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The Pleasures of Growing Up With Cheesecake
My childhood was a little unusual compared to most other kids. I preferred meat, fruit and even some vegetables to desserts. I know that might sound a bit strange to most parents. My preferences might have been related to the reality that my mother kept me on baby foods until I was about twenty-eight. In retrospect, I realize that none of the [major babyinfant] food companies pour a pureed serving of a brownie into a little glass jar.
I also ate very little candy. After I would come home from trick or treating every Halloween night, my mother would make me dump my goodies on the floor, where we would both seat ourselves, cross-legged. We would sort my collection into three piles. I didn’t really get to assign anything to a particular pile; I was mostly an observer in the annual ritual. In one pile would go the things Mrs. Robertson made. Immediately after sorting, that pile went straight into our garbage can. My mother was sure that Mrs. Robertson let her eighty four cats walk all over the counters in her kitchen at will. My mother knew this because Mrs. Robertson’s sister-in-law had told her this (both the number of cats and the freedom that those felines were given.) The pile next to the toxic contributions of Mrs. Robertson was made up of any apples and small boxes of raisins that I had been given. The apples were always provided by the two dentists who lived in our neighborhood. That pile was mine. I was never too sure what happened to the third pile, the one that had candy of every sort imaginable and popcorn balls. As soon as the sorting was finished, my mom hastily took those into my parent’s bedroom. They never again appeared. My only tastes of candy came when I visited my one pair of grandparents. (My other grandparents only tried to give me buttermilk. I resent cows to this day.)
I subsequently learned not to blame my mother for my almost sugarless upbringing. I now know that somewhere there is a hidden school for mothers where they learn to protect their children from all things with a pleasurable flavor. I noticed that when my son was growing up, his mother hid all his candy after Halloween, too. However my wife has never revealed the exact curriculum of this top secret school.
At twenty-nine, just as I was beginning to learn that meat, vegetables and applesauce do not have identical textures in their natural states, I discovered dessert in the form of a gourmet cheesecake. Well, I guess it really wasn’t gourmet. It came from a discount food warehouse, in a flimsy box with a cellophane peep hole that revealed the only attractive portion of the product. But to my mouth that was primarily accustomed to pale brown meat in almost liquid form and thoroughly mashed green beans, it was heavenly.
Some years later, as I went through my gastronomical adolescence, my recreational use of foods helped me to realize that cheesecake didn’t really taste like cardboard, as my first experience had led me to believe. (Please don’t ask why I know how cardboard tastes.) In addition, I discovered that cheesecake, the wonder food, actually comes in lots of different flavors.
Dessert is now my favorite time of day. The best way to top off a well balanced meal of two jars of meat, three jars of thoroughly squashed squash and a banana is with a turtle cheesecake. Don’t allow this news to leak to my mother, though; she’ll just take it to her bedroom.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the foggiest notion of how to go about actually making a cheesecake. Please tell me if you have a good recipe. Make sure that your recipe doesn’t require using either an oven or a whisk. I do know how to use a blender, though, because I watched my mom prepare the Thanksgiving turkey one year.
Author’s addendum: I may have taken some creative liberties with slight exaggerations here and there, but I’m not concerned about being caught. My mother is still not sure what the Internet is.