Lemon Tarts

To me, having a slice of homemade (that is, not my home but someone else’s home) lemon tart on a sleep Sunday morning, while laughing at Doofenschmirtz’s latest plan being foiled by Perry the Platypus (“CURSE YOU PERRY THE PLATYPUS!”), is pretty damn close to being idyllic.

I think every time I have lemon tart from now on, I will think about this morning, when I had my first lemon tart. It was perfect weather, and I had a good sleep, waking up just in time to watch Phineas and Ferb, which I’ve missed 2 weeks in a row now. After I finished my plate of the Mi Goreng that Eunice gave me – or as I call it, Euny-Goreng – and sat there while the MSG fizzled away in my brain, I suddenly remembered the lemon tart that Bianca had dropped off last night. So when the ad-break came on, I cut myself a generous slice, and took a hungry bite into the cool tart.

Let me say this: Bianca, you are legen – wait for it…

…

(And I hope you’re not lactose intolerant because the second part is)

– DARY!

I thought for a moment to pour myself a drink, but the liquid would drown and wash away the crumbly crust and the lemony middle bit (look, I don’t bake. Just having me know “crust” is a breakthrough). So as I popped the last piece of crust into my mouth, and letting my tongue break it into delicious and awesome nothingness, I looked around guilitily. The coast was clear, and the ad-break was on. I cut myself another large slice.

As I was eating that piece (eating?! Oh the mere word doesn’t give the – dare I say orgasmic? – experience its due credit), it occured to me that, if I wasn’t alone, I would’ve said one of the two following phrases:

“This lemon tart is so good, I wanna sew my ass shut.”

OR

“I think I just had my first tart-gasm.”

(Actually, a really long line that Barney said was “I want…to take this burger out to dinner…then maybe a movie…then, take it back to my place, put on a little Terrence Trent D’Arby, [gets aggressive] then I will just… [pause, calms] fool around a little bit, nothin’ serious, just take it slow, y’know?”)

So, before I knew it, before I was ready, before I could even get out the needle and thread, I was once again poppin’ that last piece in. I looked wistfully at the dish on my kitchen counter. No. I have to leave it for later. I have to slowly savor the pure, not-too-sweet, and absolute AWESOMENESS that had come out of Bianca’s oven.

Throughout the day, the only thoughts crossing my mind is what I can possibly do to return the favor. What can beat pure awesomeness? Let me tell you this: nothing. Nothing can beat pure awesomeness, except the being that had originally created awesomeness, because only She can create something beyond what is already epitomic. But is it possible?

Keepin’ Cool,

D.F.