DON'T GO IN THE KITCHEN!!

I’m frightened. I’m frightened because I've realized my kitchen is evil and sometimes comes to life. At night. In the dark. 

Even worse, I'm powerless against it. Because (clever thing that it is) the Kitchen knows when I am at my most vulnerable. It's when my rear makes contact with the family room couch, and my thumb pushes the remote, and the TV begins to glow. This fatal combination awakens whatever is haunting the next room. 

“My dearest friend,” the Kitchen begins, its seductive voice containing more than a trace of an English accent, kind of like the guy who played Lucifer on TV. “I fear for your health. You know you didn’t have enough to eat for dinner tonight.” 

I think about the mountain of Mongolian Beef, fried rice, egg rolls, and egg foo young that were on my plate less than an hour before. And yet, perhaps because of that irresistible English voice, I find myself saying, “You’re right, Kitchen. I didn’t.” 

“Well, there is no need to suffer. Come. Come to me.” And I find myself pressing pause on the remote, rising to my feet, and moving blindly into the Kitchen, where I am soon scarfing down a half carton of fried rice. 

Eventually I head back to the couch, determined not to be tempted again. But the Kitchen is not satisfied. As soon as the next commercial comes on, the voice whispers, “There's still some egg foo young.” 

“Saving it for lunch tomorrow,” I mutter. 

“No need,” says Kitchen. “I’ll provide you with something else at that time.” 

A few minutes later, the container is empty, and I’m back on the couch. But then… 

“Popcorn,” says the Kitchen. 

“What?” 

“There is a bag of popcorn in one of my cabinets.” 

“No. Can’t do it. If I open it, I’ll eat it all.” 

“And that’s fine. It’s Skinny Pop. It doesn’t count.” 

I give this some thought. 

“You're right. It doesn’t." And I return. 

Soon there are disfigured popcorn crumbs dotting the floor and filling the cowl of my turtleneck, and I’m feeling pretty sick. But that doesn't matter. Not to...him.

“This Is Us is a rerun tonight, isn't it?” says the Kitchen sympathetically. 

“Yeah, it is.” 

“I know that must disappoint you. But I can help. I'm quite sure there are some Jello pudding cups left in the refrigerator.” 

“No, there aren’t. I looked this afternoon.” 

“Let me just check.” There’s a hum from the other room. “Even better! I found little containers of peach yogurt at the back of the bottom shelf. So healthy. I care about you, you see." 

“Yes, I know you do,” I say, smiling. And I’m off for the yogurt. And that’s when the Kitchen becomes even more diabolical, but somehow I don’t realize it. 

“You know, I don't think you had anything for dessert. I’m sure there must be some Double-Stuf Oreos in one of my cabinets. Perhaps hidden away by your husband?” 

“But the Oreos are bad for me, Kitchen. That's why he hides them.” 

“Are they truly bad, though? Are they any worse than, say, a combination of fried rice, egg foo young, popcorn, and yogurt?” 

“You may have a point.” 

“Good. Then come. Come search for the Oreos.” The voice becomes impish. “Think of it as a game. Look in the ice buckets. The casserole dishes. The cereal boxes. I'm sure you'll find them.” (Note to my husband: if you're reading this, you now know how I figure out all of your hiding places. The Kitchen tells me.) 

And it's not over. I know that, in just a bit, the Kitchen will tell me to have some cereal before bed. He'll say that cereal is healthy, and the milk will help me sleep. And I’ll believe him. I’ll believe him. 

So apparently, we need to move from this place. It’s my only hope. That, or we hire an exorcist.