The Pleb Life

Cooking

Torture device or cooking apparatus? Why not both?

I constantly hear how easy my life must be with all my servants, chefs, and security guards. I often tell the people who say this that it's not all it's cracked up to be, and that there are times that I yearn for a simpler life amongst the Plebs. I mean, it's not like I have always lived like this, I was once a lowly peasant like the rest of you. So I thought, why not try it out again? Nothing permanent, mind you, but short bursts of normal every day activities that the plebs of the Realms participate in to get a better feel for their plight.

So for my first foray into the Pleb Life, I have decided to try purchasing my own food and preparing it myself. Yes, yes, I know that I am forbidden by the Order of the Spoon from using cooking devices unattended, so I had my personal chef, Sven, monitor my culinary activities. He claims he no longer works for me and that he's 'quit' multiple times during this process, but whatever. He'll come around.

Ultimately my goal is to be able to prepare my very own Blackwood Meatloaf. I tried to get into contact with King K about getting assistance from his personal chef, but apparently he's 'too busy' and 'also doesn't want to die in a terrible kitchen fire', as if that were likely to happen. But Sven has assured me that Meatballs and Meatloaf are basically the same thing, and if you can ball meat you can loaf it, so here we.

My first task was to go to the market and retrieve what he called 'ingredients'. He gave me a list. I waited a bit at the entrance to the market waiting for someone to come and take my order, but eventually realized that you need to serve yourself. So I wandered about, trying to find all of the things I needed, which was a lot. I am convinced that Sven already had most of the ingredients and just wanted to make me find them all like I was in some twisted scavenger hunt. I couldn't even pronounce some of the spices he needed, and did you know that it takes different types of meats? Who knew you needed to mix pigs, cows, and unborn chickens together? I'm told that a lot of people already knew that, but I digress. So, seven hours later I returned from the market and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and to sleep for a week, but we still needed to make the meatballs. We had to measure and ration off the ingredients, and I must tell you that I had previously made a pact never to measure anything I plan to put in my mouth lest I be disappointed. But measure we did, and then we needed to mix.

I wasn't allowed to use any utensils, just my hands, to combine the ingredients. For one, it was cold and my hands hurt so badly by the end of the mixing that I thought I may never be able to use them again, which would be a tragedy to a great many folks I am sure. And for two, it felt quite gross. Now I am a doctor. I have felt around in all sorts of folks innards before, and nothing has felt quite as gross as this concoction. Then we had to turn this nastiness into perfectly formed balls. Turns out, I was quite good at this part, apparently my experience in other arenas can be more useful in the culinary arts than I previously thought.

Now we had a whole pan of simmering, beautiful meatballs and I am told that we need to make the sauce. Seriously? The recipe says 'sauce optional', but Sven assured me that it's not at all optional. But I thought, I got this far, how hard can making sauce be? Turns out, it's hard. Really hard. I burned six batches. Sven had what I can only describe as an attack of the vapors. There was yelling. There was crying. There was a small fire. But in the end, Sven made the sauce because I'm 'hopeless and would starve on my own'.

Then the moment of truth, tasting the fruits (or meats, if you will) of our labor. I thought that they tasted pretty good for my first (and only) try, Sven was not impressed. The verdict: I am not cut out for the culinary arts, it would seem I am more suited to eating food than preparing it. My girls put on a brave face and told me how delicious my creation was, and I hope that they lie to my clientele better than they lie to me. The filthy beggar children down at the market seemed quite sincere when they thanked me for giving them what I had left over, so at least someone was grateful for my efforts.

Thank you for joining me on my cooking adventure, dear readers, and make sure to join me next time to see how awful I am at living like a pauper when I explore another area of The Pleb Life.