Some tales bear repeating. Even if they have not been told the first time.
I am getting to that age where I regularly pepper my speech with "I may have told you this before." It is one of those self-deprecating defenses: I will say it before someone deflates my tale with "Oh, yeah. You've told that one several times."
I thought I was going to be put in that position for today's story. But a quick search of Mexpatriate (using the very handy search engine at the upper left) reveals that this is a new story for you all. Except for the people who have sat through it in person.
It involves one of my favorite pies. Banana cream pie, to be exact. But a little context first.
Last evening, my friends Ed and Roxanne rode over to La Manzanilla with me to experience another of Alex's dining experiences at Cafe de Flores. I saw on our local message board that one of her featured desserts was Old School Banana Pudding. You can probably see why it interested me.
And it was everything I could want. Homemade pudding in a small mason jar with fresh bananas, thin Mexican cookies, and whipped cream. Everything bite was perfect. And best of all, it triggered a raconteur's tale for the assembled diners.
A couple of years before I moved to Mexico, I drove over to the local Marie Callender's restaurant to buy a pie. Don't be shocked if I tell you it was banana cream.
Back in those golden days, I did most of my reading and eating in my hot tub. This was to be no exception.
In my world, there are four servings in a pie. When it comes to pie I like, a piece can never be too large.
So, off I went to the hot tub with my large portion of creamy pie. I suspect it survived for only a few minutes. Back into the house I went to dole out another serving -- and to brew a cup of Constant Comment tea.
It too disappeared quickly. I took the empty plate back into the kitchen to leave it in the sink. But the third piece called out to me. And I gave in. That piece lasted me much longer than the previous two.
When I came into the house to finally get rid of the plate, it occurred to me that no one leaves that last piece of pie in a pan. Too often it simply goes uneaten. And that is the veritable definition of a shame. But not that night. It went on my plate.
I do not recall just how long it took me to work my way through the final piece. But I can remember that the last two or three bites did not go down smoothly. It was more like tamping down a wad in a pirate cannon. But I was not to be denied my bragging rights for eating a full pie in one sitting.
Would you be surprised if I told you I could not look at a banana cream pie for sometime without feel a bit nauseous? Thinking about it now, I am not certain I have eaten any since then.
Well, until last night. And it was a great lesson. No matter how I try to indulge in aversion therapy, I will never be a Skinnerian. Not that I would want to be.
Not only did I relish my little banana cream faux pie, I also received a hot tip on where I can buy some fresh cherries locally.
Life is good. And delicious.