I pledge allegiance to my whip

So my kids roast me nonstop about how I wait tables. Apparently, I’ve got the grace of a drunk flamingo and the spatial awareness of a wrecking ball. I'm out here accidentally smacking customers in the face with my elbow while trying to serve delicate pastries like it's a damn UFC match. Awkward? Yeah. Self-aware? Painfully.

But let me drop some real history on you: decades ago, this “awkward waitress” was a Playboy Bunny at the Buffalo club. Yeah, that Playboy. I wasn’t just serving drinks—I was serving looks, heels, corset, bunny tail and all. And I could strut in stilettos for hours without breaking a sweat or a smile. Not bad for a Niagara University student hustling through college with a tail and a wink.

Nowadays, my “uniform” is more flour-dusted apron than fishnets, but don’t let the homestyle vibes fool you—I still know how to command a room. Only now, instead of cocktails, I’m slinging steaming bowls of soup and dangerously addictive cupcakes. And instead of flirty banter, I’m unintentionally tossing my armpit into your personal space while serving your third tier of finger sandwiches. You're welcome.

Honestly, if I could say what I’m really thinking, it’d go like this:

“Hey champ, you look like you haven’t eaten since 2019. Get the soup. Maybe two bowls. Or just share with your thick wife—unless she’s too busy eyeing the pistachio cupcake like it owes her money.”

Back in the day, I knew how to whip butter and beat eggs like a dominatrix on a deadline. And let’s be real, if I was having one of those bipolar queen bee moments, you’d be too scared to send back your salad. Now? I run a café where the soup doesn’t just fill your belly—it realigns your chakras, restores your faith in carbs, and makes grown men weep.

And if your week’s been hell, I got you. Slide into some butternut squash that hits like a warm blanket of childhood trauma healing. Try my Tuscan chicken that’s basically a love letter in liquid form. Or the broccoli cheddar, because sometimes, you just need a cheesy hug that doesn’t judge.

Oh—and that sweet potato soup? It’s got a secret spice that’ll make you question your marriage.

But here’s the deal: I’ve handed off my dominatrix duties to the soup gods. I'm just the high priestess now. So be kind. Tip well. And don’t complain about the weather—it’s always hot in my kitchen, and I like it that way.

Come for the food. Stay for the chaos. Leave feeling oddly submissive to a woman who used to rock bunny ears and now rules the ladle like a queen with unfinished business.

And just when you think it’s all cozy and wholesome, let me drop this truth on you:

Yes, it’s the real me—disguised as Alice in Wonderland.

You’re sipping soup in my little enchanted madhouse, and I’m still the same bunny—just swapped the ears for an apron. So keep looking for that rabbit hole, baby. You might just fall in and realize you’re exactly where you were meant to be: slightly confused, a little turned on, and full of soup you didn’t know your soul needed.

Delray Beach might be hot, but my kitchen? She’s on fire. Be nice, tip big, and remember—this isn’t just lunch. It’s a trip.