Yes, yes – no bread. That was the thought buzzing around my head as I was drooling over scrumptious apple bread by Monet from Apples and Anecdotes. It was sitting in front of me like a Heineken at an AA meeting. So when V., my dear blond friend, texted at 11.30 p.m. and asked if she can crash for the night after a party, I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut. I had to blurt out, “Sure! And in the morning we can make apple bread.”
My hope was that after she was conscious again in the early afternoon, or whenever, she’d have no recollection of the indecent. Or she’d be late for something and couldn’t possibly stick around. No dice. The first thing she said, still wrapped in a white bathrobe three times her size, was, “So what about that strudel?”
“It’s not strudel, it’s apple bread,” I said.
“Whatever. Where is it?”
How could I say no? And at the same time, not send myself into a catatonic coma? I peeled two bananas, mashed them with a fork and prayed it would work as a sugar substitute. Not that bananas are not sugary. But it was that or the deep dark void of disappointment.
Most of the muffin-sized breads were gone before they cooled – but I remained relatively stoic and compensated with a double dose of cheese. To wade off the temptation, the rest was sent home with V. Ten minutes later I got a text message,
“I’m looking forward to a red light. Got to polish this off.”