The Time I Stole Eggs from Bobby Flay

Last weekend was a particularly busy week for Jon due to his company's semi-annual convention. Being the awesome spouse-like person that I am, I tagged along to get in the way and distract him from his duties as much as possible.

What I enjoy most about going to his conferences is the nice dinners that we are occasionally invited to. This time, we were invited to a place that served bone-in Filet Mignon. It was awesome. Afterwards, we went back to the hotel bar for a drink.

Just one...

Well, of course, I was dressed beautifully and made my man proud to sit with me while we were at dinner. The bar, however, always seems like a different story. Things usually end up going South fast when we drink with Jon's coworkers. Why? Because we can never get away with just one drink, and I can't hold my liquor.

Enter the Lemon Drop Martini.

I always imagine myself looking all glamorous and sophisticated as I sip my martinis, all dressed up in my fancy pants. (whoops, just typed panties...must still be fighting that hangover). In my mind, I look totally rad like this:


 However, I probably look a little more like this:



Squee!!!!!!

After two nights of closing down the hotel bar and enough lemon drops in my system to...well...piss a lot of lemonade, my nights got a little bizarre. While Jon was holding his liquor and snoozing next to me, I was overcome with the most realistically odd dream imaginable.

It all started out normal enough: I was in my kitchen cooking...

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...this recipe that was going to be a masterpiece. After looking through the cookbook, I casually walked over to the fridge to get a few ingredients. To my horror, I had no milk, eggs, or butter. I start having a panic attack and dash around the apartment as if the place is burning down. Alas, there is none of these products any where! I glance over to my skillet and the concoction is boiling! Boiling without the necessary staple ingredients! It will be ruined!

I dash out my door, across the landing, up the stairs, and start banging on my neighbor's door. My neighbor ends up being this lady who interviewed me for a job over a year ago (in real life). Not at all phased about why this Ph.D. is living in the same ghetto hovel as me, I begin begging her for all the ingredients I need. She made it very clear (in real life and in my dream) that she didn't really like me. Then, she proceeds to berate me, deny me all said perishables, and slam the door in my face. I weep.

*Weep, weep.*

Then, I just happen to notice a really nice set of stairs leading up to a penthouse suite. "When did my apartment get a penthouse suite?" I think to myself. I am slightly awed and scared at the same time. The steps are so clean and brilliant white.

(Was this a metaphor for heaven? Not sure.)

I felt compelled to climb these stairs in my desperate search for perishables. I slowly crawl on my hands and knees up the flight of stairs to the penthouse. I get to the front door, but I can't bring myself to knock. Then I notice the door is imperceptibly ajar... 

I give the door a tiny push and see a beautiful apartment loft filled with all kinds of luxury furnishings. The floor is gleaming marble. Panoramic windows flood the room with brilliant sunlight. Then, in the distance, I notice a man watching TV on a white couch. His back is to me, but I know who he is ...



Iron Chef Bobby Flay

"Holy Fish-sticks!" I think to myself. "I live two floors below freakin' BOBBY FLAY!" I admire his gleaming, white chef outfit from the floor where I am still hunkered like a scared mouse. He does not notice my presence. I can't bring myself to knock on the door and ask Bobby Flay for the things I need. I feel very small and ashamed...like I'm in a place I don't belong.

I think to myself, "If I ask Bobby Flay to borrow eggs, milk, and butter, he will think I am the most inept cook ever! What will he think of me not having these staples in the house!? STAPLES I TELL YOU!! He will be totally disgusted with me and will refuse to grill in my presence." I feel tears coming to my eyes.

*An idea forms in my brain...the room darkens...a chill fills the air...*

I must steal from Bobby Flay.

My logic is this: If he never knows I took these things, there is still a chance that we can still be best friends.

I see it all playing out in my head like this:

Perhaps we run into each other on the staircase and I can be all casual like, "Oh hey, aren't you that Bobby Flay guy?"

And he would be like "Oh yea, I am. Are you a fan of Iron Chef America?"

Then, I would be all nonchalant like "Oh, well, I watch it every now and then..."

And he would be like, "Well that's cool. Maybe we could grill together sometime."

And then I would be like, "Sounds like it might be fun. I'll bring an apron."

Then, when he turns to head up to his apartment, I squee like a teenage girl.

Time to get serious: I must preserve the future BFF-ness potential of me and Bobby Flay.

I notice a gourmet kitchen staged to the left of the front entry. The only problem is that the kitchen is in direct line of the living area where Bobby Flay is watching TV. Any false move and I would be discovered.

I scamper on my hands and knees across the cold floor in a bold dash to the kitchen.

*Scamper, Scamper*

I dive behind the kitchen's center island as if I am stealing homeplate just before Bobby Flay turns his head away from the television. He must of heard me. I chastise myself. I must be quieter. He returns to watching his program.

I stealthily tip-toe my way to his refrigerator and open the door.



Bobby Flay owns a Stainless Steel Frigidaire Gallery 25.8 Cu. Ft.
 French Door Refrigerator with Thru-the-Door Ice and Water.



I carefully collect the eggs and milk. I peer around the door. He is still tuned into the TV...

Quietly, I close the refrigerator and start my escape when I realize I have forgotten the butter. I break out into a sweat. I glance over my shoulder towards the TV...the coast is clear. I reopen the fridge door and notice the butter is all the way in the back on the top shelf. I MUST get the butter. I move the eggs and milk to one arm and stand on my tip toes to reach for the butter. Just then, the egg carton opens and a couple eggs go tumbling towards the ground.

*Splat, Splat*

The jig is up. I see Bobby Flay rise from the couch all slow-motion style like a giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk".  He starts coming right at me. I snatch the butter from the shelf and make a dash for the front door. Screaming like a mad woman, I run all the way down the stairs, across the landing, and back to my apartment.

I slam my door and lock it behind me. Bobby Flay is coming for me and he is not happy. I dump all the stolen perishables into a pot. All evidence must be destroyed. I try to whip up an omelet. Perhaps if I invite him in for an omelet, he will forget how angry he is about me stealing his food. Everyone likes an omelet, right? RIGHT!?!

*There is a knocking at my door*

I startle.

I look around panicked!

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It's the hotel maid...

Jon looks over at me. He says I look frazzled. "What's wrong?" he asks...