By Barbara Taylor Sanders
At a recent barbecue in my backyard, my friend Donna shared a nightmare about trying to impress her new neighbors with her culinary skills. One inspired summer day, she drove out to a U-Pick-Fruit farm in the county and lovingly hand-picked two quarts of strawberries. That same day, she made pie dough with real butter, then artfully rolled it out to fit in a brand new, over-sized, expensive Pyrex pie pan. The shell was baked and cooled, then filled with a yummy strawberry mixture made from the finest of ingredients.
The following day, Donna proudly presented the gorgeous pie with a “welcome-to-the-neighborhood” note, painstakingly written in calligraphy. The new neighbor, an absent-minded doctor, opened the front door, took the dazzling strawberry pie, thanked her, and then closed the door. Unfortunately, she never met the woman of the house.
About five weeks later, Donna bumped into one of the teenagers. She greeted him with a friendly smile. “How did everyone enjoy the strawberry pie I made?” she asked, expecting a praise report.
“Oh, was that from you?” he asked, scratching his head before confessing. “Yesterday, Mom was cleaning out the fridge and found it way in the back. It was completely covered with black mold, so she pitched the whole thing in the trashcan. Mom wondered where it came from,” he added with a chuckle before walking off.
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Upon hearing that story, my other friend Susan seized the opportunity to get something off her own chest.
“Well, that reminds me of the time I brought over my homemade cherry strudel, and it landed in your trashcan!”
Susan glared at me. I sneaked a peek at my husband. He shrugged his shoulders. We both drew blanks, which only added insult to injury.
“Cherry strudel?” I smiled weakly, completely dumbfounded.
“How could you not remember?” Susan’s hazel eyes were blazing. “It was Labor Day weekend, three years ago. I spent all day Friday making two large pans of cherry strudel. I brought the platters over on Saturday morning for your party on Monday. I told you not to let anyone touch the second platter. I was really looking forward to having some at your party.”
I was still drawing a blank, so she continued.
“When I asked where it was, you said your husband and the kids started eating it and it got real gooey and messy in the pan, so you threw it out. Then you went digging around in the trash can and found the remains in the aluminum foil.”
At this point, all I could do was smile and hope for the best. Susan’s eyes were still flashing, so I definitely knew better then to sing, “The first to forgive—gets the blessing!” And I’m finally learning that whenever you try to put on the dog, you always get bit!
