I do not like sweets.
Like most of my "not likes," this one has its exceptions. Though, they are few. Cake, cookies, chocolate, cheese cake are generally no-gos.
The big exception is apple pie. And, keeping true to the general rule, I do not like it sweet. Tart apple is better for me than an apple tart.
For the past two weeks, I have had company upstairs. Patrick and Christine are a couple from the state of Guanajuato. I believe this is their third year here. They have been joined by her sister and brother-in-law (Isa and Daniel).
I like having the company. And it really helps that the four of them are boon companions.
A week ago, they invited me upstairs to join them in a home-cooked meal of pork and potatoes. Monday night Isa knocked on my door with a piece of apple pie. (I suspect I had shared my little vice with her.)
I ate half of it before I could put it on a plate on the counter. About five minutes passed before I got back to the pie.
I picked it up and took a big bite. While I was chewing, my left hand (the one holding my dessert) started tingling. I didn't think apple pie was a major cause of heart attacks. So, I discarded that possibility as a food heresy.
When I turned on the light, I saw immediately what had happened.
Living in the tropics has theoretically taught me to modify my northern ways. I shake clothes and shoes for napping spiders, scorpions, and centipedes. I look at handles before grabbing them to avoid the spines of some rather pretty caterpillars.
And I do not put food on counter. If I prepare a meal, I immediately wipe down the counters, cutting boards, and utensils.
The reason? Little black ants. I swear they can sense a random drop of grease from two lots away.
That is what happened to the pie. When I switched on the light, I could see a troop of ants skittering around on my hand looking for a safe egress.
And the pie? It looked as if a waiter had passed by with his baseball-bat size mill and had left a generous pepper serving on the crust. Well, on the crust. Under the crust. Under the pie. In the pie. They were everywhere.
Including, quite a few of them, down my throat. You do recall that last big bite I told you about.
The remainder of the pie took French leave.
When Isa returned from the beach on Tuesday evening, I told her my funny tale. She laughed, but felt sorry that I was not able to finish my piece of pie.
So, before I could head out to dinner, she was at my front door with apple pie and ice cream. I almost felt like celebrating George Washington's birthday -- or holding a Fourth of July party.
This time the ants didn't have a chance. I sat down and ate my pie while I typed this note to you.
Sweets? Don't like them. But I am looking forward to some more apple pie for Thanksgiving in Oregon.
Family up north? Are you getting all this down?