(Written by Elizabeth Bastos)

Oh, she’s going to cover me in a cheap harlequin damask and put on her keyhole sweater. She’s wearing her hair up. Oh. God. Out come the overglossy porcelain mini Mardi Gras masks, one for each place setting. And here I thought these were collectibles only among 8th grade girls.

How can this be my life? With my pretty grain, I thought I’d end up in foyer of some Intercontinental Hotel, maybe Dubai. The light in the studio here is all wrong for me — fake windows — and now I’m being festooned with yellow (she couldn’t find gold) green, and purple crepe paper. Lady, are you serious? This isn’t even close enough for jazz. I know we’re on a budget, but you’ve made a King Cake with a 13.9 oz. can of Pillsbury breadstick dough and called it Creole? And the recipe calls for a 1-inch heat-proof plastic baby. What’s the average home cook supposed to do? I’ll tell you what: there will be tears at the doll’s house tonight.

Of course you’re going to drape the chandelier in Mardi Gras beads. Of course you are. What I want to know is: Did you earn those beads and coconuts yourself? Is there video?

If I could stomp on my four slender, hand-carved feet out of here to Ina Garten’s I would. She’d enhance my grain with some navy heavy-cotton napkins, hand-knotted with rope from a sailboat. But Jeffrey would send me back, like a dog back to the pound. So I’m stuck here with you, the Maraschino cherry-topped cocktail you’ve alarmingly poured into a hurricane glass and called “Jazz Fest,” leaving a sweat stain on me.

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