Sweet and Salty

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Desserts evoke emotions. Realtors rely on the the sweet smell of fresh-baked cookies to upgrade a house from small to quaint. The savory, nutty flavor of pumpkin pie reminds families of time spent together during the harvest season. The tart, sweet flavor of an apple pie emotes Americana, prompting patriotism that might be absent with any other dessert. And these are wonderful emotions. They are built upon years of blending fond experiences with flavorful food. While satiating such succulent sweets, the senses become overwhelmed, leaving the palette empty for words more creative than yum. These feelings are warm, memorable, and typically nostalgic. And that is all well and good. But lately I have come across a different experience.

It began early last week when Andrea made a strawberry pretzel dessert. If you are unfamiliar with this treat, it is a layer of butter-bathed pretzels, topped with fresh strawberries, strawberry Jello, and a mixture of cream cheese and whipped cream. Perhaps it is most popular at potlucks, fellowship meals, and high school graduations. Simply put, this dessert is the best contribution from the Southern Baptists since Sunday School.

Most troubling are the emotions. No heart-warming nostalgia here. Patriotism, not today. The emotions are harsh, unexplainable, and embarrassing. While cheesecake is an accoutrement to pleasant conversation after a good meal, strawberry pretzel dessert is characterized by standing at the kitchen counter at 1:00AM with a large spoon, a guilty conscience, and 113 inches of culinary cocaine. The 9×13 pan does not help. This pan was obviously invented by a woman who was looking to incrementally gauge the extent of her husband’s harmful habits. And with this pan I was left to make that difficult decision. Should I simply start cutting a new row, which would make it obvious how much I had taken? Or should I use a knife to take a long, 1″ sliver along the entire new row, thereby employing more subtle means?

It makes little difference. She knows. She can tell. My restless sleep gives an indication. So does my early morning stomach ache. And certainly she has noticed that my pants are getting tight. Which makes sense, since I nearly ate the entire pan. I mean, that was the most costly 8×10 since our wedding day.

I was hurting. What was I to do? How could I avoid this predicament? I retreated to the only choice for doing away with this addiction, this vice. And so I dug in and finished the dessert. It was the only way to get rid of it.

For culinary elitists who wish to throw water on this tale and accuse me of non-gourmet eating habits, that is fine. I can handle the criticism. It was not a proud moment for me, either. And I am well-aware that this particular fare is hardly creme brulee, chocolate molten lava cake, or cherries jubilee. But I have seen many of those desserts come into our home and, at least, make it through the night untouched. Not so for the pretzelee populist from the potluck.

And so, this adds another chapter to the story of food. How do we decide what is gourmet? What makes something delicious? The answer might be that some foods evoke warm memories, others prompt good times, and most bring people together. But lingering behind the sweet dreams there is a sinister nightmare. Perhaps it is not socially welcome. But it drives us, moves us, and keeps us up at night. If integrity is decided by who we are when nobody is looking, then our tastes might be no different. True love is determined not by words alone, but by the cream cheese residue that shadows a man’s lips.

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