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Tis’ Season Of Food Lies
by D. Cashon Klein
Tis’ the season of food lies. We come together on the holidays with family, friends, and co-workers to break bread and be merry… and to lie about food.
Don’t even try to deny that you have at some time lied about a particular food placed on the conference room table atop the paper cloth printed with turkeys or poinsettias, next to the matching paper plates. There are those who have a “specialty.” Some of the specialties truly are special, and we look forward to seeing them among the other offerings. But there are things we dread, like a dry fruitcake chock full of citron and raisins. Bernice, the person who brought it, is offering to cut a piece for you, but what you’d rather do is cut and run. You watch with dismay as she dumps a piece big enough to use as a bass boat anchor on your plate, which bends beneath the weight.
Food lies perpetuate the offensive food year after year. We have a sick need to keep the tradition going every holiday. Why do we do this? It is because we are basically creatures who want to please, to be nice, to be a part of something… darn it, we just want Bernice to feel good about herself!
She will bring it year after year after year after year... She will say, when the food sign-up sheet goes up, “I know what you all want. You want my special fruitcake.” Like spineless slugs we squirm and say in unison, “Yes, please make us some of your incredible fruitcake again this year… please!” And Bernice beams with pride and assures everyone that she will bring twice as many loaves this year, so everyone can have a piece.
I found myself in the middle of a food lie when
I began work in an office that was part of a company where I had worked
in a different department. Trudy popped her head in one day during the
holidays and my co-workers all exclaimed, “Trudy! Are you going to make
your special “buckeye” cookies this year? Please say you will!” I’m
from Ohio. I happen to enjoy “buckeyes.” My mother made them every
year, as well as about a hundred other fantastic cookies. (I’m lucky if
I can find time to throw together chips and dip…) But, back to
“buckeyes” for those of you who aren’t familiar with them. A real
buckeye is a hard, shiny, nut. They are a beautiful glossy brown, with
a creamy beige space on the top, almost like a little face could be
there. People don’t eat them, but squirrels and chipmunks do.
There is a cookie named after them. It’s more a
candy, really, because it’s so rich. It looks just like a buckeye
because it’s small, round and shiny with a circular, light brown space
on top. It’s made with butter, peanut butter and powdered sugar mixed
together, chilled and scooped out with a melon ball utensil, then
rolled into a smooth, little ball. It’s chilled again and dipped into a
mixture of rich chocolate and a little paraffin wax to make the coating
shiny. Mom used a thin skewer to dip the peanut butter balls into the
chocolate so she could swirl them and leave a little space on top that
was not coated. They melt in your mouth.
The much anticipated day arrived and word got
out that Trudy had brought her famous “buckeyes,” so I went to her
office to nab one. She looked up, smiled, and gestured to a big, brown
grocery bag. I was thinking it must have taken her days to make enough
“buckeyes” to fill that bag. I opened the bag and peered in. What
peered back at me was horrifying. The bag appeared to be full of bull
testicles. There were huge, round, balls that were chalky brown. She
was still watching me, so I reached in and grabbed one. It was as big
as a softball. It was entirely covered with a brown paste that quickly
transferred itself to my hand and between my fingers.
“Better be careful!” she chirped. ‘They can be
pretty messy!” I stammered out a thank you as I backed out of her
office. Now what should I do? The only thing I could do was take a
bite. I bit through the melty, chalky chocolate into a mixture not
unlike the sand on a New Jersey beach. Yes, I could taste the peanut
butter. But that’s all it was… peanut butter. It was like biting into a
jar of Jif. “Delicious!” I cried. The food lie blasted from my mouth.
“I’ve never had anything quite like this! It’s just so RICH!” I
surreptitiously dumped the bull testicle into an obscure wastebasket
and covered it with packing paper. My hands were coated with chocolate.
Sean passed me in the hallway. “Trudy’s buckeyes,” he said knowingly. I
saw sympathy in his eyes. I ducked into the bathroom to wash my hands.
I looked in the mirror to see chocolate rimming my mouth. I looked like
a three year old who just ate a chocolate cone on the hottest day in
August.
The following year I heard myself asking Trudy
if she was going to bring in those wonderful “buckeyes” again. She
leaned into me conspiratorially and whispered, “I’m going to make a big
bag up just for you.”
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety Harbor resident.
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