My uncle expects me to cook. I know this because he concluded the telegram with his spirit name, Francisco IV d’Uburoi. It is not every day that one closes a summons with the title received during a starvation-induced hallucination. According to the what I have been able to glean from his former lawnsman, a stewardess, both lithe and cooperative, came to my uncle, clad only in the most lascivious of intentions. She arrived during a 5-week long fast which culminated not only in the visions which granted him the name, and therefore his passage into manhood, but also expulsion from his favorite commuter barge.

The time I spent in culinary school shall not be wasted. My theory on my uncle’s newfound desire for my wares is his receipt of a certain bill from an equally certain culinary institute in the wholly certain amount of 34,000 francs.