Lulu My Loony Cousin Is Allergic

I am allergic to greens, so none of that will do. It is my persnickety picky-eating cousin, Lulu. But surely you are not allergic to lettuce, I say. Oh, yes, and green beans and peas. The radish can stay. What about Brussel sprouts? I am allergic to them too. She says this with a lip that pouts. My strange cousin Lulu. What about celery, you are surely not allergic to that. Oh, yes, I am, she says, and probably your dog and your cat. Are you allergic to my husband? I ask, making a joke. Most definitely and chicken and ham; they both make me choke. My husband rolls his eyes but scoots off to his room. Leaving me alone with our impossible guest. She is such a loon. Can you have chocolate cake? I ask her, in the sweetest way. That’s about all I eat, she tells me, so merry and gay. And I bet you eat bread, I throw in, looking at her girth. I have eaten all the bread I can between here and Perth. I hear my husband snorting in the next room, next to the TV. How much more transparent can that man try to be?