Dessert And A Case Of Mistaken Identity

In my ongoing attempts not to implicate people and organizations in my misadventures and misdeeds, let’s just say that I was at a storytelling event the other night. (The details from this one are a little harder to disguise, but let’s all pretend, shall we?)

As much as I like storytelling at cocktail parties and on this here blog, I tend to avoid storytelling in public public. I love listening to other people’s stories, but I can be reluctant to tell my own. However, throw in an open bar and a relatively intimate atmosphere, and I tend to find myself signed up for an activity I didn’t plan to participate in at the beginning of the evening.

In an effort to make myself seem slightly more advanced than someone ruled by wine and peer pressure, I also believe in making yourself do something that makes you uncomfortable at least once in awhile. Whether it’s a particularly steep water slide or a scary movie, I like to get out of my comfort zone from time to time.

So, during the storytelling event, lots of people from many different walks of like stood before the group to tell their food stories. Topics ranged from grandmother’s cobbler and eating abroad to arguing over Doritos.

When I got up to tell my story, I talked about my attempts to woo the SO with food. In the beginning of our relationship, I wanted to make him complete meals, from scratch, that included dessert. The only problem was that I didn’t want to go so simple as to make brownies from a box or through the rigmarole of making a cake from scratch. (Plus, every cake I’d made from scratch has turned out horribly dry, and I’ve wished I just went with Betty Crocker to begin with.)

I chose the middle ground of my mother’s easy cobbler – it doesn’t taste like it came from a box, but it doesn’t require the hours of effort of a homemade cake, torte or mousse either.

The recipe is simple. You take a can of pile filling, a Jiffy box of cake mix and a melted stick of butter and put them in a dish in that order. Then, you bake at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes.

The SO was wowed.

When I found a pie filling of mixed berries, he thought I’d spent hours chopping and assembling his favorite fruits.

The only problem, of course, with keeping up such a ruse is that you have to make the simple dessert seem complicated. Aprons, spilled flour and strategic stains are involved. You also have to be on top of taking out the trash.

Then, one day, the SO came into the kitchen and found the empty can of pie filling.

“Are we having pie instead of cobbler?” Disappointment was clear on his face.

“Why is there a box of cake mix? Did you make a cake?”

I finally had to admit that the homemade cobbler I “toiled” over was nothing more than three ingredients. Ever since, the SO has called that “the day he saw the man behind the curtain,” but truthfully, I was exhausted, and it’s been easier since the truth came out.

The cobbler story went over well. There were laughs, and despite my many, many nervous hand gestures, I’d told my story aloud and in public. It was a minor triumph.

When the event ended, I went to speak with the emcee for the night whom was also talking with a couple. I wanted her to know how much I enjoyed her hosting. The couple next to her told me how much they enjoyed my story.

“It was one of my favorites,” the woman said.

“I really liked it,” the man said.

“I really liked your story, too,” I said to the man.

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” he said.

“No,” I said, very, very sure of myself. “You were in China and you got lost? Some strangers fed you?”

“That wasn’t me,” he said.

Confused, I left the group and went to join the friend I’d come to the party with. “Why is that guy pretending he didn’t tell that food story?” I said. “Do you think he’s embarrassed?”

“Laurel,” my friend said, “there are two Indian men in the room. That’s not the one who told the story.”

Another guest tried to comfort me, “I think that guy was from Colorado, soat least  you’ll never have to see him again.”

“No,” I thought, “but now he’s going to go back to Colorado and tell everyone that people from Alabama think all Indians look alike.”

(In my defense, the two Indian men were also wearing nearly-identical checkered shirts. (“One was blue and one was green,” my friend said, but I’m sticking with my story.) Either way, I was extremely embarrassed.)

I went from being the deceptive cobbler girl to the racist in the room in less than five minutes.

Now, there’s no telling which will be more compelling – my story for the event or my story from the event.

I’ll let you know the next time I'm out and about, brimming with information and wine, and you can decide for yourself.