Search

Greg Bardsley

Category

Belmont

Love for thy raspberry

My 3-year-old Dylan loves to blow raspberries. He’s pretty good at it.

Usually it’s a slow and gentle raspberry — the tongue is fat and wet, the lower lip is stuck out, the chin is jutted out, the eyes are calm. When he blows one of these beauties, I feel like laughing because it’s hilarious to be with someone who uses the raspberry quite seriously.

If his brother Jack antagonizes him, Dylan blows him a raspberry.

If he can’t get a toy to work properly, he blows a raspberry at it.

If he earns a time-out during dinner, we send him to the nearby garage. He knows it’s useless to resist because that will only bring on worse consequences. So he saunters to the door, opens it, steps into the garage, looks at us one last time, and gives us a raspberry. Then he shuts the door, nice and gentle.

Now he’s realizing that his raspberries are making people laugh, so he’s blowing them like there’s no tomorrow. And he can fly into a raspberry frenzy at any time, any place.

Case in point ….

The other day I tell Nancy that I’ll take the boys to the grocery store. She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“When was the last time you’ve spent thirty minutes in a grocery store with both boys?” she asks.

“Why?”

She’s still looking at me like I’m crazy, and she’s fighting off a smile. “You sure you wanna do that?

Thirty minutes later, at Lunardi’s, the boys are whizzing up and down the aisles, each with his own little “Customer In Training” shopping cart. It sounds like a dozen Roman chariots are approaching my backside, and my skin goes cold. I turn and whisper-yell for them to slow down. A yuppie holding an enormous latte gives us a long, blank stare. An elderly couple passes us, their eyes twinkling at the boys.

In the produce section I’m fingering through avocados when Dylan backs into his “training” cart, which in turn eases into a tower of vinegar bottles. The sound of clanking glass gets my attention, and Jack laughs and hollers, “Whoa.”

“Dylan,” I yell. “Freeze.”

I can feel people watching us. My skin goes cold again.

“Okay,” I whisper-yell. “That’s it. No more cart.”

“Fine,” Dylan says, and marches off toward the bananas, blowing a raspberry with every happy stomp, pumping his arms like he’s pulling on train whistles, encouraged by the howls of his older brother. A woman in a giant denim skirt looks down at him as he raspberry-stomps past her, his brows furrowed in mock earnest, and continues toward the apples and peaches.

I have a full cart of groceries. This cart of groceries has been hard-earned. I am not going to abandon this cart of groceries, I won’t leave this store in defeat. I grab the items out of Dylan’s cart, throw them into mine, corral the boys and high-tail it to the checkout area, whispering to myself, “We’re out of here.”

At home, Nancy fakes innocence. “How did it go?” she asks, heavy on the calm motherly tone.

We look over at Dylan as he raspberry-stomps through the kitchen. Only now he’s inserting fart noises between each raspberry. Jack is still laughing.

“Yeah … Well … It looks like it was a relaxing experience for you,” Nancy deadpans, and she squeezes my forearm. “I’m happy for you.”

I swear it: I’ll never so much as crack a grin at another one of Dylan’s raspberries.

Damn, I want it bad

I can’t get it out of my mind.

The thought of it hits me at all hours — in the dark of the night, at high noon, at dusk and even at the break of dawn. It burrows to the center of my brain, where it releases wave after wave of want and desire. I stare into space, my right eyebrow arched just so, and lick my lips. And I think about it over and over and over. My brain, my body, my mouth, my soul — they all want it bad. Real bad. And I’ve got to have it.

I’ve got to have one of those cinnamon rolls at Pilgrim Kitchen.

It all started when my youngest son Dylan and I enjoyed a special father-and-son weekend during the holiday break. Dylan’s No. 1 request for the weekend had been quite simple — “donuts.” Suffice it to say we had some donuts.

One of the joints we hit up was Pilgrim Kitchen in Belmont. Talk about a wonderful little slice of authenticity. This is a place where you can sit down with a ceramic cup of coffee and eat a donut off a real plate. What’s more, the donuts and other baked treats there are sublime — we’re talking hardcore, serious quality you rarely find in donuts these days.

As luck would have it, I got addicted to their cinnamon rolls. The first time I had one, my eyelids fluttered. I hummed happily. My mind floated. I think I may have even swayed back and forth. Dylan held his giant powdered donut as if it were a glowing chalice offered to the gods, his fingers under the treat, not around it, his cheeks caked in powered sugar. I smiled, he hunched his shoulders and giggled.

Suffice it to say, we returned a few times during my break.

Now, I’m back to work, the boys are back in school, and I can’t stop thinking of Pilgrim Kitchen — specifically, getting my hands on their cinnamon rolls.

It got me to thinking, Hell, I just love my baked goods. Case in point: I also happen to be lusting for cornbread muffins with just a bit of butter and honey on top. We had some with dinner the other night, and I’m telling you, it was unbelievable.

But at some point, I must resist. I’m 40, not 25. My metabolism doesn’t crank at the frenzied pace it once did. My gut is at a critical point — either I pull back now, or I risk seeing it expand for years to come. What’s more, my arteries don’t need this.

So send me white light. Send me the white light of resistance and self-control. Send me balance and moderation. I need it. Because right now, I want it. I want that cinnamon roll, and I want it bad.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑