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The last time I spoke with her was when I was pregnant. I was five months pregnant and teaching my last class. She decided to sit in on my class, unannounced and unenrolled. Oh, and she also decided to show up 90 minutes early. She sat in the kitchen while I did my prep work, asking thinly-veiled contemptuous questions:

"Why are you sitting to do your prep?" she asked, as if she was my boss and it was any of her business.

"Doctor's orders," I replied, not even turning to face her as I worked. "I'm supposed to limit my time on my feet, so I'm saving it for the three-hour class." I sunk my 10-inch knife through a big, stinky onion, dreaming that it was her head.

"Well, you're not that far along. You're only five months," she snorted.

I thanked her for her educated medical opinion and threw a pot of boiling water on her crotch. Unfortunately, she recovered enough to spend the rest of the classtime correcting me with incorrect information, gossiping and giggling with the center's director, passing out business cards for her catering company and loudly referring to her assistant as "that little Chinese Jew-girl".

Anyway, that has nothing to do with what happened today; it's just an illustration of the type of person we're dealing with.

I saw her at Target today, but I don't think she saw me. If she did, she didn't acknowledge me, which is fine. She's been known to do that before, like last year when I saw her at a local farmer's market. I was visiting a vendor friend of mine, who was later bombarded with questions by the chef regarding me and my presence. In my head, though, I imagined what I would say if she plastered that fake smile on her face and said hello today.

I imagined saying, "Oh, I'm not teaching anymore, and rarely catering. I left the magazine. It all just seems so frivilous, making overpriced, fancy food when compared to nurturing this seed I have so lovingly sown."

I would flutter my eyelashes as a flock of tiny doves lifted my rosy-cheeked cherub from the shopping cart. My full, motherly breasts would commence lactating from the sheer parental glee of it all.

"I'm sure you understand, don't you? No, wait - I'm so sorry. You're not a mother, are you? Well, it's never too late. I mean, you're only in your early fifties; you can adopt. What? You're only 43? Oh, my mistake. Toodles!"

Clara Jane and I would be whisked away on a plush Oriental rug, carried aloft by a band of friendly forest animals, the air beneth our asses as we drifted through the check-out and into a world filled with familial bliss.

My second option was to just look her in the eye and say, "Holy crap, Chef You are a total motherfucking bitch." And you know what? I was 100% prepared to say that, and a bit disappointed that the opportunity didn't arise. Granted, no wildlife would have been involved, but I think that would have been a fair trade for seeing the look on her face.