When I was a little kid I loved to act like my kitchen was a diner and was the main waitress. Probably inspired by Alice, although I was much more like the “Kiss My Grits” Flo, I would force my mother to sit at the kitchen table while I took her order in an authentic, white waiter’s apron. I played the role of overworked and underpaid extremely well, and would sigh heavily as my mom would order hilarious things like Coq au Vin and roasted pheasant, while I would suggest peanut butter and crackers and possibly a milk or soda, being that my cooking skills were minimal. Come on! “Don’t shoot the waitress!” I’d scream, running around the kitchen amidst the lunchtime rush. I could not be bothered with petty requests and surly customers.