I know all of you have been wondering about this for the past several months. It’s been bandied about on blogs, alluded to on Page Six, even discussed by Billy Bush on Entertainment Tonight. I wanted to keep this under wraps a bit longer, but events this past weekend have forced my hand. Today I must come clean:
I am Padma Lakshmi’s baby-daddy.
Yes, it’s true, although you may have heard otherwise. Krishna Thea Lakshmi is the fruit of my loins, and no one else’s. (Well, Padma’s, I guess.)
You may be asking: How did this happen? And I would answer: In the traditional way—this was no in vitro deal, nor was I merely the donor. Padma and I, as they said back in my day, bumped uglies, her being the bumper, me being the ugly.
No, no, you may be saying: How did you and Padma get together? Now, that’s a more difficult one to answer, but as I remember, it was just before she left Saddam Rushdie, the famous novelist. She Facebooked me late one night, telling me with deeply felt emoticons just how sadface she was, and could she spend the night. At the time, Jean, my wife, was temporarily living in Columbus, Ohio, working for Abercrombie & Fitch, which is not only how we were able to hook up unnoticed but also how Padma came to be wearing A&F pants—Jean’s prototypes—in various TV appearances months later.
In any event, our affair continued in secret for years, throughout her stint on Top Chef, until one day nine or ten months ago, when she asked me to put a bun in her oven. Happy to oblige, I loaded a brioche into her Viking. Later, as we were eating the brioche with butter and honey, she told me she wanted a child—she was no longer young, she said, and since our travels kept us apart so often, she wanted to have at her side a constant reminder of me.
“What?” I said. “You can’t just read my blog?”
“Nope,” she said in that flat, emotionless, uninflected voice that drives men wild from Chandigarh to Chambers Street. “I’m not into that kinky shit.”
Sadly, not long after I frugaled Padma’s traveler, she left me. Something about how we’d grown apart, or maybe about how my drooping eyelids needed a blepharoplasty. Honestly, I drank so many raspberry champagne spritzers and ate so many Hardees bacon cheeseburgers that I really can’t remember. All I know is pretty soon I was reading that my dear Padma was preggers, and since she said nothing, I said nothing.
Today, however, I’m breaking my silence. Krishna—my darling Krishna!—should know whence she came. Also, frankly, I felt a wacky celebrity twist would give new urgency to this dadblog. From now on, look for stories about not going to red carpets, not influencing competitive cooking shows, and not paying attention to restraining orders.
Finally, though, I must make some apologies—to Jean, of course, but also to Uma Thurman and Zooey Deschanel, who I know were hoping I would save myself for them. Sorry, girls.
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