Perhaps if she wasn’t of Italian descent, she might not have known what zabaglione was before working at the rest home. Where, rather than actual zabaglione, what was served was more tantamount to tapioca pudding. And even that was an overly generous characterization of the yellow-toned slop that was served as “dessert” at the Elysian Fields Retirement Community. An establishment that Mia had passed by numerous times in her life, since she lived near it. Had seen it being constructed years ago, driving by whenever she went to school. And yes, even in high school, she had considered getting a thankless minimum wage job there, but had always stopped herself in the end. Because the thought of what her friends would think, how they would likely mock her choice of employment, kept her from going through with it.

She should have known that, somehow, the place would come back for her, so to speak. For there had always been something about it that felt like it was unspeakably pulling her toward it. Almost as though it was saying, “You belong here.” Yet, ironically, not as an old person, but a young one serving them. And so, after years spent away from home, trying to make it in the “big city,” as so many girls tried to and often failed (with those who remained and still “kept at it” also failing, but telling themselves that they didn’t purely because they “stuck it out”—even if that meant doing something horrible), she moved back. And as her mother, Desiree, drove her home from the airport, there it was: Elysian Fields Retirement Community. Just as she remembered it.

Considering that everyone she knew in high school was a townie, either married or divorced with children, she no longer felt a sense of shame about working there. In fact, she retroactively hated herself for being so concerned with what those shitty people had ever thought about her. But such is the way of being a teenager. You never realize until it’s too late how much you over-thought and cared about stupid shit. By the time the revelation comes, you’ve wasted all the time you could have been having fun/doing what you wanted on being mostly miserable for the sake of pleasing those who never really gave that much of a damn about you anyway.

Occasionally, these were the types of thoughts that would cross her mind when she served one of the tables at Elysian Fields. Filled with the types of cliques and cabals that one would also expect to see at a high school cafeteria. And yes, Mia had noticed from the outset of working there that many of the residents could easily outpace Regina George on bitchiness—both women and men. Often, it was far more the men. Especially to each other. Even though Mia couldn’t understand why—at least, not when taking into account the copious amounts of vag available to the scant few men in the place. Such was the uneven ratio of men to women in the “twilight years.”  Though, to be fair, many of the women in Elysian Fields were not especially interested in fucking, contrary to the narratives of such films as Queen Bees (wherein Ellen Burstyn’s character, Helen, is pursued by James Caan’s, Dan).

What they were interested in, however, was the zabaglione served once a week like clockwork. The dessert seemed to be the most exotic thing they had ever seen in their small-town, middle-class lives. Even though, if they knew anything about zabaglione, they would know that whatever the hell the so-called cook was doing to it was not in any way “faithful” to the original recipe. Despite said recipe only asking for three key ingredients: egg yolks, sugar and a sweet wine (Mia herself was partial to making the recipe with a stronger kind of alcohol, favoring whiskey or cognac to really make the “flavor” pop). Whatever the cook had chosen to use to make it, it surely couldn’t have been those precise ingredients. And if they were, maybe they were expired or curdled or something. Because when Mia dared to try a sample from one of the plastic champagne coupes when no one was looking, it made her nearly want to vomit.

Her reaction to the “delicacy” only lent further credence to the long-standing notion that elder generations were made of entirely different matter. Rendered indestructible by all the impure “entities” they had unwittingly ingested during post-war capitalism’s laxity on the types of products that could be sold. More specifically, what those products contained (namely, per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances). Thus, Mia was convinced their mutated bodies could withstand far more than subsequent generations that had been weaned off such chemicals (though that didn’t stop them from being pumped full of microplastics).

After spending her fifteen-minute break retching in the bathroom as a result of just one bite of that foul zabaglione, Mia resolved not only to power through her shift without trying to get someone else to cover for her, but also to remedy the disgusting recipe that the cook had foisted onto these poor, clearly unsuspecting people. People who had obviously grown so used to the revolting “flavor” that they had forgotten entirely what real zabaglione tasted like (which was an especially cruel thing to do to those suffering from dementia and Alzheimer’s). It was as if, in this regard, Mia had been “returned” to her hometown solely for the purpose of reminding these gustatorially abused residents of what real zabaglione tasted like. Oh sure, they might not have ever even known in the first place (therefore, were easily taken in by the “bougie” sound of such a dessert, previously unavailable to them despite it being “crafted” out of three simple and common kitchen ingredients), but Mia was going to make damn sure they knew now.

After her shift was over, she commenced her plot to introduce real zabaglione into the rest home, freeing the residents of the erstwhile poison they were being pumped with (even if their reaction to such poison was utterly gleeful). The plan was simple, really: 1) make zabaglione that consisted of fresh egg yolks, sugar and cognac (the residents deserved to be a little tipsy off their dessert, after all) and 2) replace the affronting zabaglione with it. She would have a week to figure out how, exactly, to do that. For that was the next time that the dessert would be on the menu (usually following some equally as “esoteric” main course, like chicken masala).

She figured her best bet, in the end, would be to, of all things “seduce” the cook, who she had noticed more than a few times eyeing her up and down whenever she picked up a tray off “the window,” as it’s called. Mia hardly found it flattering—it was inevitable that she, as the youngest person in the entire building, would be like catnip to any man in it. Once she distracted him, luring him away for a cigarette break in the back alley, she would unveil, with a flirtatious batting of her eyelashes, that the “cigarette” in question was actually “just a little J” to help them both get through the shift. In reality, that “little J” was what Snoop had once rightfully identified as bubonic chronic. Thus, in layman’s terms, it was sure to have him fucked up and in a fetal position about fifteen minutes from now. Thereby allowing Mia the necessary amount of time to do her “replacements.” A.k.a. throwing out the vat of zabaglione that the cook had prepared days ago and instead distributing her own into the plastic champagne coupes. The residents weren’t going to know what hit them when they got a taste of her “product.”

To really up the ante, she even added fresh berries to the top of each portion (whereas all the cook could ever be bothered to add was a weak smattering of cinnamon powder). And so, as the cook was still bowled over in the alley from the weed, Mia proceeded to serve her concoction to the residents, with her few fellow servers none the wiser. Either that, or they were also too high to care about much of anything (even if more functionally high than the cook currently was). Mia didn’t bother to question it, she was just glad they were unwittingly willing accomplices in Project Bring the Elderly Legitimate Zabaglione.

Except that, as Mia and the hundred or so residents dining that day found out, the zabaglione wasn’t very legitimate. For it turned out, the eggs had been contaminated with salmonella (though Mia had been certain they were the “freshest” money could buy). Needless to say, the outbreak of food poisoning that ensued was legendary, would go on to be unmatched in the history of Elysian Fields Retirement Home. When the cook finally did regain some of his senses, he emerged to find the dining hall covered in vomit and diarrhea, the sight and smell of which were unlike anything he had ever previously encountered—and he was originally from Honduras.

By that time, Mia had already called for medical assistance just before fleeing the scene herself. She knew that she was effectively leaving the cook holding the (barf) bag, and that he would probably get fired. Because, really, they weren’t going to suspect her, of all people. Everyone loved her. She was the type of person who wanted to make them a better batch of zabaglione. And, in so doing, had fucked them all up. But she had meant well, and wasn’t that important, she asked herself.

Maybe it didn’t look good that she had abandoned her post when all of this was happening, but how could she possibly be expected to stay in an environment like that? Worse still, be exposed to her faux pas in such a visceral, visual manner. She just needed to get a bit of “space” from the incident before, as she promised herself, she would go back and check on the fate of the residents. If their insides had calmed down a bit.

But Mia didn’t go back until the next day, finding that, as expected, the cook had been fired as a means to blame someone for the dining hall atrocity. Mia might have felt bad about it, if the cook weren’t a grotesque perv who couldn’t even prepare anything halfway decent. Of course, who was she to talk, considering what had happened? On the bright side, though, zabaglione was permanently removed from the menu. It was so pseudo-pretentious anyway, Mia could hear one of the mean girl residents telling a fellow member of her clique. Which meant that, as far as Mia was concerned, she really had done a good deed for these people by taking the menu down a peg or two. Something that helped make them see just how much they were overpaying for everything inside this faux luxurious residence. In fact, a good number of the residents moved out after Zabaglionegate. Even after a new “five-star” chef was instated by way of a conciliatory act.

Mia would have been happier about this turn of events, she later understood, if it hadn’t resulted in her own termination. This due to the lack of as many residents inhabiting Elysian Fields, the very residents that pooled enough funds together to create a “salary” for her…however minimal it was. Even so, Mia would continue to stand by her decision (while standing in the proverbial unemployment line) to do what she did. What self-respecting person wants to eat rest home zabaglione anyway? Regardless of who makes it.