Workin' for the Woman

Used to be, you worked for the Man, a white man, of course, one who had power in the community or industry in which you worked. A man who had gained that power by working his own way into it, or maybe his Daddy did, whatever it took for that Man to be the Boss. No matter his skill, or his gifts, or his values. He was the Man, and you did what he said or you found other employment.

Now, you can work for the Woman. And it ain’t that different. I cooked for a Sorority for a year and a half, and I can tell you it is no different at all. My “boss” is a board member of the sorority—a 97-pound, coiffed and designer-clothed woman who sells stocks and bonds by day. She knows nothing about food, in fact, I’m betting that the woman hasn’t eaten for months. When she gets hungry, she drives through Burger King without stopping, just inhaling. I never see her in anything but black. She looks like an exclamation point without the swelling at the top.

The sorority girls are a different matter. They love salads. No surprise there, but they love their salads with a half-cup of sliced black olives and a half-cup of Ranch dressing on top. These girls think Ranch dressing is a beverage! They also love macaroni and cheese, and stir fry, and, well, anything fried at all. This is Kappa Kappa Gamma, one of the wealthiest sororities in the Greek system. They have no clue what good food is, nor do they wish to learn.

They hate the chef. Not just me, but any chef. Because we prepare food. We prepare food they insist that we prepare, and then they eat it, and then they gain weight, and then they hate us, and then they replace us with another chef who prepares low-cal food they hate, and then they hate that chef, and then they replace that chef. Year after year after year. With no thought to the fact that chefs work so they can support themselves and their families. With no thought to the fact that chefs often cook because they like to feed people, even bratty sorority girls. These girls have no thought for anyone besides themselves. They don’t even care what their sisters think of the food. It is all ME and the Chef's terrible food. There is one brain in that sorority, and that is who decides that the food is crappy. The rest just go out drinking.

It is rude and disgusting. It is amazing to come into work every day and not even know what pots and pans will be available in the pantry to use to cook meals for these brats. Whatever might needed for whatever reason by the sorority sisters would be taken away and returned when convenient, or not. One day I went in, and the microwave was missing. There was still a microwave in the “nook”, the area that the girls used to prepare their breakfast cereals and oatmeal. But the microwave in the kitchen was gone. About 5 weeks later, it showed up again, all plugged in and ready to go. Apparently, it had been found in one of the girl’s rooms, used to make microwave popcorn so she didn’t have to go down the stairs to do it.

My solution? Cook for dogs—they ALWAYS love the food!

And then I have to stop and think about what this all means. What it means for the state of women in the world and how little that has changed since I was a raging feminist back in the day. What it means when people hate the food they have to eat, which nourishes and sustains them. And especially what it means for young women, just finding their place in the world, just becoming themselves. And now I feel sad, so sad, that weight is such a loaded issue (pun intended). That how we look means more than who we are....still. That how we look IS who we are. Loaded, it is loaded with meanings I couldn't begin to address in multiple books. Suffice it to say that dogs are so much easier to get along with.