladies asked me out for coffee one morning in April, told me gut-wrenching stories about the children who receive their services, and asked me to cook dinner for 8-10 people on June 8th.

The charlatan whores nice ladies had me at “abused children,” but I hedged, because I am lazy and heartless and do not own a formal dining table.

“That’s okay!!” they chirped. “We know a few lovely people who own large homes. We’re sure we can ruthlessly bully find someone delighted to host.”

“Well…what kind of dinner is it?” I said, dragging heels. “I really don’t do formal. Formal and I don’t get along.”

“HahaNo! It’s a theme dinner, and of course it needn’t (needn’t? do people still say that word?) be formal and truly, it’s not that much work. The cocktails and appetizers are at a different venue, and then the guests come for dinner, and then they leave and go to another house for dessert!  Dinner is the only thing you’re responsible for,” said the you-know-what’s nice ladies.

So I said, “okay.”

“Splendid!” they said. We agreed on a New Orleans theme.

“We’ll be in touch,” they said. And then they clucked out on their charlatan whore little feet. And then I didn’t hear anything from them for the entire month of April. Or May.

However, I did receive a very helpful pamphlet containing “sample menus” from previous charity dinners:

  • The Best of Bistro: A touch of France highlighting duck confit and scallop St. Jacques created by Chef Bob Samson. CIA graduate.
  • Perfectly Parisian: Chef Matthew Jansen (Mateo and Radda restaurant chef) prepares salad verte, boef bourguignon and salmon grille.
  • French Quarter: Enjoy a feast of luscious oyster-artichoke soup, seared sea bass and shrimp with remoulade.
  • Maine Coast Feast: Share in a feast of fresh-caught Maine lobster with all the proper accompaniments.


But it’s just dinner, caterpillars!  We can start with gumbo, sidle up to jambalaya, mix up a fancy salad, pass some cornbread and call it a deal. Not fancy, not formal, but not outright shameful.


Timeline of Impending Fuckery:

May 29 (day before school gets out/we leave for Mexico): The woman who was bullied into offered her home to host emails me. “Did they give you a final head count?”  Me: “No. I’ve sent emails with no response back, but they said 8-10 people.” Bullied woman: “That’s odd…hasn’t anybody called you? Because I have a head count of 18.” *crickets* Me: *still crickets, but them crickets are shitting.* BW: “I know. It’s crazy. I have extra seating available and someone offered me extra flatware so I think we have enough dishes, but…”

Immediately fire off an email to charlatan whores nice ladies to ask what the Hell is going on.

May 30-June 1: Out with the family on typically weirdo Mexican vacation. Send more emails. Get no response. Send a tequila-fueled rant, threatening to “quit, Goddammit.”  Get a very prompt response and confirmation that head count is…they think?…18. But isn’t it wonderful that we got such tremendous support?

June 2-3: Actually speak to a human being. Guest list confirmed at 18. Ignore vacation laundry and children. Re-calculate recipes in triplicate form, make out massive ingredient/prep lists. Long grocery visit.

June 5: “Hi, this is ______, and I really think we need to move dinner to an earlier time. Nobody attending our dinner is going to the cocktail/appetizer reception, so I think an 8:00pm start is too late, don’t you? Lots of us have small kids.”

June 5 (1 minute later): Suddenly hit with the stark realization that now I am in charge of appetizers and cocktails for 18.

June 5 (3 minutes later): Pull impromptu appetizer menu out of ass. Phone local seafood shop. Ask beg if they can have 4 dozen fresh oysters, shucked and ready, for appetizers in 3 day’s time. Affirmed. Cry in relief.

June 6: “Hi, this is __________. I just wanted to let you know that ______ will be attending your dinner. He is one of the major contributers to the charity and is a very important person to us. He is attending the cocktail function and will arrive around 8:00pm. You’ll love him!”

June 6: Dinner moved back to 8pm; appetizers cancelled.

June 6: Make gumbo stock for 18. Hours later, I have two huge cauldrons of bubbling stuff on my stove and Miss M. keeps peering into the kitchen, eyeing the pots with abject suspicion. Clearly, she thinks I’ve turned into that swamp witch from Scooby Doo. The one with the zombie sidekick. Am I dating myself, here?

June 6: Consider canceling oyster order but reconsider. Oysters are sexy. Oysters are always good. Call local fish shop to confirm. Get answering machine. Leave message.

June 7: Receive word that other partygoers are violently pissed off re: Mr. Importante and the late dinner start. Commit to coming early and serving oysters for early guests. Call oyster shop to confirm. Get answering machine.

June 7: Remove gumbo stock for 18 and make roux. Pull it all together, bubblebubbletaste…10-hour stock tastes…meh. Frantically do voodoo dance to remedy the situation.

June 7: (7:00 pm) “Hi, this is ______. I heard that some people were upset about the late start time for your dinner, so we’ve re-located our VIP to another venue so it’s not a problem for you.”

June 7: (7:01 pm)  Stark realization that I am now again in charge of appetizers and cocktails.

June 8: Day of the party: *to be continued*


{ 27 comments… read them below or add one }

elizabeth June 13, 2013 at 11:35 am

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me? ::swearjar::

It appears that these women need a little refresher on what the word “trouble” actually means:


TKW June 13, 2013 at 6:46 pm


Email me soon, okay? Miss you.


Killian June 13, 2013 at 11:38 am

OK, let me reiterate, in case my previous commentary on your site hasn’t been clear enough, that I have the utmost respect for you and your talents.

So allow me to be blunt here…

Have you lost your *swear jar*ing mind? While I am decidedly against abusing children (well, most of them…most of the time…), this is way beyond the boundaries of acceptable.

I’m surprised the CWs are still breathing. Then again, maybe that’s the key to fixing the flavor of your gumbo stock — the blood of complete dumbasses. It adds a piquant tang, but finishes with a hint of bitterness.


TKW June 13, 2013 at 5:00 pm


The key to the gumbo stock is the boiled bones of (CW) nice ladies.


Jennifer June 13, 2013 at 11:45 am

I just realized today that you had somehow been deleted from my reader. I’m not sure what the hell was up with that.

You are a patient and kind woman and did not deserve any of this. You are also a pushover. ;) But I love you anyway.


TKW June 13, 2013 at 5:07 pm


All sorts of fuckery is going on with my reader–I have no idea??


Arnebya June 14, 2013 at 6:54 am

It is The Google getting ready to say fuck all y’all next month.


Phoo-d June 13, 2013 at 11:54 am

At least if you are in charge of cocktails you could just get everyone adequately loaded and the food wouldn’t matter so much??? Somehow I imagine it didn’t go down that way…waiting with sense of dread for the remaining episodes! Such a huge difference between 8-10 and 18 people. Oh the pain.


TKW June 13, 2013 at 6:59 pm


8 vs. 18 is seven kinds of owl shit.

I took a walk around the lake and the mean geese AND the cows were out. It made me think of you when you visited–burrata, bread and Darth Vader with a binky anyone?–and then I didn’t learn and tormented another friend (ck, yo) with the same bad crew+ aggressive gophers. Hmm…wonder why nobody signs up to stay at my house after the first visit?
But you know you love us, binkies and juiced gophers and all.


Nicki June 13, 2013 at 2:49 pm

Oh. my. Freakin’. God! I am pretty sure those nice ladies would be dead if they were dealing with me.


TKW June 13, 2013 at 5:08 pm


Nice ladies are gumbo stock.


SuziCate June 13, 2013 at 4:51 pm

You poor thing…I’d be so unbelievably stressed out…and I’d never EVER agree to do anything for those charlatans again! I used to get suckered into that kind of shit all the time…luckily I learned to say NO and then my kids grew up and nobody asked me anymore…see their is a silver lining!


Katybeth June 13, 2013 at 4:58 pm

Ok, I would have been done when my phone calls/emails were not returned. I just don’t play that game anymore. And here is what I’m betting those “ladies” don’t “do” they “delegate” so they really don’t think it’s a big deal when they change the head count from 8-18….and then the passive aggressiveness kicks in when you hear the tone….we have to be flexible to raise the most money it’s for the abused children, you know….


TKW June 13, 2013 at 5:11 pm


They don’t cook often, either. Which is why a head count that shifts from 8-18 is no biggie, dude?!


TKW's Dad June 13, 2013 at 5:21 pm

TKW never could say no. Her compassion for everybody else always gets in the way of what is known as – common sense. I always admire and love her, but just go around shaking my head and saying “not again!”??? Good Lord!


TKW June 13, 2013 at 6:33 pm

Daddy-o, whaddawhat are you doing? Go piss up a rope! I am black-hearted and mean and don’t tell anyone otherwise because if people believe what you said, I’m gonna have to volunteer for more crappy stuff. Repeat after me: Dana. Is. Mean.

Toe the line, man, or else I will confiscate your sauerkraut juice and your morning V-8 cocktail will never be the same.

That’s daughter mafia talkin’, right? Damn, I love you.


Jamie June 13, 2013 at 8:17 pm

What the TITS BALLS AND SCROTUM is wrong with these event planners?!?! I can’t even. What a nightmare!


Arnebya June 14, 2013 at 6:56 am

*pops some corn, waits for parte de tres* (I don’t speak Spanish).


Lyndsey@TheTinySkillet June 14, 2013 at 11:48 am

I can’t even imagine putting up with that (CW) shit. The red flags were flying when the emails stopped….but then you are so nice ;) what’s the problem?…right?


Contemporary Troubadour June 14, 2013 at 11:51 am

Holy f-ing étouffée … THAT is assholery on a completely different level from bad teenage summer jobs. Oh. My. God.

I say you were totally not responsible for those cocktails and appetizers. THEY cancelled that portion of it. THEY elected not to have that element of the progressive meal. CWs indeed …


Rob June 14, 2013 at 2:28 pm

Really, you are amazing. And right after vacation.

I might have considered adding way too much cayenne to the dinners of said “nice whores” (see what I did there). I don’t know who put those looney-tunes in charge of this event, but clearly they have ZERO leadership or organizational skills! Good for you for not leaving them flat on their backs (hehehe). I do have to give them credit for picking you as their chef!

I can’t wait for part 3!


Lisa @ The Meaning of Me June 14, 2013 at 2:41 pm

That is assholery of the highest degree. Unbelievable. You can’t make up crap that ridiculous. It’s unfortunate, really, because when good-hearted people like you feel compelled to say yes to requests like these, it is truly because it feels like the right thing – and is. But when this kind shit goes down, it makes those good-hearted people think twice next time and say “you know what? no way.” But justifiably, perhaps, because there really is a limit to how much you can take advantage of someone, even in the name of a good cause.


Lisa @ The Meaning of Me June 14, 2013 at 2:42 pm

Still getting that spambot captcha thing…


Alison June 15, 2013 at 5:18 am

Goddamn charlatan whores. How dare they abuse you so (use of word is deliberate). If it was me, and not having heard back for 6 weeks, I would have told them where to shove it. You’re too nice, lady!


Rudri Bhatt Patel @ Being Rudri June 17, 2013 at 10:50 am

Has the whole world forgot about social etiquette? People are so self-involved.
Ugh, Kitch! I can’t believe this…


Tiffany June 20, 2013 at 6:38 pm

Black heart my ass!!! Only a total sweetie would agree to this craziness!!!


Naptimewriting June 24, 2013 at 11:23 pm

Your readers have already expressed much better than I ever could the shock and horror at such asshattery.

They’ve also contributed the cuss word “SWEARJAR” to my lexicon, and I only hope I can use it appropriately.

(I read part three first, and this asshattery seems mild in comparison. Jayzus. Knighthod and beatification all coming your way.)


Leave a Comment

Previous post:

Next post: