Let me start by saying this will probably be my fault. I’m not sure why I’m at fault, but it is safer to take that responsibility than not.
Second, for those not aware (there may be one or two people on the planet), I am a dessert person. I would gladly forego a main course for dessert any time.
This all started with our upcoming blood test.
Both Barbara and I were scheduled to get fasting blood tests to check on our cholesterol and triglycerides.
There have been times when my numbers have been high, but that was due to special circumstances, such as my doing investigative pie eating when I was going to be a pie judge, and when Barbara moved the three bags of hershey bars into the kitchen refrigerator from the one in the garage.
This time, we hadn’t done anything special.
I still cooked, following the ancient adage passed down to me by the food network: that everything goes better with lots of butter, and keep cookies, cakes, ice cream and gelato in the house.
As the time for our blood tests got closer, Barbara was convinced I was going to get a bad report based on my diet. She was expecting me to get a tongue lashing from the doctor. She was looking forward to it, and saw it as a vindication of her saying: we should cut down on desserts. Although this never stops her from eating the desserts, as those who have had dinner with us will attest to.
We took the blood tests and awaited the results.
Meanwhile friends of ours from New York were staying with us.
Two days later, my phone rang. It was the doctor’s office. They had my results.
“Your numbers are good”, the lady from the doctor’s office said.
“I expect nothing less”, I answered. “What were the numbers?”
She gave me the numbers.
“Great,” I said, “my wife is going to be really mad they are good”.
“Probably,” the lady said. “She’d be right to feel that way.”
I asked for my wife’s results, but the doctor hadn’t reviewed them yet, so they couldn’t be released.
I hung up the phone, and told my friends, who were eating breakfast, what the results were. Barbara was still in the shower.
“Barbara is going to be pissed,” I stated.
“No she’s not,” our friend said, looking dubiously at me.
“Just wait,” I answered.
We continued eating breakfast waiting for Barbara to come in.
Barbara finally came into the kitchen.
“Who was on the phone?” Barbara asked.
“The doctor, I got my test results, yours weren’t ready,” I replied.
“So what were your numbers?” Barbara asked with a smile on her face.
I told her.
“Son of a …, how could that be?” she said with a frown. “That can’t be right, are you lying?”
I assured her I was being truthful and turned to our friends for confirmation of what I said.
Our friends were looking askance at Barbara.
Barbara has the reputation of being the better one of us. Her disappointment in my good news was in direct conflict with her image. I was glad they were witnesses.
“This isn’t right. You eat so much dessert, how could your numbers be good? You just wait, my numbers will be high, and we eat the same things. Its just not fair!”
I saw where this was going, I would be to blame if her numbers were high. I would have to shoulder the blame, a burden I was prepared to accept.
In the meantime, put some rum raisin ice cream on that slice of tiramisu.