Thy will be done.
I get it now. It’s a sort of mantra. Thy will be done. Yes, you will be done. I will use butter and add heat and be patient and turn you carefully and you will be done. Maybe not well done, but done. “Done is good,” sez a friend. Mebbe, if the getting there was lackluster.
In LA some years ago, at the Apple Pan, and ever since, she has asked for fries well done. Well done?! I thought. Huh? Kept it all in my head though. She was from New York and me, well, no point in mentioning where I was from cause your eyes will instantly glaze and your view will slide offa me like jello off hot mashed potatoes. She was from New York and she knew from fries.
Tell you what though. I knew how to pack. Two pair of underpants, nine pairs of shoes.
The Lunch Encounter 