Free The World in My Kitchen by Colette Rossant

want to go. Lunch with just women! Horrible!” But Jimmy said I had to go, if just to please his mother. And so I went.
    The country club resembled Cairo’s country club, with its manicured lawns, a clubhouse, and a swimming pool surrounded by deck chairs and umbrellas. But what was very different was the golf course that spread far beyond the club house and was spotted with electric golf carts silently zooming around. The luncheon event was held in a private dining room overlooking the eighteenth hole. The room was full of women with white hair tinted blue, most of whom were wearing pink or light blue pantsuits. I was introduced to Ethel, who immediately handed me a box filled with a lovely white orchid. Holding the box in one hand, I did the rounds: Ethel, Sally, Molly, Rachel, Helen, names and more names swirling around me. I no longer knew who was Sally and who was Helen, but kept on hearing whispers behind my back.
    “So young, so very French, what a lovely accent, like Hildegarde! Anne must be so very happy.”
    Finally, we found our name cards; I was placed between Anne and Ethel, and we all sat down. It was then that I made my first mistake. I opened my orchid box, removed the orchid, and plopped it in my glass of water to cries of astonishment and horror of my host, who was sitting next to me. “This is a corsage. You must pin the orchid on your dress,” she said. “Don’t put it in the water!” I apologized, removed the dripping orchid, and pinned it to my dress just above my breast. Very soon my dress around my breast was soaking wet, and I looked ridiculous. I unpinned it, placed it next to my plate, smiled, and since all the women were looking at me, attacked the first course: large, chilled, boiled shrimps surrounded by a familiar pink, slightly sweet cocktail sauce. I tried to talk about New York, and my experiences at work, but no one really was listening. They were more interested in local gossip: which widow was flirting with whom and who was giving a party for New Year’s, what to wear, etc. Anne whispered that Ethel was giving a very lavish New Year’s party and that we were invited but not everyone at the table was. The next course came along, and Ethel, to everyone’s approval, announced loudly that she had ordered the course in my honor: chicken cordon bleu. I looked down at my plate. Lying there was a piece of chicken breast topped with what looked to me to be ham and covered with a beige, slightly gelatinous sauce. As I took a bite, all eyes were on me. To my mother-in-law’s dismay, I said in a very loud voice, “It is quite good, but it is not French.” Utter silence followed my statement, and I realized then that I had made another major mistake. Trying to save the moment, Anne changed the subject, saying that I had spent most of my childhood in Egypt and probably did not know French cuisine too well. From their looks, I knew that now Anne had made a mistake. I was no longer this lovely French girl but some strange Egyptian creature. I could see in their faces what they were thinking: “Poor Anne, look what she got. A strange foreigner; an Egyptian at that…she must be so upset.” I tried to save the situation as the dessert, a rich chocolate cake was placed in front of me; I exclaimed in the most French accent I could muster that this was the best cake I had ever had. But the damage was done. Nobody cared!
    New Year’s Eve was yet another trial. I dressed very carefully and told Jimmy I was afraid of the luncheon guests who would be coming, but he just laughed and said they would have all forgotten about me, and Anne added that it was a privilege to be invited and that not all of her friends were.
    “You are going to have a lovely time. The food there is always delicious.” I thought of my lunch and sighed in despair. Jimmy laughed at my sad face and said, “Come on, Colette. It won’t be so bad! Cheer up; we are going together. It will be fun.”
    The house was an immense