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)
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.”
“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?