The Pleasures of Growing Up With Cheesecake
I grew up a bit differently from most kids. I didn’t sneak sweets. I actually ate only meat, fruit and even some spinach and green beans. I know that might sound a bit strange to most parents. My unusual appetite may have had something to do with my mother feeding me baby foods until I was approximately twenty-eight years old. In retrospect, I now recognize that none of the [major babyinfant] food companies pour a pureed slice of a fudge brownie into a glass jar.
I also ate very little candy. After I would come home from trick or treating every Halloween night, my mother would make me dump my goodies on the floor, where we would both seat ourselves, cross-legged. We would sort my collection into three piles. I didn’t really get to assign anything to a particular pile; I was mostly an observer in the annual ritual. Into one of those piles would go everything that was made by the generous Mrs. Robertson. Those went straight into the garbage, because Mom was sure that Mrs. Robertson let her fourteen cats walk all over the kitchen counters. The second pile contained a couple of apples and a small box of raisins. That was the pile I ended the night consuming. I was never too sure what happened to the third pile, the one that had candy of every sort imaginable and popcorn balls. My mother spirited those off to my parents bedroom, and I never saw them again. My only tastes of candy came when I visited my one pair of grandparents. (My other grandparents only tried to give me buttermilk. I resent cows to this day.)
In defense of my mother, I believe that this sort of behavior is taught in the top secret motherhood school. I noticed that when my son was growing up, his mother hid all his candy after Halloween, too. However my wife has never revealed the exact curriculum of this top secret school.
When I became a full fledged adult at the magical age of twenty-nine, I began to learn that applesauce, vegetables and meat in their natrual form do not really have the same texture. I also discovered the wonders of dessert in the wonderful form of a gourmet cheesecake. Actually, I now know that the word gourmet is rarely applied to anything that comes from the discount grocery store in an ugly box with a small cellophane peep hold. The cheesecake turned out to be mostly chemicals–delicious chemicals. But to my mouth that was primarily accustomed to pale brown meat in almost liquid form and thoroughly mashed green beans, it was heavenly.
Later in life, as I belatedly went through my experimental wild years, I learned that cheesecake could taste much less like cardboard than my first sample. In addition, I discovered that cheesecake, the wonder food, actually comes in lots of different flavors.
Dessert is now my reason for living! My favorite way to complete a nutritious mean of two jars of beef, two jars of mashed peas and a pureed apple with cinnamon is with a turtle cheesecake. But please don’t tell my mother; she’ll just take it from me.
The saddest part of this story is that I don’t even know how to make a cheesecake. If you have a recipe for one that doesn’t involve using either a mixer or an oven, please let me know. I do know how to use a blender, though, because I watched my mom prepare the Thanksgiving turkey one year.
Author’s aside: It’s possible I may have exaggerated just a bit here and there, but don’t mention it to my mom. She doesn’t have a computer and thinks the Internet is a type of support stocking. I don’t have to worry about her actually reading this.
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