Rachael Ray Wants to Join My Motorcycle Gang

Dear Rach (cuz we’re tight like that),

Thank you so much for having me (and 35 other people) to dinner on Friday night. I very much enjoyed your company, and your fetching brown top. I wanted to follow up on a couple of things and figured this letter would be the best way to go about it, seeing as how you neglected to give me your number (though somehow you managed to get mine. Hit me on my cellie, girl!)

Just some photos of us, laughing at each other.

As we discussed over fancy pizza and endless thimbles full of limoncello, yes, I think it’s a great idea that you join my motorcycle gang, the Ginger-Haired Devils. I am willing to overlook the fact that you don’t have red hair if you are willing to overlook the fact that I don’t own a motorcycle, nor do I know how to ride one.

Our jackets will be way cooler than this.

Also, if you formally join the gang, that will bring membership up to two, so that’s not much of a gang. If you have some suggestions as to whom we might invite into the fold, I’m all ears. But don’t ask Rosie O’Donnell because I think one lesbian is quite enough. Ditto on Gayle King. However, I will make an exception for my good friend and yours, Kim Severson, author of the bitchin’ new memoir Spoon Fed: How Eight Cooks Saved My Life. By the way, have you read the chapter about you in the book yet? You should. It’s delish.

Now, about you coming to Vermont and making me a course. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I mean, I would love for you to drop in on the way to Montreal to get your hair cut at the barber shop next to Schwartz’s Hebrew Deli, but it’s not like my kitchen would be up to your standards. It’s just slightly larger than the hotplate corner in an Alphabet City bedsit and the one counter has legs made from an old 2″x 4″ and a reclaimed bed post. Plus, the refrigerator at my Burlington hovel sounds like it’s going through labor pains and it might be hard to conversate above all that racket. Oh, who am I kidding. You’re Rachael Ray; I could hear you shouting from under the belly of a 747. And that’s why I like you.

But really, if you come to Burlington and hang out with the GF, the Ween and me, what course are you going to make (and don’t say the cheese plate because that’s just cheap and cruel)? I should warn you that we typically only have one course meals and when the GF is out of town, that one course generally comes from a can. Well, whatever you prepare, please make sure it’s vegetarian. And yum-o.

Now, about this business of you taking over Delaware and changing the name of the state to Scuderi after your mother. I think that’s an excellent idea. I mean, who comes from Delaware besides the Vice POTUS and Valerie Bertinelli? Granted, nearly all plastic was developed there, along with Teflon and housewrap. And they do have some decent beaches, many of which attract the Amish, who swim in all their clothes. But I digress. All I’m saying is I would be more than willing to spearhead the campaign to rename Delaware Scuderi.

Well, thanks again for dinner and all the high-fives (do you lift weights? Because my hand was sore the next day from all the slapping). Thanks especially for letting all of us plebes order fancy pizzas to go. And take home all the tiramisu and cream-filled Berliners, which you have to admit are way better than Doubledee’s.

While I am sort of bummed that you didn’t give me a ride home in your chauffeur-drive Prius, I understand. I guess Vermont is a haul from the East Village. Be well.

With gratitude I remain,

Your bestie forever,

Lauren Ober (Lauren Vermont to you)