In an attempt to reconnect with my Southern childhood, I decided to make a banana pudding the other night. I meticulously lined a glass baking dish with a stable layer of Nilla wafers, and then obsessively placed thick, unwieldy banana pieces in the gaps between the wafers. Time to make the pudding part. I rarely drink milk, but E. had bought some recently for her pie-making adventures. Only, from the smell of it, maybe not so recently. Disheartened I threw the milk out, thinking that maybe I was at the end of the road. No pudding for me. But instead of abandoning the project–the wafers and slices were already in place and waiting expectantly to be smothered in warm delicious pudding!–I decided to be creative, reach into my culinary arsenal, and make the pudding sans milk. Instead, I used ummmmm soy milk. Why not? They both are described as milk. How different can they be?
It was so disappointing to be within reach of glorious pudding, but to fail. I actually bundled up and walked to the corner market in the snow hoping that they had at least one dusty box of pudding on the shelf. Nope. Just green Jell-O, which I briefly considered as a possible replacement ingredient. That’s how fucked-up I was! I slogged home, crushed and despondent, and journaled crazily throughout the night to rid myself of the pain. I wrote a poem about it, called “WHY, God?!,”which I ordinarily would share, but find it is just too personal. I am still raw.
Quarter ’til 10 on this icy morning. The university refuses to close, despite the epic difficulties of getting to campus–I am sorry, “grounds”–for class. After swimming last night, I waited a little too long for the free trolley and my still damp hair began to freeze. Heading home from downtown, I found it much easier just to crouch down and slide slowly down the sidewalk of the Avon bridge, which had become a glassy with ice, rather then walk.
My yard is crusted over, making it extra difficult for Soup to go boom-boom, even in her coat and booties. She refuses to go. More bad weather is forecasted and I wonder how long she can hold out.
If you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding.
Retort
Well, I would ask “How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat?”