creme puffs

I love those little things. I love the squish of just-thawed whipping cream through puff pastry, bite size, bite after bite. My mother made creme puffs about once a year. They were remarkably good. It is one of those pot-luck things that shows up on the table, and I can't stop going back for more. They don't hit me for about 45 minutes, and then I am sick. Gwen, if you read this, you took the high road and I wish I'd been on it with you. Me? I was aiming for moderation, a concept that has always eluded me. In every category, but especially creme puffs. They, as a food group, are so tied to childhood deprivation, of having three older brothers who always got more, and first, and this is the nature of my eating disorder: that boys deserve and girls do not. So when it is a room full of women, the allowance is overwhelming.

But as the recently deceased Peter Boyle would say: Stay out of my psychosis.

I'm full. And home. And now it is decorated inside and out. He hung the outside lights. We're ready.