Jesus Would Have Burned Down Your House.
When one of the most hateful families I had ever cooked for didn't realize how incredibly horrible they actually were.
*trigger warning - there is a derogatory word used in this story.
In the summer of 2007, I was hired by a couple who ran a financial planning company out of their home. The wife was 3 months pregnant and they both worked long hours. Their company was marketed as a “Christian Financial Planning” service…whatever that actually meant. I often wondered if they prayed with their clients, heads bowed over piles of cash with hands clasped, or what Christianity had to do with financial planning in the first place. They had a side building on their property that was used as their office, although, from time to time, they would work at the kitchen table, which would sometimes unnerve me. The main house was always in some sort of flux with various home projects and unfinished remodeling jobs. The trip to their house was a 45 minute drive outside of Durham, NC; the longest drive to any of my client’s homes.
On the first visit to interview them, the wife stated that she would answer all the questions, “since this was women’s work”, as she winked at me. I shrugged off that comment wondering what exactly entitled “only women” to be able to discuss food and not men. Always trying to make any client feel at ease, I simply smiled at her.
After we finished the interview, I was about to leave when Maria, the wife, asked me what church I belonged to. I was caught off guard, but calmly I simply replied that my husband and I didn’t attend church. She exclaimed, “You should come to our church!” I politely told her that we lived too far from there, but the truth was, we weren’t the church going type. I thought her question was rude and presumptuous, but was afraid to lose them as clients. I hedged any further questions regarding religion she would indeed, eventually and regularly, throw my way.
I cooked for them for almost two years. During that time, Maria had a baby girl named Angelica. She was at home with her, being a first time mother, and now wasn’t as involved in the business. Joseph, her husband, was always passing through the kitchen on his way to the building out back. Once, he brought a couple of clients into the kitchen to boast that they had a Personal Chef cooking for them. He told them that they could have the financial independence to have their own Personal Chef one day if they stayed on track. This always made me feel somewhat like a zoo animal that was being oohed and ahhed over. Also, it made me question their actual religious beliefs, as boasting about having a chef seemed like one of those seven deadly sins you are not supposed to succumb to, such as Envy and Pride, but what did I know.
Maria would often times complain to me about people out in the world, especially one person in particular, a grocery worker at the local Whole Foods she shopped. This person, as she described them, “had longer nails than me!” and “You’re a man! STOP wearing makeup!” and “I don’t want that FAG touching my groceries!” I cringed so hard inside each time she brought the person up, but, trying not to show my flat out outrage, I kept my back to her as she unpacked her groceries. She then asked me if I wouldn’t mind picking up their other household items there when I went to buy their groceries, as she “just can’t stand being in that THING’S presence. He makes me so sick to my stomach!”, she spewed. I agreed that I would, secretly thinking that this would help the extremely friendly and sweet grocery bagger to not have to deal with her anymore. That evening I told my husband I didn’t know how much longer I could handle cooking for them.
David and I had a band at that time called Ex-Members. We were a three piece with David on guitar and vocals, me on bass, synth and lead vocals and our drummer, Mel York, on drums. Melissa was a self proclaimed old-school butch dyke, who had joined our group after her group, The Butchies, had broken up. Our band played a ton of shows celebrating LGTBQ events, flying to Chicago to play Homo Core Fest, and headlining the Durham Gay Pride. At band practice, I would talk with Mel about what I should do about this horrible client. Mel’s advice was to keep cooking for them because, in her eyes, I was “duping those homophobes” into thinking I was ok with their agenda, but little did they know, they had an infiltrator in their “holy house”. I spoke with some other friends from both the gay and straight community who agreed with Mel saying that the money I was making from them was helping the LGTBQ community because of where I shopped, played and who I supported.
At around this time, Barrack Obama had just become President of the United States. I began receiving assorted, hate-fueled, daily memes from Maria. Most were about President Obama, being portrayed in the MOST racist or anti-Muslim ways, or they were about Jesus or God. After a few weeks of getting these unsolicited emails I replied back stating that I received ENOUGH regular spam mail and that I would appreciate her NOT sending me these. I thought it was so completely rude of her to even consider sending me any of that garbage. She obviously had continued thinking I was on her “team”. Once in a while, I would randomly receive another one. I would send her an email asking her to stop. She never apologized.
One morning, some months later, I arrived at their house and began my cook as usual. The toddler, Angelica, was in the kitchen with Maria. As an 18 month old, Angelica was very curious as all toddlers are. She was also very mobile. So, in the kitchen she would wobble around on her new feet to explore things now within her reach. She was pulling on a cabinet door handle and Maria told her sternly, “NO!”. I turned around to see what was happening while I washed vegetables in the sink, earbuds in listening to my radio. Angelica looked back at her while her little hand was still holding the cabinet’s door handle. She looked back to the handle and began to pull on it again, trying to open the cabinet. “WHAT DID I SAY!?”, Maria yelled. Little Angelica then looked at her mom, startled, but with an angry and determined look. She went to turn around to look back at the cabinet and just then, Maria walked over and WAPP! She slapped her so hard across her back I visibly jumped. My stomach was in my throat when I saw the blow Maria had given to that small child. Maria must have noticed my horror ridden face and exclaimed over Angelica’s wails, “She’s fine! She KNOWS what she’s doing. She’s just trying to test me!” I turned back to the sink and felt myself totally freaking out inside. Taking a deep breath I thought to myself, This is it! I CAN’T do this anymore for these assholes! I turned to Maria and implored, “She’s just a toddler! Maybe you should get child locks installed on the cabinets.”, to which she struck back with, “I know what I’m doing!…and so does SHE! Reprimanding her now and letting her know who’s boss will keep her in line and keep her out of trouble!” I stopped speaking to her and turned back to the task at hand, trying to get out of there as soon as I could. With Angelica, now sobbing in her toddler chair, Maria then asked me ever so nonchalantly what I was listening to when I cooked. I uncomfortably told her I liked to listen to NPR because “I liked their human interest stories and also liked to know what was happening in the world.” She then commented back snidely, “Oh you mean, National Socialist Radio, right?” I tried to give a weak smile, as if she was joking, but knew she wasn’t. I slipped my earbud back into my ear as Angelica continued to lightly cry in the background.
That evening, I went home and told my husband about the horrible scene I saw that day. He simply said, “Quit. Now.” I wrote my resignation email that night, stating that they were simply too far away and I would not be able to cook for them anymore since they were “outside my new cooking radius”.
Maria wrote me back immediately, begging me not to “leave them”. I never replied back.
Unbelievably, a year later, I received another random and unexpected racist meme from her in a group email. This time I blocked her from my computer and thought to myself, “Jesus would burn down your house if he was walking the earth today”.
Until next week, Thanks for following along on this journey! If you enjoy Secrets and Spice please make sure you subscribe to get each weeks story emailed directly to you.
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- Shirlé
**All names, places and occupations have been changed to protect the identity of all clients.
This Weeks Paid Supporters:
A very special shout out to the following paid subscribers:
Robinlee Garber, Chef Lynn Warlick Wells, Jake Brokaw and Miyuki Furtado and Spanky Wilson!
-Robinlee is a childhood friend and all around renaissance woman, living and playing music in Chicago.
-Chef Lynn is a fellow Personal Chef buddy and owner of Thyme Well Spent, Personal Chef Service, based out of Greensboro NC. When not cooking for clients or food styling for cookbooks, she can be found hobnobbing with tastemakers and culinary shakers all over the country.
-Jake and his wife Brigitte have long been huge supporters of my cooking and are also huge supporters of the arts in Baltimore, Maryland. Jake also has an Orthopedic practice I have had to use a few times.
-Miyuki has been a lifelong friend and bandmate of mine from days long past. He’s also one of the best fathers and husbands I know and has raised one of the coolest kids, his daughter Mino along with his sweet wife Tricia. Miyuki currently plays music in his Alt-Country band, Divining Rod. You can listen to Divining Rod out on all music platforms. (Chef Lynn, I think you would LOVE his music!)
-Spanky has been a huge supporter of my cooking from my NC days. When not fire fighting you might find Spanky hiking the Appalachian trail.
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Wow, and I can certainly relate:
1) an uncle who would NOT stop sending racist Obama memes in 2007. Had to confront and block. He said that "I just didn't understand humour." He is considered a "Godly man" in his community, BTW.
2) The CEO of a company that I used to work for who felt it was OK to goad me about my Obama sticker on my car.