I am at my wit’s end, dearest Diary! I have worked and slaved and am I appreciated? No! Not at ALL. Does anyone ever appreciate the fact that I can make smelly kwama eggs into a delicacy or that I can cook gristly mammoth meat until it’s so tender it melts in one’s mouth? No, they do not. I am a Master level Artisan! And no one cares. Instead my clients send me the wadded up remains of their last meal with scribbled notes: “30 more like this”. As though cooking of my caliber could ever be mass produced! Or should be! But no, why enjoy a lovely seven-course dinner with complimentary dishes designed to create a proper flavor profile when instead you can shove a stack of pork sausage or “Venison Pasty” into one little corner of your camping bag and call it a meal?
I despise Venison Pasty, Diary. There’s no… civilization in it. None whatsoever.
And then! Now I’m hearing they’ve all decided they want to eat what they find on the road and are only ordering my specialty drinks. Diary, you know I enjoy a nice Crème de Menthe as much as the next connoisseur, but one cannot live exclusively on roots, berries, and Night-Grog! Sacré Bleu!
I am an Artiste, Diary; I should be cooking for Kings. But instead I am mass-producing batches of alcohol for reckless hooligans with indiscriminate palettes. War is indeed hell, just as they say.