This evening I caught a glimpse into the mind of a
four-year-old Epicurean.
Henry had asked his father to put mustard and relish on his
hot dog bun, “and ketchup, of course,”
he said.
His mother cautioned him about the relish since he’d not had
relish on his prior hot dog experiences. But Henry insisted.
After a few bites, however, Henry decided that the relish
was not to his liking, so the relish was scraped off the hot dog and out of the
bun.
About half way through the thus altered hot dog and bun,
Henry began hoping for a reprieve of some kind. But his parents were not
persuaded. They expected him to finish his hot dog before he could have chips
or watermelon.
As his Grammie, I felt sympathy for the little guy’s chore
of choking down that bun slathered with ketchup, mustard, and relish juice. I hoped
that I might revive his interest in finishing his hot dog by announcing that we
would be having homemade banana cream pie for dessert.
I began to cut the pie into pieces and to top each piece
with an overly generous dollop of Cool Whip.
The first piece went to the grandpa who inhaled his piece in
a flash. The next two pieces went to Ben and Emily. Then Audrey was ready for
hers. Audrey’s pie was half the size of the adult serving, but it nevertheless
had a scoop of Cool Whip that more than equaled the size of her pie slice.
Henry was still struggling with his hot dog and bun.
Suddenly the hot dog squirted out of the bun and landed on the seat of his
chair. The bun and hot dog were reunited, and Henry’s task continued.
In spite of his hot dog struggles, Henry was monitoring the dispersal
of each banana cream pie slice topped with a magnificent cloud of Cool Whip. Last
of all, I dished up Henry’s slice of pie. It was like Audrey’s, with a towering
billow of Cool Whip perched atop the pie, and I set it on the table just out of
his arm’s reach.
At that point, Henry stuffed the remains of his hot dog and
bun into his mouth. His mouth was so full, I was sure that it would impossible
to chew and that he would choke.
Amazingly, at last he triumphed. His eyes sparkled as he was
given his pie, and he began to dip the tip of his fork into the cloud of Cool
Whip and savor the taste. Dip. Taste. Dip. Taste.
Then, suddenly Henry let out a horrified howl: the cloud of
Cool Whip had toppled off his pie onto the side of the plate. Grief overwhelmed
the little guy who cried, “It’s RUINED!” More howls.
Emily, as any good Mommy would do, quickly scooped the Cool
Whip back atop the pie, and spread it around so that it would not fall off
again. “There!” she said, expecting a return of happiness and calm.
Henry’s grief and howls and protests only increased. “It’s
RUINED! I never want this to happen again in my whole life!”
It was a moment of such drama as I had not seen in some
time. I couldn’t help but laugh.
But I understood:
Henry had been given a “perfect” piece of pie with an
astonishing, fantasy-fulfilling mound of Cool Whip on top. He had envisioned himself
savoring each bite. He had imagined extending his pie experience for as long as
possible. Maybe forever. He had contemplated the perfect and most memorable way
to eat his pie: it would be a memory to last a life time.
Then, tragically, it was all ruined.
Forever.
It’s hard being four.
