Saints, Angels, Bananas, and Bricks

David made banana pudding.

I’d planned to make it myself. We had spotty bananas. David made a special trip to HEB for sugar, flour, cream of tartar, vanilla wafers, and other ingredients Miss Myra required.

Then I ran out of steam.

That was Friday.

Saturday the bananas were even spottier. Definitely on their way out.

I was the same, minus spots.

That’s when David said the magic words: “Shall I make banana pudding?”

Who was I to say him nay? I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.

I emailed him the link to Miss Myra’s Banana Pudding recipe. He took his Chromebook to the kitchen, pulled up the web page, located the egg separator I gave him last Christmas (not dreaming he would ever have reason to use it), and got cooking.

I sat.

The result is pictured below.

After the pudding chilled awhile, David sampled and pronounced it good. He said it tasted like someone else made it.

I wanted a bite but, having feasted on the extra vanilla wafers and milk, I was in no mood to partake. Mañana.

The point I wish to make: David is a saint. An angel. A veritable paragon of virtue.

Or, as Polly Pepper would say, David is a brick.

Miss Myra’s Banana Pudding, Made by David Davis, Certified Saint, on March 12, 2016

Today we take up the question, Is meringue necessary?

2012: The Year Unreviewed

Every week, I meet a friend for coffee at a shop near my house. Every week, she says, “What have you been doing?”

Every week, I pause and say, “I can’t remember.”

Memories (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then I ask her the same question and she can’t remember what she did either.

We’ve agreed not to worry about our mutual amnesia. It doesn’t prevent us from conversing for the next two or three hours. And, all things considered, it isn’t surprising that nothing outstanding springs to mind. We have rich internal lives, but otherwise, our days do tend to swamp together once they’re past.

Oops. I just stopped and re-read the previous paragraph and realized it could herald the start of a downhill slide straight into a maudlin mire. Sort of like an inverse fiscal cliff.

But no. Here’s what I’m getting at: I intended to look back on 2012, capture its high points, before moving on. But suddenly my mind is a blank.

I didn’t keep a journal. The closest thing I have to a record of the year is this blog, and the problem there is–well, you know how I exaggerate. And you might have noticed I was absent for long stretches; that leaves some big holes in the narrative. I could elaborate, but I’ll say simply that I was not lying on the beach at Cannes, no was I in a mountain cabin finishing the Great American Novel. More’s the pity.

I’ll also say a sincere Thank you to those who kept on visiting here when I was neither reading nor writing, and also when I was writing but not answering mail. As Polly Pepper would say, you are all bricks.

(Fifty years after meeting Polly Pepper [my mother read Phronsie Pepper to me when I had the chickenpox and the measles in rapid succession], I (tonight) looked up you’re a brick and discovered it started, possibly, with King Lycurgus of Sparta describing his soldiers. It’s amazing what one can find to distract one from one’s purpose.)

This post is beginning to sound like one of those afternoons at the coffee shop, so I will end it. The waiters tolerate meandering because the shop is nearly empty, and because upon leaving we tip well. I don’t expect readers, who receive no gratuity at all, to mosey along for what’s likely to be a dead end.

So. I wish you a happy, healthy 2013.

Talk to you next year.


P.S. Regarding the photo above. That is exactly what I look like when I’m trying to remember what I did last week. Right down to the big black eyes, long black lashes, and dimpled elbow.