I have to admit that I’m not a big dessert eater. Not that I don’t enjoy a gorgeous crème brûlée  or yummy chocolate mousse; it’s just that within a limited daily caloric intake, I like to reserve my sugar fix for Chardonnay. 

Seriously, though, my dessert tastes tend toward those with fresh fruit.

I grew up in a farming community and at certain times, depending on the crop rotation, our neighbors grew fresh fruits. The hundred acre spread across the road did not have a fence, so my brothers and I would sometimes help him harvest his strawberries (I am sure if he knew, he would appreciate it). Add farm fresh cream and grandma’s shortcake recipe, and you’ve got the perfect finish to a country feast.

I have had the opportunity to sample many fruits in their natural environment. My first banana on the Island of St. Thomas was freshly picked along the beach. I had so much papaya during a road trip in Malawi that I can’t eat it any more. Trips to the Oregon coast yield bushels of blackberries and raspberries, and my best slice of iced cold pineapple was in Kauai, wrapped in wax paper… lovely.

One of my best memories about fruit and desserts took place on the Isle of Wight in the United Kingdom and had more to do with serving the dessert than eating it. 

I was working as a waitress in a very nice restaurant called “The Red Duster.”  The building was older than Andy Rooney (15th century), very narrow hallways, with three floors consisting of large, uneven twelve inch planks.

The first floor was the bar and dining room. Up a narrow staircase on the second floor were the pitifully small kitchen and more seating. Finally, up an even narrower staircase was a small work room with a few tables and an ancient refrigerator that was very difficult to open.

The chef was challenged enough with the lack of space, so desserts were left up to the wait staff. Brits have a staple of cheese as their final course, but they also love their cobblers. Stone fruits (e.g. fruits with large pit s) were in season and our manager brought in fresh peach and apricot cobblers every night.These were kept on the top floor and were served room temperature with cold cream.

One lucky day, I was serving on the second floor and ran into an extremely sour individual at one of my tables. Upon hearing my accent he said, “So, are you Canadian or American?”

“American!” I stated proudly. 

His response, “Oh yuk!” 

Myths and urban legends aside, we servers do not routinely spit in our guest’s food.  I leave that little sweet spot to fate.  And so, the rest of the story.

My table ordered several peach cobblers, and I hustled up the stairs to plate them. I went to grab the cream, but I couldn’t get the bloody fridge door open, so I yanked on it hard. It flung open wide and a two quart pitcher of cream came careening out, hit the floor and spilled everywhere. 

While hastily sopping it up with a few towels a little voice called up the stairs, “Um, Heidi.”  I peeked over the rail and there was my little friend…..fate.

The cream had seeped through the floorboards. One of the other servers was holding a bowl over nasty anti-American man’s head while his wife tried to mop the dirty cream from his face. 

Now that’s just desserts!!