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.
It’s not unusual for the orchard to open to the public one day, then place a sign by the road saying, “Closed for Ripening” the next. I respect that sign, but Gib doesn’t think he means it. The Grossens are an older couple who believe in being neighborly and kind. They should throw Gib on his ear when he walks past the sign, but they open their door and their orchard instead. That’s Gib’s Los Angeles pushy side. I would be mortified to do such a thing, but Gib has this golden retriever way about him that folks can’t seem to resist. Next thing I know, we’re scooting around the orchard looking for bounty.
A client gave me a box of chocolates. I am not supposed to eat chocolate but who can resist? I am not supposed to eat anything that is really wonderful anymore, but I do. In fact my mouth is full of chocolate. I’m on my third piece. I’ll leave the fourth one, the last one, because there is no chewy center. No surprise in the middle. There is only a small rectangular piece of milk chocolate with a logo stamped on it. Oops, too late! I picked it up to examine the design and bite into the corner to prove it was solid. What could I do then, put it down? Nah, just stuff it in next to the rest of them. Now there is an empty box. Soon I will start to itch, and my throat will close a little. People who call will ask if I have a cold because I’ll be sniffling. I get such incredibly low marks for discipline.
I must have been such a pain in the butt, but Elise was an exciting cook and I simply did not want to leave the table.
Fasting makes the veil between the worlds thin, so more is revealed. I am on my sixth day now, full of curiosity and readiness to see what is delivered. My morning has been beautiful. I slipped on my old grey sweater, pulled blue jeans under my dress and laced hiking boots. What a combination, very odd and very me. I am grateful to be able to walk along the hillside, pass into the woods and be swallowed deep inside her belly. She always feeds me and is gentle. I feast on a million shades of green and listen to the songs of the birds and the buzzing of a single black and orange bee. How grateful I am for this gift of time and communion. I could be stuck in a cubicle, in front of a computer, in traffic, in a bad marriage or in the bloody wars brought by the last administration. How fortunate indeed.
I don’t have anything great to write about brownies. They speak for themselves. They are unsurpassed sensual and visual delights, which I need now, because it’s been a really hard month. I’ve been down with some variation of illness for nearly three weeks. I’m at the bottom of my physical reserves and optimism. I can’t eat such a delight yet, but I can look at it. You could make it! You could eat it for me. What do you think? Wanna try?
Heal Your Life & Free Your Voice with Karen Banfield 