26-Sep-2005

Disaster strikes.  Perhaps it was my blatant insult of Cousin Brian's broccoli casserole, perhaps my foolish trust in AOL recipes.  Regardless, the chocolate raspberry cake The Pony and I tried to make last night fell apart faster than an alcoholic in a bourbon distillery.  The Pony was very kind about it - he tried to make me feel better with unprovoked comments of "It tastes good, it's just the consistency's a little off."  I responded to his pleasantries with "Take it to the trash!"  Now I wouldn't feel so bad had I just been baking for myself.  But I hate letting people down.  And I will not let him down, even though he only likes hot blondes who can cook.  So this morning on my way to work I did what I do during any time of crisis.  I called my mother.  Now I can tell when my mother's preoccupied - I have a test I use on her when I think she might not be listening.  All I have to do to snap her back in line is tell her I'm pregnant.  After her first, "That's nice, dear," she'll switch over to panic mode and I have her full attention.  When I had her full attention this morning, she referred me to my Mammy Jane.  For those of you who don't know Mammy, she's my great aunt, my grandmother's younger sister, and you know that relative you have that you think is the best cook in the world?  Mammy can kick their ass any day of the week and twice on Sunday.  Then she'll beat them at golf.  She has dinner parties for thirty people just so she can "play with her dishes," and her chocolate pie recipe is famous in our part of the country.  I used to carry it in my wallet on a little index card when I first moved to New York.  I didn't know anyone in the city, and somehow having that recipe with me at all times kept me from being totally homesick.  Sadly, several months into my New York life,my wallet was stolen by androgynous crack whores at the Au Bon Pain at Third and Broadway, and now here I am, having disappointed The Pony, and interrupted my mother, with no chocolate pie recipe to my name.  And where is Mammy?  That's right, folks.  My 85 year old, terminally ill aunt is at exercise class.  I am counting the minutes till noon, when my mother has promised me she'll be home.  Hold tight, Pony, unless you find a blonde with better skills.  I'll understand.