Virgin Mary

Strawberry pie is not good for my body. When I eat it, each piece stays in my belly like a slowly inflating balloon. My head begins to ache and discipline flies out the window. I know I’ve crossed a food line and will pay for it later, but later is… well… later.

My mouth, however, doesn’t know any of this. My mouth thinks that strawberry pie has been sent for me personally, directly from the Gods, as a reward for salads eaten and vitamins popped. And I’m not talking just any strawberry pie, mind you. I’m talking my strawberry pies, the kind with homemade crust and yards of freshly whipped cream.  

It was Friday morning. Dicksie and Joe were coming to visit in Los Angeles on their way back to Arizona, and I wanted to treat them right, so I got out the last large piece of my special pie and traced a line down the center. There, I thought, those pieces are perfectly even. They will love them. Then, I made the grave mistake of licking a small dollop of whipping cream from the knife, a tragic error for which I most humbly apologize.  

The thinking of my evil twin went like this: 

Oh, so good. One more little taste won’t hurt, but this time I need some berries.

Yes, delicious.

Hum, maybe I’d better divide them again into smaller pieces, so I can slice off an edge on each side for myself. They’ll never know. Okay, that works, but the line is still not equal. I’ll need to even it up by having just a little bit more from each piece. Yep, yep, that looks better.

You know, the French serve extremely small portions and supplement with sprigs of mint or drizzled chocolate sauce.

Actually, the smaller the size, the more gourmet it looks. What a great idea.

I’ll keep eating from both pieces until they are fashionably petite. Yes.

Really, I wonder if Joe even likes strawberry pie. He might hate it. I never asked. And I seem to remember something about Dicksie watching her figure. Maybe pie would not be such a good idea after all. Perhaps its best not to mention I made it. That would be the wise road.

I’ll just wash the pie plate. But, I certainly can’t return two such tiny pieces to the refrigerator. That would be foolish, better just finish them up.  

And so my dear friends, whom I do love, came to visit. And we went out to eat and I kept my gluttonous secret.

4 thoughts on “My culinary confession

  1. Well, not much of a secret anymore. But perhaps your visiting friends don’t read your blog and may never know. Still, it is a possibility. I bet they’d still love you anyway. I know I do. And I dare anyone to step forward who doesn’t have such secrets.

  2. No, it is no secret now! For shame! Joe and I both LOVE strawberry pie, so next time we come to visit – we’ll make sure we arrive shortly after you’ve made it! Seriously, WONDERFUL to see you, wish it could have been longer. But at least the miles between us have shortened. That’s something! Much love to you always!

  3. Full on pie for you both next time… Actually Angela i did tell them, just thought writing about the irrestibility of sweets would hit a common nerve. We can all use a smile or two

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