Wednesday, October 30, 2013

the apple of my pie

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?


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