For as long as I can remember, I've loved to cook. It started when I was very young and I'd help my mother in the kitchen. Eventually I began baking on my own and slowly moved to preparing entire meals. But I'd always loved baking desserts the most. People seemed to enjoy those much more than anything else I made. After several years, I started playing with the ingredients and making up my own pastries, cookies, cakes and pies. Some of them were disasters, but others turned out really well. I judged my success on the response of the people who ate what I'd prepared. My mother and her friends were my main test subjects. They were usually very appreciative, but on occasion, they would complain about how I was making them all so fat.
Eventually, I moved out on my own. I found a nice apartment near the restaurant where I was employed as a Greeter. I would have rather been a cook, but my manager said I was more suited for the Greeter position. Apparently he thought I was friendly and cute, the two main qualities required for the Greeter position. I suppose at 5 foot, 6 inches and weighing it at under 130 pounds, cute is an appropriate term for a 19 year old boy.
After work, I spent my free time experimenting with recipes. The problem with baking at my new home was I really didn't like to eat much of it. I liked to taste it, to judge for myself, but I really didn't want to eat an entire pie, or a few dozen cupcakes, or a whole cake, or a dozen éclairs. At first I saved everything, but it all went bad waiting for someone to eat it. So I began throwing it all away after I'd tasted it and passed judgment on the recipe. I felt bad for throwing away food like that. But I really didn't know what else to do with it.
One afternoon, I'd just pulled my latest cherry pie from the oven. It was steaming hot, the crust was golden brown, and it smelled delicious. It looked almost perfect, a little of the filling had boiled up over some of the criss-cross crust. In my mind it was a failure and I hadn't even tasted it yet.
A knock on my door brought me out of the slump I was quickly slipping into. As I opened the door, I was surprised to find my across-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Riley. She was a mature woman, quite a bit older than I was. She was also a very full-figured lady with breasts, hips and thighs that would easily compete with my mother's and her friends. She had dark brown hair that was styled perfectly each time I'd seen her, like she just came from a salon. She also had big, dark brown eyes and a smile that could make my knees weak. As soon as my door opened, I saw her inhale. And with a smile on her face she asked, "What in the world is that delightful smell?"
I told her it was a pie I'd just taken out of the oven, I offered her a slice if she wanted one. She readily accepted and she didn't mind when I told her she'd have to wait a while for it to cool down. I'd always thought pie tasted its best when warm, not steaming hot and fresh from the oven. We sat down at my modest table and chairs. And I poured her a cup of fresh Hazelnut coffee with a pinch of cinnamon.
Up until that day, we'd only greeted each other in the hallway. But as we sat across the table from each other we learned the basics about each other, past relationships, or lack thereof in my case, families, or lack of a family in her case, where we worked, things like that. Just when the conversation was coming to an awkward pause, Mrs. Riley told me I'd been torturing her with the smells of my cooking since I moved in. I began to apologize, but she cut me off. She told me the only reason I should be apologizing is because I hadn't invited her over sooner. I blushed and felt terrible that I hadn't thought of that.
I soon stood up and cut her a very healthy sized slice of pie. I also added a scoop of vanilla ice cream I'd made a few days earlier in my ice cream maker. One of my mother's friends bought the maker for me before I left home. I laid a clean fork on the dish and set it in front of her, taking my seat opposite of her.
Mrs. Riley asked, "Aren't you going to have some?"
I explained that I'd rather watch her eat it, it was how I found out if she liked it or not. And her opinion of the pie meant more to me than my own.
I know she felt a little uncomfortable eating pie with me sitting there watching there. But she soon picked up her fork and took a bite. The instant it touched her tongue, I knew she liked it. She had the same reaction my mother and her friends had when they really liked a dessert. Her eyes sort of rolled up and a moan slipped through her lips. She told me it was wonderful, the best pie she'd ever had. Mrs. Riley then went back for another bite. She moaned again, closed her eyes and arched her back a little.
I'd always thought that for some women, eating something sweet could almost be sexual thing. I suppose that was part of the reason I loved to cook so much. I'd always been what my mother would call a "people pleaser". And when I cooked, it generally pleased people.
In no time at all, Mrs. Riley had finished the cherry pie a la mode. I asked if she'd like another slice. She told me, "I really shouldn't, I shouldn't have had the slice I already ate. I know what I just ate exceeded my points for the day." I knew she was talking about Weight Watchers. My mother had been doing it for years, I was very familiar with the lingo.
If there was one thing I learned from being around women my whole life, it is that women sometimes forget they are pretty. So I began to remind Mrs. Riley. I told her she was very pretty and shouldn't worry about losing weight. I went on to inform her that she was perfect just the way she was. While I told her these things, I took her plate from in front of her and set it in the sink. I pulled down a dinner sized plate from my cupboard and cut her an even bigger slice of pie, leaving less than half of the pie in the pan. I also put three big scoops of ice cream on and around the pie.
When I turned and set the plate in front of her, Mrs. Riley looked like she might cry. She told me in a cracking voice that no one had told her anything like that in a very long time. I smiled, while still standing there, and told her I was only telling her the truth.
