By Ben Fischer
Founders’ note: Not everyone is born with the ability to use their voice. Not everyone can easily communicate their thoughts, feelings, hopes and dreams. On this page, we’re giving non speaking people in our community the opportunity to be heard. The authors are students at Mouth to Hand Learning Center in Mount Kisco. You can read about Mouth to Hand in the article “Force of Nature.”
Pierre LeHavre waved the waitress over for the fifth time. “Another helping of escargot, s’il vous plait,” he asked. Pierre came to Le Cafe often. It was the closest restaurant to the Louvre Museum, where he was head curator.
“You’ve had six helpings already, monsieur!” she responded, laughing, “On top of all the foie gras!”
“That is just my starters,” he grinned, “I’m starving today!” Pierre was celebrating, but she couldn’t know that. Tonight would bring the realization of the dream he’d had starting ten years back. The first time he’d seen the Mona Lisa, he’d fallen in love. Now she would be his: her secretive smile reflecting her adoration of him, her one true love. People came from far and wide to admire her. His plan to steal her to save her the indignity of being stared at constantly was ten years in the making. Very rotten, loving a famous painting – but you can’t help who you love. And so to celebrate the day they’d finally be together, Pierre was feasting. “I’ll have four portions of the Tête de Veau [calf’s head] entrée with Les Cuisses de Grenouille [frogs’ legs] on the side. Then I’ll have Fromage Puant [stinky cheese] with champagne for dessert.” Pierre ate and ate, savoring every delicious mouthful. When he couldn’t eat another bite, he pushed back his chair and patted his very full belly.
“Quʼest-ce que cʼest?! What is this?!” he shrieked, feeling something squishy and large that seemed to have grown on his belly. The waitress rushed over. “Is everything ok, Monsieur?”
And then she screamed when he lifted his shirt to reveal a massive udder in the middle of his chest. Horrified, Pierre let out a plaintive, “MOOO!” before fainting. Pierre regained consciousness to find himself in a hospital bed attached to IVs, oxygen, and a milking machine. “Moooooo!” he howled, “MON DIEU! What has happened to me?!” A doctor appeared at the door.“You are awake! Bon! Monsieur, you have contracted a very rare disease which can only be from the overconsumption of cow heads. Bovinitis invades the endocrine system, before making its way into the central nervous system. You have eaten so much cow head that you are already in the later stages of this disease.”
“Is it fatal?” Pierre asked in terror.
“Yes, oui,” said the grim-looking doctor, “It must be treated aggressively immediately or you will soon start to eat only grass which you will then vomit up so you can chew your cud. It is truly repulsive,” said the doctor with a shudder, “At that point there is nothing we can do, because you will be growing extra stomachs and your heart will stop. We need to send you tout de suite to Old McDonald’s Farm Hospital for treatment!”
“But…but…I have plans tonight! Huge plans!”
“Your only plans are to not become a cow! A dead cow!”
Pierre’s heart sank. All his dreams were spilled milk to be cried over. Was life without Mona a real life at all? On the other hand, dying from growing multiple stomachs while vomiting grass was not rocking his boat either. And he wasn’t exactly digging the enormous udder he was now sporting. Why, oh why, couldn’t he have loved that garbage they ate in America? If he’d only not had such a refined palate, this would never have happened. Mona would not want him to die, he thought.
“I will go to the farm,” he said, milky tears running down his cheeks, “Tell me more about the treatment.”
“It is not pleasant. You will need to be milked several times a day. You will be fed a restricted diet of greasy pommes frites [French fries], Chicken McNuggets and Coke. And you will need to take part in cooking therapy where you will learn to not have a refined palate and will develop a disgusting American one where Pizza Hut and Popeyes are delicious to you.”
Pierre let out a plaintive mooooo. “That is no life!” he wailed.
“Do not despair, my friend,” said the kindly doctor, “You may be pleasantly surprised. I am now really very partial to Chick-fil-A myself.”
“You suffered from Bovinitis too?” gasped Pierre in shock.
“Oui,” said the doctor, “And my case was tres sérieuse because I simultaneously developed Slugitis from eating too much escargot. I left slime trails wherever I went. You want to talk disgusting,” he said shuddering. All this to say that there is life after gourmet food.” So off to the farm went Pierre, and when he was cured he actually changed careers. He broke up with Mona and opened his own Chick-fil-A, because he had adopted the mantra, “Manger more chicken.”
The End.
This article was published in the July/August 2024 print edition of Connect to Northern Westchester.
Ben Fischer
