I woke up this morning with a
hankering for pecan pie. Many of you probably have a special recipe for pecan
pie and I’m sure all have merit, but I’m just not interested. You see, I’ve
tasted nirvana and it isn’t to be found in fresh ingredients or recipes baked
with big doses of love. Nope, not what I’m salivating over.
Years ago Mrs. Chatterbox asked me what I
thought of pecan pie and, in a moment of weakness, I told her I liked pecan pie. This was a mistake because my wife will
do anything to please me, such as baking and serving me a perfect pecan pie,
but her efforts were doomed even before she started gathering together the
perfect ingredients. To be sure, Mrs. Chatterbox is a wonderful cook who’s
labored for forty years to keep me satisfied in the kitchen and elsewhere, but
when she presented me with her version of a perfect pecan pie I’m ashamed to
admit I was less than enthusiastic.
What was wrong with Mrs. C’s pie? For
starters, it was…rich and moist. Her crust was buttery and melted in my mouth,
a visual treat, rivulets dripping from the dollop of vanilla ice cream crowning
a generous slice. My wife’s pie
tasted like it was fresh from a bakery. It was ALL WRONG! I’d been spoiled by
the best.
It began when I was a UCLA student
motoring home to San Jose in my ’68 Beetle. I had a hideous case of the
munchies and pulled off the road in Bakersfield. After filling my tank with gas
I headed for a vending machine near the office. It was empty, except for one
package hanging in wait for someone to release it with a couple of quarters.
I wasn’t even sure what the item was; all I
could read was BAMA. But I was a starving college kid and I slipped two
quarters into the machine.
The package dropped; a mini cloud of dust
rose in the tray, making me wonder how long this item had failed to attract a
buyer. I claimed my prize and examined it carefully. The package was bright red
with Pecan written in festive letters,
and America’s Favorite on a blue
banner. I could barely make out a picture of the product partially hidden by
the letters, enough to make me wonder if I’d just wasted fifty cents. What I
saw resembled a circle of…cockroaches. How could this possibly be America’s
favorite?
I tore open the package and a pecan hockey
puck slid into my hand. I considered tossing it into a nearby trash can but my
pockets were empty, the vending machine was empty, and my growling stomach
convinced me to give this pie a chance. I bit into it and instantly noticed a
chewy sensation, followed by an explosion of taste that expanded in my mouth
until I was nearly overcome by tasty delight.
Over the next few years I made a point of
stopping at that gas station whenever I happened to be passing through
Bakersfield. Years have passed since I’ve driven through that part of the
country. I’ve appreciated many pecan pies over the years, including ones baked
in four star bakeries. Sadly, none have measured up to my vending machine
ideal. It goes without saying that my wife deserves a husband with a palette
far more sophisticated than mine. Unfortunately, we all have our limitations.
I understand the BAMA Corporation is still
in business, but I no longer see this product anywhere. If a store near you
carries them, make a chubby chatterbox extremely happy by mailing me a few of
these tasty treats.
Do you have a guilty pleasure?
