Free Pretty in Ink by Lindsey Palmer Page A

through Facebook and stuffing their faces with Cheetos than cooking actual food for their families is not my problem. But there’s something about how Victoria’s speaking—a hollowness, maybe a lack of conviction?—that stops me from grabbing a butcher knife and chop-chop-chopping away my anger. It makes me think I can work on her, sway her from the party line.
    “People connect through food,” I say. “It’s the glue of our gatherings. That’s as true today as it was back when cavewomen got together by the fire to gossip about the cute barbarian in the next cave as they roasted the wooly mammoths or whatever the hell their men brought home from the hunt.” Where do I come up with this crap? “Cooking is not some sort of throwback Feminine Mystique symbol of unfulfilled housewives; it’s a way to bond with the people you love, and a means to enjoy and savor something delicious together. At least that’s how I’ve always presented it in Hers. Are you familiar with the food coverage in Hers magazine, Victoria?”
    She ignores the question and takes it upon herself to open my refrigerator. She buries her entire head in the cold air, as if she’s in her own home jonesing for a late-night snack. If she reaches for anything, I’ll pounce. “Another option we talked about,” Victoria says, shutting the fridge, “and this might help you include the kinds of recipes you want but cut out some of the steps, is to rethink what we mean by homemade. My idea is, let’s make readers feel great that they’re cooking, but also give them some shortcuts, some little cheats to minimize the drudgery of doing it all from scratch. So, we’ll make half of our ingredients ready-made. I’ve prepared a list of foods for you.”
    She passes me a typed-up memo, and I scan the items—bagged lettuce, instant rice, precut vegetables, jarred pasta sauce, canned whipped cream, and then the clincher— cake mix. “Maybe we should just give the readers a list of restaurants to go to instead?” I say, my tone chilly. “Applebee’s, Chili’s, McDonald’s?”
    “I see you have a sense of humor,” Victoria says flatly. “I think we’ll get along well.”
    “Oh, I’m sure.”
    “Last, I’ve been studying the reader mail, and they all want lighter options. Many of them are trying to lose weight.”
    “If they eat reasonable portion sizes and limit sweets to special occasions, as we encourage in Hers, then our recipes fit very nicely into a healthy lifestyle.”
    “Yes, but people like sweets and they tend to overeat,” Victoria says. “And who can blame them? Let’s give them options where they can eat large quantities and not feel guilty, rather than having to stick to measly little portion sizes.” This is the problem with America, I think; our readers are fat pigs. “Have you heard of the popular personality Ravenous Rhee?” Victoria asks.
    My anger, previously at a simmer, now dials up to a boil. Last week when I found out the Food Network was giving that silly twit her own show, I actually threw my remote at the television; my cat cowered. Ravenous Rhee must have been raised on TV dinners and Ho Hos. “You mean the woman who thinks freeze-dried bananas, a bag of gummy vitamins, and three packets of Splenda equal a square meal?” I ask.
    Victoria laughs. “I mean the woman whose newsletter has three million subscribers, whose cookbooks have topped the bestseller lists for six months straight, and whom Oprah has dubbed ‘the regular woman’s Martha Stewart.’ ”
    “Touché.” I can respect Victoria’s feistiness, if nothing else. I know we’re not supposed to talk directly about what’s happening on staff, but I decide to challenge her: “Mimi’s replacing me with Ravenous Rhee, is that it?” I don’t actually believe it, since that woman would command a fortune in salary.
    “That would be quite a coup,” Victoria says, then quickly backtracks. “I mean, no, no, not at all. She’s getting a monthly