I could smell Marsha's baked beans as soon as I left my car. My knees were shaking. She knows my weakness is her strength. Marsha is the baked bean queen, a composer of bean symphonies consisting of exotic beans gathered from her world travels.
I enter and race to the kitchen, wanting to hug the giant steaming pot on the stove. Some people use utensils. I mash my face right into the pile on my plate and begin swallowing so fast my mouth almost cramps. Napkins are an annoying interruption.
My taste buds are doing the tarantella. Marsha has enough beans stored in Tupperware to survive a nuclear attack. I must confess the last time I visited I used the bathroom and, crumpled upon the hamper, was her silk night gown, emitting a bean aroma. Temptation overcame me and I smothered my face in its exquisite material.
I pray there are baked beans in heaven. Tomorrow I visit Sauerkraut Sal, another genius in the kitchen. Need I tell you what his bath robe smells like?
No comments:
Post a Comment