I’M A FRAUD FRENCH TOAST

MPB

I live in fear. I know the police are coming to arrest me any day now. I’m not exactly sure what specific type of fraud I will be booked for, but by constantly spewing bullshit, all the time, always, I commit the act of fraud on a daily basis.

Maybe the officers can get me on identity theft? I didn’t steal anyone’s identity in particular, but I do know that the way I describe myself at cocktail parties has no relation to who I actually am. It’s true, I have a master list of identities I’d like to steal hidden away in a safe (Jemima Kirke, Jenna Lyons, this cool-looking person I once saw on the street and now casually stalk), but there’s no way the police force knows about that.

So why am I a fraud? Why do I deserve to spend tonight in a jail cell with murderous felons? Well, first of all, I call myself a comedy writer, but I’m not funny at all. The sixth-grade class wit, Will Harper, told me so in the back of the school bus in 2001 and I know it’s true. So why in God’s name am I writing this book? I mean; I’m not a writer. Sure, sometimes I tweet, but I definitely don’t work as hard as I should. I should be locked away in a bunker like J. D. Salinger, writing my magnum opus. (My bunker would have a pilates studio or something in it. If I’m gonna bunker, I’m gonna bunker in style.) Further, everything good I have right now is the result of luck and not my own doing. I don’t deserve my job or anything else. And I’m not even doing enough with the opportunities I do have. I could be doing so much more. (I know this twenty-one-year-old girl who’s a Nobel laureate or some shit.) Someone else would be doing so much more with what I have. Also, and this is just a small thing, but I’ve lied about my weight on my driver’s license, and everywhere else, since the beginning of time.

Shit, I hear a siren. The police are probably on their way right now. I wonder what kind of officers they send in situations like this. Are they, like, cool emotional police? Are their handcuffs made of mink because they know I’m not really a threat to anyone other than myself and the people I lie to on dates? I should start preparing. Hmm. I get one phone call, right? Should I call my mom? She’ll definitely say I’m not a fraud, and I think a bunch of my friends and Snapchat followers believe in me too. Trouble is, I think I’ll have to defend myself in this instance because I am the one imagining this metaphorical arrest. I can’t defend myself! I’m full of shit and I know it. Send me to jail forever!

I don’t want to go to jail yet though. I need to get through this season of Big Brother; I’m in a Draft! I’ll have to get myself out of this. I guess I can believe in myself a little bit, at least, in front of the police, to trick them. Or I can lie about believing in myself? Can I pretend I’m confident? But how does one do this? Should I genuinely accept a compliment—the hardest task on earth?

New plan: I’ll make them French toast when they arrive. My French toast is good, and when they tell me it’s good, I’ll believe them. They’ll see that I can accept compliments without collapsing and let me go free. This is a perfect plan. Let me get cooking.

Okay, guys, I have finished the French toast. I am just going to take one bite to taste it. Wait, this is really good. This isn’t even a trick. The French toast is actually great. Maybe I’m not a fraud. I made this breakfast all on my own. I’m semicompetent. Okay, maybe writing and being an adult aren’t as easy as making French toast, but perhaps I can just acknowledge that I’m trying? Maybe everything good that has happened to me is because of me? Maybe it’s not all luck? Maybe it’s not the next great American novel I’m writing, but I am doing something, I think. Something is good, right? Things don’t have to be impossible for them to be good. Wait, guys, I’m not a fraud. This is huge. This means the police aren’t coming, which is important, because I finished all the French toast. At last I can relax. I’m gonna turn on the TV and finish my whole DVR tonight. No, actually I’m going to work.

Wait, shit, someone just buzzed my apartment. The police are here! And it’s the real police. This might be about all those diamonds I stole earlier. I forgot to mention that movie, Entrapment, was based on me. Gotta go. Write me in prison!

SERVES 2 TO 3

INGREDIENTS

2 eggs, lightly beaten

1 pint milk (any fat percentage will work, as will nondairy milk)

3 tablespoons granulated sugar

Zest of 1 lemon

12 (½-inch) slices of baguette or 6 slices of sourdough bread

2–3 tablespoons unsalted butter, for frying

¼ cup lemon curd or lemon marmalade

Powdered sugar, for serving (optional)

DIRECTIONS

• In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, granulated sugar, and lemon zest.

• Dip each slice of bread into the egg-milk mixture, soaking both sides completely. Let soak for at least 2 minutes.

• Melt the butter in a large frying pan over medium-high heat.

• Cook the soaked bread slices, working in batches if necessary, until golden brown with lightly crisp edges (about 1 minute per side).

• Serve warm, topped with the lemon curd or marmalade and powdered sugar, if desired.