or, “You Say Potato, I Say Pot-ape-to”
This is a story that begins, as most stories do, with a mistake.
This week, Durand’s chef made dessert, like she normally does. Except it was glorious dessert — absolutely glorious dessert. She made monkey bread, and we raved. “The best dessert all year!” we said. “It’s so delicious!” we said. “This sure beats her viscid, abortive attempt at flan!” we said.
And then, in the most tragic event that’s happened to me in recent memory, the monkey bread disappeared. Through a series of house chat-list emails, I eventually managed to recreate the fateful incident: due to the waning supply of food storage containers after dinner, the monkey bread had been thrown away. Meanwhile, the baked potatoes and artichokes were saved. Keep this in mind.
My woe was unabated for two nights until I wandered into the dining room one day to find — miracle of miracles — a newly crafted monkey bread, this time smothered in frosting, courtesy of one of Durand’s baking marvels.
I ate one monkey nugget, and found myself reeling in buttery, sugary heaven. But, as the marketing saying goes, I could not eat just one. So I reached, into the center of the simian cinnamon sweet, eagerly awaiting the blissful ingestion to come. I plucked a delicious looking segment from the cake, covered in frosting and ripe for consummation. I bit in.
To a potato.
Some fiend had replaced one section of the cake with an entire red potato. And believe you me, potato covered in monkey bread frosting is a lot less appetizing than monkey bread covered in monkey bread frosting.
And so, to whoever replaced that part of the monkey bread with a cold, clammy baked potato, allow me to paraphrase someone who’s quite good at delivering fiery, apocalyptic punishment: THOU HAST SEDUCED THE SON OF ADAM, BEAST, AND LO FOREVERMORE THOU SHALT CRAWL ON THY BELLY, DESTINED TO DRINKETH DUST FOR ETERNITY, YOU BASTARD.