"Hello ladies, and welcome back to 'Morning Coffee in Birina, Today, in the Evening'. Allow me to reintroduce myself halfway into the segment; I am your non threatening host, Irma Gowan Under-Bridges. And I was here speaking with a faceless bureaucrat from the Birinian Ministry for the Truth, Probably, Don't Look it Up."
"Yup, and thank you again for having me." replied the agent from the Ministry for the Truth, Probably, Don't Look it Up.
"And we were discussing which books women should read this summer...?" Irma said, gesturing for him to continue.
"None. Just like the summer before this one and every summer ever."
"Righto! Now onto our cooking segment. We're going to go over to the cooking host in our kitchen."
The camera panned over to the kitchen to reveal Irma standing there in an apron.
"Just kidding, that's also me! Because why not? Today we're going to be making a Birinian classic: Chicken salad!"
The audience began cheering and whooping loudly because Irma said a thing.
"Now, naturally, we've got some chicken which I've diced the week before, some onion, some grapes, celery, mayonnaise, and of course your whip. You want to lay all your ingredients out before you start cooking, because if you can't see something that means it has stopped existing." She stole a glance at the jar of mayonnaise and bit her lip before moving on.
"You want to take out a bowl that you're okay with food being on, and put it on the countertop next to your ingredients like so. Now, if you're not as wealthy as I am your countertop might look a little different. For instance, my countertop is marble with granite inlay. Those are the two rocks that we've all agreed are best. If your countertop is butcher block or faux marble, you'll basically do everything the same as I am now, but just not as cool. And if your countertop is linoleum, what you want to do is take a sharp knife and use that to kill yourself."
She touched all the ingredients to make sure they were still there, but her hand lingered on the mayonnaise as she gave it the slightest caress.
"What we want to do now is bring out our slave, which is who makes Birinian Chicken salad."
She yanked a chain until a disheveled young man tethered to it stumbled forth from backstage.
"Now I know what you're thinking. 'Irma, I don't have a slave.' Well, the good news is that if you don't have a slave... A serf or indentured servant will work just fine."
The young, fully clothed slave strained at his chain and tried to escape into the studio audience.
"Ah, okay, this sometimes happens. This slave is being disobedient. So what you want to do is take your whip, and just sort of gently whip him around the edges..."
She applied the ministrations of her lash with incredible accuracy as she spoke, eliciting pained yells from her charge as she did so.
"And you want to do that until your slave accepts their fate of being forced to make salads for the rest of their lives." She opened the mayonnaise and slowly dipped her hand into the jar, one finger at a time. She shuddered with visible relish.
"Once your slave accepts their role as involuntary pantry chef, you want to communicate that it should make your salad by pointing at the ingredients and grunting. If it doesn't understand, that's actually also disobedience believe it or not. So just keep whipping it."
After intense whipping, the salve tearfully made chicken salad for Irma.
"There we go! Birinian chicken salad! Next, we'll show you how to convincingly fake a heart attack when your friends get back from vacation and want to show you an unreasonable number of pictures."
