There is no need to order the cute girl around. You just want to ask her where the kitchen is.

“Yes, I need you to tell me where the kitchen is,” you answer, “you know, I was in the Mall with Eric the entire day and it seems I missed lunch.”

“Oh, yes I noticed you were not at the table,” Mitsu says and blushes a little, “the kitchen is in the ground floor, on the right next to the dining room. The chef is always there.”

“Excellent, thank you,” you say, “and … is there someone who keeps record about how much food is available? I don’t want to mess with the calculations.”

“I’m not sure if I understand you, young mistress,” Mitsu says apologizing, “If you tell the chef or a servant what you want, we servants take care of everything.”

“Yes, sure, but what if I want to cook myself?” you ask, “would I have to tell somebody what I used? Or can I just take what I want and if we ran out of food somebody goes shopping?”

“You … you want to cook yourself?” Mitsu asks confused, “but … your father has employed an own chef. Cooking is … it is not a task for a woman of your social status.”

“Mitsu, I always cooked myself,” you reply, “my mother has taught it to me and we cooked together almost every day. Sometimes I did it alone too. And a silly social status has nothing to do with it. I’m sure the chef has other tasks to take care off too.”

Mitsu stays silent and looks at you like you are some kind of alien. You wonder what you said to confuse her that much. Since she is not going to break the silence, you just sigh and turn around. At least you know where the kitchen is now.

“Do you … do you want me to come with you, young mistress?” Mitsu asks unsure.

“If you want, you can follow me of course,” you answer sceptic, “do you already had lunch.”

“Oh, no, I hadn’t young mistress,” Mitsu mumbles shy, “my duties prevented it. I wanted to finish cleaning the windows first.”

You nod and head to kitchen. Mitsu is right behind you, as if you could give her an order out of sudden. The kitchen is impressive. It is big enough to serve about 20 people at the same time without problems. Well, this is likely the purpose, considering that your family sometimes hosts parties and elegant dinners. The chef, a strict looking guy around 50 with a silly chef’s hat like in old movies, reacts as confused as Mitsu, when you request to use the kitchen.

The chef and another servant are actually doing the dishes. But they watch you while you begin to cook. You wonder if you are the first person in this house who ever asked to cook her own food. Well, at least the chef seems to be not insulted when you say you want to cook yourself. For a moment you feared he could take this as a critic on his skills.

The recipe is downright ridiculously simple. Beat one egg per serving, fry, melt a slice of cheese on top and place everything on a lightly toasted piece of bread. Add some salt and pepper and you are done. You put both servings on two plates and take is to the dining room. Mitsu follows you like a lost puppy.

In the dining room

“Mitsu, your food is getting cold,” you say impatient, “sit down and eat!”

“What?” Mitsu asks not understanding, “but … but that’s yours. You made it.”

“I made two servings,” you say, “one is mine, one is yours. Come, eat!”

“But I’m your servant,” Mitsu replies nervous, “it is my duty to serve you, not the other way around.”

“Well, I’m not used being pampered anyway,” you reply, “I feel better when taking care of others. You don’t need to be so embarrassed. Just eat with me and then you can return to your duty.”

“I … I have no right to use the master dinner table or eat while on duty,” Mitsu replies even more nervous, “it is my duty to be ready to serve you. I … I cannot leave my post while you probably need something.”