Shotgun Wedding

Posted on 03 October 2005

Every Sunday at noon Gill, Karyna, and I choose a sweet, eat and write about it. As Gill is in Paris, Karyna in Montreal, and me in Vancouver, we’re not really writing at the same time. This was yesterday’s entry:

Alas, I couldn’t eat a lemon tart this morning as I was painting the office at home an icy white – a colour Bren chose months ago for the hallway and there was…

(Just a minute: my lemon tart, sitting in front of me, is calling. I had cut it into four pieces, made myself a cup of English Breakfast tea, and carried it out to my house in the garden at 6 p.m.. Can’t wait another minute. A quarter of a quarter fills my mouth. Oh my god, it’s good. Another mouthful finishes the quarter. I lick my fingers, sip some tea.)

just too much paint – over two tins – though I had wanted colour in the office, I am too parsimonious to waste what is already in the house; and besides, I collected a number of colour charts and couldn’t decide what I wanted so took the easy route. I’m happy. The room looks like an ice castle though not at all chilly. The grey of the deck’s new cover reflects through the double glass sliding door onto the walls.

(Another bite of lemon. I’m in heaven. Why do I like lemon tarts so much? Finished last of second quarter.)

When I was little, my mama said that when she left home (after a shotgun wedding), she made herself a lemon pie and ate every bit of it herself. I was not the child in her womb so I haven’t come be my love of lemon honestly. She told me, at this time, I was just a twinkle in my father’s eye.

(Here goes another bite. A small drop nearly escapes my mouth but I use my baby finger to shove it in. I finish the quarter and take another sip of tea. I am being bad on two counts. First, I am not writing at the prearranged time and second, I am eating my dessert before dinner.)

After I finished rolling on the first coat of paint, I ran, showered, and left for work muttering “I’m late. I’m late…” had to open store and worked till 5:30, grabbed a bus to Capers, ravenous as I had not eaten lunch though Rob had made me breakfast but after stomping up hill from the store, lemon tart in hand, he said that he wasn’t hungry yet and could I wait: he would prepare dinner later (do I have it good?) and so I had to pretend my tart was an appetizer or die of hunger.

(Am just about to devour last quarter. Instead of biting into it, I lick the surface slowly, coating my tongue, then lick my lips. I feel like a child. Repeat the action, thinking that if anyone were to touch my lips with theirs, they’d receive a sweet-and-sour kiss. I pop the last of my tart in my mouth, then with the back of my hand wipe away the crumbs.)

I am exhausted.

Gill just sent me permission to publish her lemon tart episode:

The lemon tart sits beside Aimee’s strawberry tart in a piece of paper, wrapped into the shape of a triangular dome. The dome sits triumphantly on top of two ham sandwiches and drinks for our lunch. As we wait for our train to arrive, I can’t wait. I unwrap the two fat tarts and give into sweet temptation. I don’t know what to expect from it. It’s small and thick, unlike the flat round ones from Capers I’m familiar with. I’m afraid it won’t compare. Citron is scrolled in black icing on the top, along with two almond flakes that fell off another dessert. I dig my teeth in. The lemon insides are thick and sweet, like a lemon cream cheese. It is rich, but not sickly sweet, and I groan with pleasure. Aimee asks if I want to trade a bite for a bite. I say no. Soon after I feel selfish, and pass her my tart so she can have a taste. I’m happy to have it back in my hands afterwards. I try to enjoy it as much as we can while keeping up conversation. The train arrives, and we climb on, tarts still making their way into our mouths. I feel like apologizing to my lemon tart, because it deserves more of my attention than this. It is good. I know it is good. My smile widens every time it enters my mouth. When I finish my last bite, I’m truly satisfied. But next time I’ll eat it alone.

***
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