The Best of WaiterChat: The Dessert Diaries Welcome to The Best of WaiterChat series. The original idea for WaiterChat started with my friend, Barry, telling me that to be successful on the web, “you have to be authentic.” I had just celebrated my 40th year working in the food service industry. From my first job washing dishes at the University of Maine dining halls to my then current job waiting on tables in San Francisco, I had experience in every aspect of food service. That sounded like something I could be “authentic” about, but I didn’t want to trash talk restaurants or customers. I wanted to write about customer service. I realized that most of the stories I could tell were about successful, and not so successful, customer service situations. My premise became—to get great customer service you have to be a good customer. I posted a blog entry every day for over a year: telling real time stories from a night at work one day, and then educational pieces the next. I infused some stories with behind-the-scene information, but also wrote about customer service experiences I had with other businesses. I varied my style to convey the information, and sometimes that led to poetry, biographies, and moments of fiction. The Dessert Diaries explores the strange relationship we have with desserts (and, in some cases, they have with us.) I organized the desserts into four categories depending on what utensil is used to enjoy them. Hopefully you will experience a fresh perspective on our sugary friends. And please, visit WaiterChat.com if you want the entire “authentic” experience.
Fork Desserts
Penetration The still warm pie rests on the counter waiting for your approach. Its flakey, buttery crust demands to be carved into eight perfect sections. The vents on top only hint at what awaits within. The crinkled rim is the seal that must be broken. It is ready. The time has come. You pick up the knife and stab it into the yielding crust which splinters under your force. Those shards of crust lie on the counter as a reminder of the imperfectness of life: that in order to experience life you must penetrate it. The result will be a few crumbs missed, but the possible rewards will more than make up for what is left behind. The knife slices through, dragged in one long continuous motion until it bumps up against the opposite side of the pan. The knife finds its mark again. And again. And one final time until the scarred crust now oozes the hidden treasure it held inside. A purplish blue gash has opened. The blueberries have been released from their envelop of shortening and flour. They are inviting you to try them, to eat them, to devour them. A spatula is inserted under the rim gently probing its way beneath the sodden crust. Its shape conforms perfectly to the triangular slice you tear from the womb where it was conceived. There is no extra liquid with this pie. There is no dripping of its contents. It holds together. A firm yet juicy piece (how do they manage that) is transported to a single plate ready to be married with homemade lavender ice cream and a sprig of mint. The warmth of the pie immediately transforms the frozen ice cream into its original form—rich, creamy liquid that infiltrates the crust and commingles with those dark berries which in turn stain the milky fluid with its unique in nature hue. Are you ready? Are you ready for this dessert to pass from fork to mouth?
Can you taste it with your eyes? Dig in.
A Slice of You I noticed you in the case when I entered the restaurant. Revolving slowly on the second tier, your fluffy white topping glistened under a spotlight, which was, after all, exactly where you belonged. Someone had already taken a slice out of you that left you exposed to the glances of every passing stranger. Your vulnerability only increased your seductive power over me— layers of cream and chocolate—the yin and yang of flavor calling my name. I knew right then I had to have you. All I could think about during the meal was the deep, dark chocolate of your interior hidden beneath those tempting clouds of whipped cream. How stiff the peaks. How luscious and soft your vulnerable filling. The layers of your existence nestled in a delicate, flaky crust richly tucked under those less stable bits waiting to be called into service. But could there be more? Was your chocolate layer as smooth, soft, and creamy as I imagined? Was it denser, like a pudding, or more delicate, like a mousse? How could I know for sure? What could be revealed before I took you into my mouth and let my tongue discover the weight of your substance, the depth of your character, and the effect on my mortal soul? Would there be a hint of mint or coffee mixed into the magical elixir of temptation with which you wooed me? Or would you come to me pure, unadulterated—the essence of all that is good in a chocolate pie? Oh, sure, there are always other choices—your cousin the tart lemon meringue — or your sister the toasty coconut cream—or your brother the sweet banana cream—but tonight I want a slice of you (I tell the waiter) to
devour right here, right now, at this very table—the one I’ve been sitting at all night hoping against all hope that you too have saved yourself for me.
Wanting Change I thought we had a great relationship. I thought we understood each other – me with my great body—you with your great taste. I was your New York cheesecake—plain and simple. I hid nothing from you. I was always cool for you—my texture firm but yielding. I held it together for you until you broke through my resistance with your fork, savoring each bite until I had nothing left to give. I don’t know when things started to change. I worried that you would grow tired of me. I could not bear the thought of you seeing other desserts, so I began to experiment. It started with the crust. “What’s wrong with a little graham cracker between friends” I thought. I sensed your appreciation of the variation in texture—my smoothness as compared to the honey kissed crunch that my new crust offered. I saw you smile. For a while we were good again and I was happy that you were satisfied. But then I started to notice your eyes wandering down the menu, lingering on the descriptions of the other desserts. Yes, they had things to offer that I had never dreamt of, but still, I thought we had something special. You wanted change. You wanted to take in new experiences, new sensations. I didn’t want to be left out. I knew I would have to find new ways to tantalize you. I didn’t want to change the way I looked at first. I found ways to adorn myself with fruit – strawberries seemed your favorite, but I soon found myself running through every berry I could think of – blueberries, raspberries, even lingonberries spilled their seeds and syrup on top of me. I wanted you to want me so badly that I went so far as to start smothering myself in peaches and pineapple when the season was right.
But even that wasn’t enough to keep you forever. I had to go crazy. I had to experiment with new ingredients and find new combinations that would peak your interest. I had to go back to the cookbook and spice things up. The time had come to bring someone else into our relationship. I looked for the right mix of flavor profiles—a third to complete us. Chocolate was my first transformation – but that changed everything to an extreme. I was lost under layers of darkness and though I could tell you were enjoying yourself I felt my flavors were being overpowered. So I tried to assert myself and at least become visible again in the marble milieu that was our new concoction. Then the holidays came and you wanted experiences that were timely and trendy. I tried pumpkin and even peppermint and eggnog. And then things got out of hand. We started to flirt with other species. The cheesecake brownie was born and then cupcakes and finally muffins and ice cream flavors. In the end there were Cheesecake Factories springing up everywhere. We had gone way too far. We had lost our respect for each other’s uniqueness and instead gotten lost in the orgy of our desire for new and evolving experiences. It was a recipe for disaster. I knew we could never go back to the way things had been. I knew that the time had come for us to go our separate ways. Do you ever think about me? Are there times when you wake up in the middle of the night craving me? Do you ever want to feel me pass through your lips, rest on your tongue, and melt right there inside you? How often I surrendered to you and in that moment joined with you forever. I long for the day when we can be together again. Do you?
Betty’s Child I don’t exactly remember the first time we met, but I’m pretty sure it was must have been my first birthday party. My parents took pictures and, though I look a little dazzled by the flash, you are front and center. In the photo you burn brightly with your single candle—a beacon of light illuminating a very momentous event. And though I must have found the candle mesmerizing, I’m sure I found you sweet (is there any other word that describes you so completely?), but I didn’t have the words then to really express how I felt about you. (I didn’t really have any words at all back then, now did I?) All I know for sure is that you have always been there — for every special occasion — and just for fun sometimes. (Does anyone really need the excuse of a special occasion to enjoy your company?) One of the things I love about you is how you keep evolving and still, fundamentally, remain the same. Your shape (sometimes you can be so square, sometimes the perfect round), taste (I can’t think of a single flavor you haven’t been except maybe meat or artichoke!!), color (from deep dark devil’s food to pure angelic white), height (how many layers are you when you show up at some weddings), size (you make a statement when you cover a table top, but you still have impact even when you are only a single mouthful), texture (soft and moist, spongy, rich like fudge—you name it), contents (surprise me with spices, nuts, coconut, or even a molten filling of chocolate), decoration (you are so crafty with your frosting and the world of items that populate it), even orientation (I love it when I find you upside down)—have always been in flux. I feel like I would never know whom I would be spending an intimate evening with (or a large social gathering for that matter.) You’d be carried out wearing whatever message you though appropriate for the occasion on your chest—or you’d be sitting on the counter waiting patiently for me to
come home and share a little part of yourself. I think your mother’s name was Betty Crocker. I never met her, but I saw pictures of her (you must have taken after your father.) I remember you as my first baking experience. You were never complicated back them—mix, eggs and oil—but you always came out beautifully. You looked delicious. (Heck, you still do all these years later.) I remember when I was a teenager and I wanted you so badly that I couldn’t be patient enough to wait for the layered/frosted version of you. Instead, I made you in a single pan with just mix, vinegar and water. Back then you were going by the name of Snakin’ Cake. What a crazy period that was. We were so young and wanted everything right now. We didn’t have the wisdom that we do now—we didn’t have the imagination to know how good you could really be with time and plenty of effort. But I think that’s something you learn, as relationships grow deeper and you have a history together. I was off to college and cooking professionally (OK I worked in the dining halls.) That experience taught me so much about you (but isn’t that what college is—a time to sink your teeth into the topics that really interest you.) I saw you feed hundreds at a time. That was when you first went through a “healthy” phase. I’m not sure those carrots fooled anyone—but still you managed to be a course unto yourself. This was probably our most experimental phase—but you never did drugs—unlike some of those other desserts (yes, brownies—you were no Girl Scout back then.) And when I finally went off on my own, you’d come for a visit. Sometimes it would be a surprise (those were always special—keeping you hidden from me was never easy.) Sometimes you would show up at other people’s houses, restaurants, workplaces, picnics, and at home. You weren’t always perfect when I ran into you—sometimes too dry, under-baked, too sweet or even, a couple of times, not sweet enough. But when we were alone you could always make me feel good (even when just being with you should have made me feel bad.) I’ve seen what a bad influence you can be on other people.
We’ve always worked at our relationship. I’ve never been jealous when I’ve seen you with other people. (Not true, I’ve always been jealous, but I’ve tried to keep it to myself.) Our lives have taken their own paths at times but, I think we have always admired each other’s independence. We’d always find each other again and each new encounter would echo that very first meeting. But our best times together have always been the birthdays. Yours—which seem to be never ending—with a new you every time. Mine—once a year, but always made special just by having you there. You, my love, are the sweetest friend a person could ever have.
Spoon Desserts
Your First Have you tasted me lately? I mean really tasted me. My texture is so silky smooth that I never resist your advances as you scoop a mouthful onto your spoon. The anticipation of that cool creaminess entering your mouth makes your eyes close because you feel so sinful having me. In slow motion your lips drag over the spoon and draw me into your mouth—to linger—briefly—as the temperature, taste and texture overwhelm your expectations—forcing you to swallow everything good I have to offer. Do it again. Do it until you want to lick the bowl clean. Is anyone watching? Go ahead you know you want to—stick your finger in if you have to—just don’t leave any trace of me behind. Take it all. I’m the original. I’m your first. I’m the one you will always remember even when you cheat on me with all those others—those knock offs—the ones that you think you have to experience, when all you really want is me. I know why you started cheating on me. I know you wanted to have other experiences before you could make a commitment. It’s the times we live in. I know that it all began when you started tasting custard. You thought you might like something that had more body, more substance. That egg-y firmness made you think you were eating something healthy. You liked the fact that resisted your spoon and required the slightest bit of chewing. Maybe you wanted to have to work harder. Maybe you wanted a dessert that put up a fight. All I know is that custard never offered you enough. You missed my sweet taste—so you moved on to flan and crème caramel (is there really any difference?) But all they added was some soft sweet syrup dripping down their sides. It couldn’t mask the fact that, essentially, they were still custard. You were too smart to fall for that—I knew that
infatuation would be short lived. The memory of my silky coolness still lingered on your tongue. But, instead of coming back to me, you fell for pot de crème. It had rebound relationship written all over it. It was just a looser version of your precious custard. Oh sure the flavors were often more exotic—fancy things for fancy people—but that wasn’t you. You wanted to know what you were having. You wanted to indulge yourself the way you used to with me. That little “pot of cream” could never match up to the shear bounty of my offering. A “pot” verses a “bowl”—sometimes size does matter. Don’t get me started about that time you spent with mousse. Sure all that airiness seemed appealing at first. All that time spent being whipped into a frenzy of creamy nothingness. How satisfying could that really be? (I know, there is a subsection of society that goes for that type of “punishment.”) Did it give you even a hint of any real substance? So light it seemed to float away. (I can only imagine the things you talked about. You probably had to speak French.) Mousse is so inconsequential. One fleeting taste (spectacular as that one climatic moment might be), but really no real staying power to keep you going all night long. Not like me at all. From lightness of texture you went to lightness of taste. Your time with that Italian hussy—panna cotta—made me worry. Sure it offered you great mouth feel. When made correctly it has a lot of my silkiness (but how often it is made too firm, too bland, too unsatisfactory.) And what did it constantly rely on to entice you—fruit. Always something to distract you from how plain it really was. Dripping with strawberry coulis or floating on a sea of poached pear puree—I never had to resort to those tricks to hold your attention. Really—how desperate some desserts can be? It’s embarrassing. You were constantly looking for something more. Your tapioca phase baffled me. (What are those things anyway—all I can think of is fish eyeballs.) Then on to rice—so heavy it makes even me want to go on a diet. Finally bread (did you even notice how many times you could smell the alcohol on it’s breath!) How far away from my original concept were you
willing to go? Was there anything left you wouldn’t do to adulterate what we once had? I am pudding! Hear me roar! Or better yet—close your eyes and imagine taking me out of the refrigerator, dishing out a bowl filled to overflowing, reaching for your spoon as you sit back, relax, and anticipate the moment when we will be together again. No gimmicks. Just straight pudding in your favorite flavor—sliding from your spoon to your mouth and the final passage down your throat. Can you taste me? And remember—don’t leave anything behind. I’m much too good to be wasted.
Blowtorch Love hurts. It isn’t intentional, but it happens sometimes. You don’t want to inflict pain. You don’t want to cause harm. But sometimes you can’t resist. Maybe your relationship even depends on it. Particularly if that’s how it has always been. Sure, you have a tender side, but you keep it hidden, protected. You keep it in reserve only to reveal yourself when someone breaks through that hard exterior surface. You aren’t that complicated—egg yolk, sugar, vanilla and heavy cream—but there is something powerful in all that simplicity. Was that a hint of citrus you sometimes surprise your suitors with? Where does that protective layer come from? What have you been through
that makes you so hard? It’s as if someone has taken a blowtorch to you and sealed you into the dish that surrounds you. Or did they place you under a broiler and melt what was once fine and sweet and transform it into this nearly impenetrable shell? How that must hurt. It takes great force to get through to you. Your lovers have to thrust hard to penetrate your glassy surface. They have to break through in order to release your true essence—the thing we are all searching for—to be known for what you truly are inside. What would you be like without your protective layer? It would change you completely. And though you would still be delicious, you would no longer be crème brûlée, a dessert loved by millions. Sometimes pain is necessary—particularly when it can create something as beautiful as you.
Fully Loaded Sometimes all you’re looking for is a little warmth in your life. Crisp, cobbler, crumble—let it take whatever form fits your style. It doesn’t always have to be hot or steamy, does it? Sometimes warm will do. You have to set the mood—make it right. Will it be apples tonight (so traditional), maybe mixed with rhubarb (who doesn’t like it when things get a little tart), or maybe you want peaches (slippery mouthfuls of southern hospitality), or berries (but watch out for
those blue ones, they’ll stain your teeth so there’ll be no hiding what you’ve been up to.) But why would you ever be ashamed? Why not broadcast it to the world—I had cobbler tonight! You wanted to be spontaneous. You had a need that was yearning to be satisfied. At first you thought about pie because you knew you wanted fruit but all that rolling around to get the crust just right and then having to wait for it to cool—way too frustrating. You weren’t interested in getting it perfect; you just wanted something in your mouth that tasted good. Looks weren’t that important. There was a little foreplay. You had to pull out all the ingredients, grease the pan (you never want anything to get stuck), and then wait for that buttery fruity aroma to intoxicate you as the room fills with the warm promise of what is about to come to your table. Is it getting hot in here or is it just me? Maybe I should change into something more comfortable for an evening with my favorite dish. Because I know when that cobbler comes out of the oven, I want my spoon fully loaded before anything has a chance to cool off. And you don’t want to stop there. You dress it up with your favorite ice cream, don’t you? You know—the one with the nuts. Cobbler, crunch, and cream—a three-way exploding your mind. The longer you make it last the more each will get lost in the others, until, there is no separating them. No way to tell where one begins and the other ends. And at that point who cares who is who or what it what or how you got to this point. You just want to keep enjoying every warm, sensual, sensational second your dessert serves up. Let the cobbler bring the heat—you bring the love.
I Scream You keep yourself apart, sequestered in your own frozen tundra. You cannot exist for long outside. It is a harsh place that few others seek—your shelter from the impermanence of the warm wide world. But seek it you do. It keeps you solid. It preserves you for the day when love will coax you out of your frosty retreat. When someone reaches in and pulls you from the deep freeze—your cryogenic stasis—and begins a relationship that will bring about your oblivion in one melting moment of ecstatic exuberance. I scream. You scream. We all scream for ice cream. We, the addicts to your eternal coolness, will wait in endless lines for an opportunity to see you pure and naked—a single scoop in a single dish or mounted on a hand crafted cone with only a brief period of time to take in all your goodness, some of which runs down our hand if we are not fast enough to devour every transmuting tantalizing trickle of your milky montage. We may find you sheathed in hot fudge, smothered in butterscotch, or resting comfortably with a friendly banana in a boat where your balls, cherries, and nuts are lubricated with the sauce of our choice. At times we watch the workers at one of your many shops massage an assortment of items—candies, crushed cookies, more nuts—into you pliable surface. Sprinkled over a shovelful of your yet virginal self and then worked into you in long powerful motions transforming you into the dessert we came for—the one our waking dreams are full of—you are reborn as the vixen mix-in—created to satisfy the need we have now, in this moment, the moment before you disappear forever. No other dessert can do this. No other dessert is willing to become something different for each individual—to satisfy each person’s individual taste so readily, so immediately, so completely. Oh, I know, you come in so many forms already. A single, smooth flavor for the purists among us—vanilla, chocolate, coffee—but that is never enough. We always want more from you. We want you to provide us with a different
experience every time. We want to find gems embedded in your frozen delight that add textural differences to our experience together. Sometimes you have swirls of flavors that look like the Milky Way scattered amongst the galaxy of your potent universe. There are times when you are nothing but soft and serving—your existence extruded through a machine that coils you high in one long continuous stream of single minded flavor. Those striations of monumental form must succumb to the eroding forces of our lapping tongues as we relentless wear down your sides to first a smooth peak and then a flat plateau and finally just a memory of what once was. There are times when we want you all to ourselves—at home—alone. And still you offer us variety in your taste, in your color. You are a rainbow—no a double rainbow—of all that is possible and good. When the pint or quart or gallon seal is tested and the hood broken open on the container that preserves you, every Tom, Dick and Harry (why even every Ben and Jerry) wants to have what waits patiently inside. It is you we all want. Will we find the strength to take you properly—with a scoop and a bowl—or will we demand satisfaction the moment you are uncovered? Our spoon thrusting into your icy surface, digging for the buried treasure you shelter under your rich and generous facade. It is a crime of passion that even Supreme Court Justice Breyer’s mind might forgive. There are no words that can adequately describe what comes over us when we see you— except for things that make no sense—like Häagen Dazs. Will you ever loosen your grip on us? Will you ever leave us in peace? Will you ever get lost in the arctic environs never to be tried again? Or will you keep reinventing yourself—calling out from your frigid world— taunting us to rescue you from the grocer’s freezer, take you home, open you up, eat you, and scream your name. Ice cream! Ice cream!
Knife Desserts
Edith’s Class Bonjour—Good day everyone! For this portion of our class I am your guest lecturer, Edith Fromage (pronounced in the traditional way)—that was my stage name once upon a time. I was much younger then and my passions (and a few very attractive men) had lead me into a countercultural life of grease paint and footlights the likes of which my mother disapproved of wholeheartedly (along with the numerous boyfriends.) But I thought I had something to say, I thought I could change the world through the shear power of my conviction and my stellar acting ability. But, alas, times change and passions fade away, and the world doesn’t change (at least not the way you wanted it to), and the men…well the men start to lose their hair. Sigh. I had to find a new passion—something that would sweep me away from a life I was finding bland and repetitive. I wasn’t sure, but everything just seemed too sweet. Was it that I seemed so discouraged after my theatrical downfall? Was everyone just trying to sugar coat the journey that lay ahead. I wasn’t looking for an easy relationship. I wanted to be challenged. And I had had enough of sweetness. I was mature and I wanted my associations to be complex, layered, cultivated and refined. It was then that I rediscovered an old friend—a friend with which I had only scratched the surface of what was possible and who, has since, turned the page on a new chapter in my life and offered me a new part to play. I’m here to tell you all about the joys of the greatest food ever invented by humankind—cheese. My love and respect for cheese has grown from the simple pleasure of Cheez Whiz as a child to the wholesale distribution of specialty cheeses including works of edible art from England, Ireland, France, Netherlands, Switzerland, Italy, Denmark, Spain, plus American artisanal cheeses. It is
truly an international stage cast with memorable characters from every kind of experience. Cheese is a living food, constantly evolving, constantly changing, taking on the character of the environment where it was born (you can taste the clover) and the conditions under which it was schooled (from vat to cave.) There are young juveniles that are meant to be eaten at a ripe young age. There are old codgers that have been around for years and years who wouldn’t set foot on the stage until they were mature enough to please your palette. Because, after all, capturing your attention and earning your adulation is what they are created for. Cheese was not created to be just a side character grated over some pasta on some plate somewhere, or crumbled on a salad to give it contrast, or even baked in layers of thinly sliced potato to create a hearty and daunting gratin. Cheese is here to take center stage in its own right. To be the leading character in an act all its own. Either as the opening act—to set the mood and open the palette with a crisp bottle of white wine and a few refined crackers—or—as the final act to finish the drama of the meal with memorable performances that demand your attention while elevating you to a higher level of consciousness with side dishes of nuts, fruit, jellies, jams, toast, honey, and a earthy syrah or a tawny port—to bring about a rapture of the senses. Isn’t that what we want from life? Isn’t that where an evening out should take us? There are the three main sources for cheese—cow, goat and sheep, but milk products of any kind can be used in this greatest of creations. Soft rind, washed rind, triple crème, hard or some combination of all of those makes for a bountiful cast of characters of countless shapes, sizes, flavors and forms all dedicated to the task of tickling your taste buds (and many invading your olfactory capacity or blinding you with their beauty.) Dry and crumbly, or, soft and runny each version has its own precious qualities. Speckled with blue, layered with ash, veined with deep rich color,
or dabbled with a dusty mold—every version has a story to tell that can be whispered (like a delicate Taleggio) or shouted (like a pungent Muenster.) Some of the greatest pairings I have every seen on cheeseboard stage are: A soft, creamy, Italian cow’s milk Ricotta with tart little fresh raspberries. A firm, yet creamy, slightly sweet French cow’s milk Comte paired with grilled black mission figs. The famous French cow’s milk cheese Camembert with its soft, earthy, and delicate salty taste it is a great match with some seedless green grapes. A sharp and spicy choice might be the Italian cow’s milk Gorgonzola, wet and marbled with mold that tastes amazing with a bite of ripe, red strawberries. The milky white triple crème from Italy, Mascarpone, spread on a toasted points of raisin bread and accompanied by an intoxicating sweet Moscato. Try a French Bucheron made from goat’s milk and formed into a log where you can actually see the two textures of the cheese transform as it continues to ripen. Served with something robust like a Concord grape and you will be amazed. Fontina offers you the taste of nuts and honey (and maybe a little mushroom) when it arrives from Italy near the boarder with France and Switzerland. Its semi-soft texture and cow’s milk are a good match which the intense sweet of dried dates. Your old friend Brie could make a substantial appearance (French, cow’s milk) as long as you make sure it is allowed to come to room temperature so that its finer qualities can blossom. Some fine crusty French baguette and a spicy fruit chutney might be all that will be required to complete the evening. If you are thinking Swiss, think Gruyere—a semi-soft cow’s milk cheese with a dense and compact flavor that changes from fruity to nutty right inside your mouth. Add dried fruit (cherries or apricots) and your guests will be impressed. That classic—hard Italian Parmesan—needs to be considered for the final
act. This most popular cow’s milk cheese has to co-star with a heavenly red wine and a sweet fresh fig. The true love of my life is my sheep’s milk Spanish lover Manchego with its hard texture and its briny, nutty flavor and matched with membrillo (the luscious red confection also called quince paste.) You must experience this at some point in your life. Choose a sweet burnt-caramel taste of sheep’s milk with the sharp, metallic tang of blue mold and the simplicity of honeydew melon and you have a match it seems only gods should devour—try the French Roquefort - please. I could go on and on and on. But, sweet student, I will end here with one final thought from my good friend and fellow actress Helen Hayes—“Age is not important unless you’re a cheese.” So live your life to its fullest. Enjoy every bite of it. And never let a pleasure go un-tasted. I love you all.
Finger Desserts
Take Two Who are you? I’d see you at parties. All decked out. Waiting for someone to pick you up. Sometimes I’d see you carried on trays and passed around for anyone to put their hands on. I always thought of you as passive aggressive—never reaching out, but obviously doing everything you could to attract any total stranger walking by in search of a good time. Then I’d go to a bakery and see you behind a glass case calling my name— you, and all your friends. So many of you dressed so fashionably that groups of you even dared to wear the exact same outfit. I knew you were a risktaker then. But how would I ever decide which one (or two if I was feeling particularly naughty) would come home with me? You made it so hard. Sometimes I’d see you in your pretty pink outfit with white and black piping looking like you were a gift-wrapped present heading off to some high-class birthday party. Right next to you would be your twin, but this time dressed in the softest green. Next to that one would be something in a sun kissed buttercup yellow. You do love your pastels. So do I. Only you can pull them off so effortlessly and so meticulously. Always with the right accessory— not too much—just that extra spot of color placed so perfectly. Not overdone or gaudy—always tasteful. I know you have your dark side—cloaked in rich chocolate with sculptural bouquets made from clear shards of spun sugar stabbed into your top layer or fancy fruits preserved in a glistening amber. I’ve seen you with a pristine white surface kissed with golden glitter and shiny Mylar strings enhancing your snow-capped landscape. At times, it seemed you might go overboard, but still you always looked delectable. You even began to reinvent the classics, establishing new trends while making everything you touched relevant again. The eclair, the neapolitan, why even gingerbread cake, you would find a way to deconstruct their elements and reconstruct them into new and delicious endings. At times you
were so audacious that you merely shrunk them in size and let them speak for themselves. Andy Warhol couldn’t compete with your creativity, your style. Then you started showing up in fine dining places—made all the finer by the fact that you were there. The atmosphere must have been created to fit your needs, your vision, for they never failed to showcase your unique attributes. You are clearly an inspiration to anyone who has any taste at all. You would appear at the table accompanied by some of your friends to do your sultry dance of seduction again, but always without moving an inch— provocative without lifting so much as a ladyfinger. Swirls and smears of libations meant for the gods puddled on the plate, egg shaped bangles of spicy ice cream nestled to one side, a tower of caramelized fruit erected to the other, and you in the center of it all resplendent in your seven layers of alternating cake and filling each one a miracle of culinary perfection by itself, but when brought together in this fashion, you know, you will be, totally, consumed. How do you keep doing that? What is this magic that you possess? What I should focus on, what I know really matters, is not your drop-dead looks but who you are inside. Are you as pretty as your pink, or as devilish as your chocolate? Are you soft and spongy, laden with some heady liqueur and held together with some ripe raspberry preserves? Or are you rich, like fudge, sandwiched between generous layers of coffee genoise? Will you surprise me with nuts or maybe the brightness of lemon curd? Or are you made up of the most fragile layers of pastry honeycombed with sinful custard cream? Who are you? Will I ever know you truly? Or will you keep changing forever? Where will I see you next? When will I get to touch you—my darling petit four?
Sugar and… People warned me about you. They told me that once I had you I would never be able to go back to the time when I was satisfied by things that were merely good. They told me you would spoil me. But when they described you it seemed that you had everything I fantasized about. I wanted sugar and shortening in one tasty treat, something small, but something that packed some heat. Something potent. Something down right bad. I thought I was strong. I thought we could just try each other out. A simple date. Like one of those speed dates where you come over to the table, we spend five uncomfortable minutes together, and then we both move on. What harm would that do? “You know that powdery sugar exterior is just a front” they told me, “it’s just an attempt to make you think they’re sweet.” But you are sweet, and evil, and cruel. In fact you often come with a warning. “Be careful. They’re hot.” Like I couldn’t tell that the moment I laid eyes on you. I was transfixed by your glistening surface sitting by the pool. Waiting to take a dip. Waiting to be cooled off. It was a pool like no other. Filled to overflowing with something they called crème anglaise. Its milky appearance couldn’t hide the fact that it was a perfect match for you. It too had heat and a vanilla way about it. I tried not to be threatened by the fact that I was about to share you with something else before we had our moment. But I sensed you wanted it. You needed it to be complete. No way was this going to cool things down. My mouth was watering. My forehead glazed with sweat. I wanted you bad. There was no going back.
I wanted to feel you in my hand, squeeze you between my fingers—too hot to handle, but I held firm while the heat emanated from your crystalline surface. I took you for a swim, drenching you in a thick coat of creamy ambrosia. Finally we came together and you delivered everything your reputation had promised and more. I encountered your hidden surprise. Your yeasty sack held a center of dark treasure—a molten chocolate that shocked me at first as I struggled to keep your generous offering from oozing down my chin. I had been warned. I was young. I hadn’t traveled the world like you had. My cloistered upbringing hadn’t prepared me for you. And though I’m a lot older now and have seen and experienced a lot of things—I will never ever forget that first time with you. I hate it when they call you “fried dough.” I can’t even think about you as a “fritter.” When I wake up in the middle of the night moaning your name, craving you—the name I will be calling—“beignet.”
Forever Sin I’d marry you if I could. Just look at you. In your purest form you are perfect. A complete circle. The mandala. The icon to all those who, like me, worship you. You are sugar and spice (if vanilla counts). You are everything nice. I’m not trying to butter you up. I simply love you. I know I don’t need to flatter you. You have no ego that needs to be stroked.
You live to bring joy to the people around you. You are the ultimate finger food. Why don’t I get jealous when I see others enjoying your company? Why am I so willing to share? Because I know that you will always save a part of yourself just for me. I’ll never go hungry. I’ll never be left out. You and I are like Adam and Eve—sinful but ordained to be together forever. Not even our creator can tear us apart. You manage to keep things fresh when I have run out of ideas. You manage to show me new sides of yourself—changing the face of things while still remaining familiar. Every time I’ve had you I’ve known who you are—no matter the disguise. You can’t hide from me the recipe of your success. All those secret ingredients are unveiled when I take you in whatever form you’ve chosen. We’ve shared intimate moments, really intimate moments. Moments that would make most sane people blush if they admitted to them. But I have no shame when it comes to communing with you. There have been times when I felt you were the only one who could comfort me. There have been times of rapture we have shared. There are times we have just hung out together over coffee or a bowl of ice cream. We are opposites. You’ve always been good to me. I have not always treated you with the respect you deserve. Your unselfishness counterbalanced my greed. Your easiness eaten up by my neurotic-ness. You fed me when I was starving. You never limited me to just one when I kept going back to the cookie jar to have another and another. Thank god you come in batches. The only time I’ve seen you alone is when everyone else is gone and you stay behind waiting patiently for me to come and get you. Alone and vulnerable, I sense your quivering as I approach. My hand reaches for you. I want to feel you pressed against my lips. I want to devour you. You know I need you. You have always been my favorite. But I’ve never
been faithful. I’ve seen plenty of other desserts in my day, but the one I always hope will be waiting for me at home is you. It’s become more difficult to see you other places. A restaurant might serve up some tooth cracking biscotti or an airy meringue. I might find you as a single hot cookie at a roadside stand or a store bought version all wrapped in fancy packaging. But you know it is the time we spend alone together that makes me feel better than all the rest of those sweet morsels. At your best you fill up our home with warmth and the unforgettable fragrance of fresh baked goods that bring back the memories of a small child. A child that knew there would be something good waiting for him if he only finished his homework or all of his vegetables. You were a treat to be anticipated—to be earned. Butter, sugar and flour re-conceived into a simple disk of depth and dimension, in every variety a young boy (and now an old man) could desire. You honor me with how much you are willing to change, to transform—while I stay exactly the same. As a young man, I couldn’t leave you alone to be who you wanted to be. Instead I spent years trying to perfect you. I tried so hard to change you—to come up with new recipes to make you the way I thought you should be. My expectations never settled down even though I thought we had something special. I made you dress up for the holidays. I made you plump. I made you thin. I wanted you hard and crisp. I wanted you soft and moist. How have you put up with me over the decades? And now we are like an old married couple. We have settled in to a routine. We know what is expected. We know what works. We know what we each find satisfying. Sure, there are occasions when we experiment a little and you like to change things up ever so slightly and bring back some of our favorites from the past. I say a prayer of thanks for you dear cookie. I look forward to being with you tonight.
Never the Same When we first started going out I never knew what to expect from you. You seemed plain and wholesome. You were a dessert, so I knew there are limits on how good you could be. And I mean good in the “take you home to mother” way. Not that I was ashamed of you, hell, I even remember all the times I brought you home to spend a weekend with my family. Everyone enjoyed you. But I didn’t know how complicated you would become. How could I? You didn’t deviate from the brownie I knew and grew up with until well into our relationship. I remember when things started to change. Out of the blue you went blonde. What was that about? It seemed so dramatic. I really thought you might have discussed it with me before you made that big a change. No. Not you. And maybe that’s when I began to see you for what you really were. Uncontrollable. I think you wanted to upset me, to keep me off center. You wanted the upper hand in our relationship. Or were you signaling that you wanted a change? That maybe you were ready to throw me off for someone who might like you better. Not possible. I liked you so much back then. I was making you almost every night. Was all that attention smothering you? Was all that heat more than you wanted? Why didn’t you let me know you needed boundaries rather than just try to push me away with all the changes? Were you just hoping I wouldn’t be able to keep up? Well, as you found out, I’m not that easily scared off. I adapted to the blonde thing. I knew it wasn’t permanent. I’ve always preferred you as a brunette. But then you started with the nuts. Walnuts. Then pecans. Sometimes I
would find them mixed in. Sometimes they’d just be lying there on top daring me to pull them off one by one. And them you’d do both the blonde thing and the nut thing at the same time. Who were you trying to be? What next? Fruitcake? There had always been subtle changes in you. Sometimes you’d seem more solid, more like fudge (who is a friend of mine as well.) Sometimes you’d seem lighter, more airy, more of the feeling of cake (a friend as well, but talk about changeable!) But like everything else in your life you had to take it too extremes. I’d find recipes for you that demanded frosting, or mixes of you that came with cans of some unknown chocolate substance that had to be more artificial than real. I’d always thought of you as something natural not chemical. Not that the frosting wasn’t good. It’s just that it didn’t really go with what I wanted from you. And then you started that strange relationship with cheesecake. Cheesecake already had a troubled past and I wasn’t thrilled when the two of you started hanging around together. Sure, I’d try spending time with the two of you, but I’m not sure it was necessary. I am capable of making decisions. I’m not afraid of making choices. I like to keep things focused. Then there was that carob phase. Were you pretending to be healthy? Then mocha. How many highs did you need—sugar and coffee. And then, the drugs. Pot to be specific. Okay I know you used it just for recreational purposes—but I always worried that it was a gateway drug that would just lead to—I don’t know—mushrooms?!? And that just seems totally wrong in just about anyone’s book. You have to agree. You finally started to settle back into something a little more conventional. You could play around with flavor and texture with a chip or two (white or semi-sweet) and that seemed reasonable. I even liked it. Of course you couldn’t resist going back to blonde every now and then, but by now I was used to that.
Where did you go after that? Oh yes, I remember. You seemed to leave your roots behind and went all congo—blonde, nuts, chips, and coconut. And though you tasted really good you just weren’t that deep, dark, moist square I had first fallen for. We used to go everywhere together. We’d meet friends for some a la mode or even a sundae if we really wanted to go crazy, but now you were just going crazy by yourself. I felt left out. I couldn’t keep up anymore. Things had definitely changed. I didn’t recognize you. My life is complicated enough as it is. You say you’re just trying to keep growing, keep evolving. I realize how important your looks are to you. But maybe we need to cool it for a while. Take a break. Have a chance to find out what’s really important. Who knows maybe I’ll be heading to the subway someday and find you selling cookies on the street. All grown up—not a brownie anymore. Off on your own. Making money for a cause you think is important. We’ll stop and chat for a while. Remembering how things used to be. But then you’ll have to get back to your cookies (your Thin Mints and your S’mores) and I’ll have to get to work. “See you soon.” You’ll say. “That would be nice.” I’ll respond. But will I even recognize you the next time we meet? One can always hope.