I’m not sure I remember the inspiration for this one, but I thought I’d share it anyway.
Talullah’s cream puffs were a disaster; she fancied herself a gourmet pastry chef and loved to ply unsuspecting visitors with her sickeningly sweet death traps. If anyone had ever been able to finish one, I hadn’t heard the tale, though there might have been an E.R. doctor or two who could relate the sordid details of such an event. What exactly was it about her cream puffs that made people weep in agony? The chocolate glaze was of a color not found in nature, unless of course, there are cocoa tress in South America whose pods are used to pave highways. The cream was just as bad — instead of spreading itself throughout the pastry, it congealed in a clump in the center reminiscent of a rancid couch potato. The pastry was crunchy, the texture of potato chips but as flavorless as an overcooked asparagus. I had the misfortune of stopping by one morning after she pulled a batch from the oven; she shoved three of them at me before I could protest, and not even the tallest glass of milk in the world could wash the taste of Talullah’s arrogance from my mouth when I took the requisite “polite bite”. When I offered her Pomeranian, Napoleon, a piece in an effort to rid myself of the offending material, he nearly bit me. I couldn’t bear eating it, but Talullah had conveniently forgotten to give me a napkin, so there was no way to hide the evidence of my falsehood. Left to my own devices, I did what any other victim of Talullah’s ego would have done — I excused myself, left the picked-at cream puffs on the counter, and hurried across the street to Chez Henri’s dessert bar.
10/29/08 revised 08/14/10