Essay: A surefire recipe for romance
In this family, the key to a man's heart has always been lemon pudding.
By Debbie Sweetfrom the February 6, 2008 edition
Page 1 of 2
My mother couldn't believe it when she first laid eyes on my father. It was 1935 when she opened the door to see him standing on her family's front porch.
His hair was stuck to his face and dripping from hair oil he'd slathered on to impress her. At 16, he probably had a lot to learn about hair care products, but still.
She looked at him, missing his good looks through the soupy strings of hair, wondering who he was and what he wanted.
"I'm Dave Diegelman, and I'm new in town." He brushed his hair out of his eyes – probably to get a good look at her – and then put out his hand to shake hers.
Pushing the screen door toward him she touched him for the first time. Rather than sending shivers through her, his touch left her hand oily.
He'd seen her from across the street the day before, he said, and was sorry to be forward but he wanted to meet her.
After that, she avoided him, thinking he was odd. But she seemed to be in the minority – other girls at school were gathering around him like fans at an all-star game.
What was it about him? Now that she could view him properly, minus the oil, she saw that his black hair had a lovely sheen and a soft wave. She also noticed his warm brown eyes. Seeing her interest, he started coming by.
It wasn't long until she became a bit unsure of herself. Did he really like her?
"Have him over for dinner," her mother suggested, "and make him something special."
"I don't cook," my mother responded.
"Sure you do; you make that delicious lemon sponge pudding." My mother had forgotten about the recipe her best friend, Bethel, had given her.
"OK," she agreed.
On the night of the dinner, my dad showed up with a small bouquet of lavender roses from his mother's garden. Although he always remembered the dinner fondly, he never could remember what they ate.
Except for the lemon sponge pudding.
In fact, all through the years, it was my dad's favorite dessert. My grandmother always said that her idea to serve it that night was what clinched the romance that eventually led to marriage.
That may have been. Wonderful things seem to happen whenever it's served. Circumstances change, people perk up, moods lighten. In short, magic happens.
My 13-year-old daughter, Emily, grew up with lemon sponge pudding and the stories surrounding it. Only recently did I realize she'd been paying attention to them. Out of the blue, she asked me, "Can Owen come over to dinner?"
"Who?" I asked.
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