I was on a local talk show – no big deal, maybe three people saw it. The two guests included myself and a local chef. The chef was, without question, an expert at his craft, but he knew it. You know the type. A personality flaw gave him license to express opinions about everything , whether right or wrong – mostly wrong. Throughout the hour-long presentation, my attempts to answer the hosts questions, and converse, cheerfully, about writing and home planning, were constantly interrupted and overshadowed by the chef. The topic wandered to favorite foods. I said, “I love Bavarian crème pastry.” The chef jumped on my statement saying, “What makes you think you know anything about pastry?” Then leaning toward me, and with a sneary expression, he taunted snidely, “Why don’t you tell us, Mr. Bozeman,…..What makes a good Bavarian crème?”
The host shifted back in his chair; I think to be more comfortable to drink his coffee and watch me squirm. As I paused to think, he , the chef, added, “Wellll! What’s your answer.”
Remember, I’m a writer. I see and hear word possibilities, even if they’re anti-literal. Some I keep, others I throw away on the fly. But this time, in the bright light of ridicule, the version of crème, which would usually be rejected as too crude, became the keeper, mostly because I no longer liked the chef. I answered, “A good Bavarian? …I suppose it would be a relationship with a naughty Bavarian.” Then I sat back with a straight face.
The host did a spit-take. Coffee blew out his mouth and nostrils, spewing all over the nearest thing, the chef. The chef, covered with coffee, spit and snot, held a mortified expression that screamed, “Someone help me! I’m covered with caffeinated booger juice!”
It was a very satisfying moment.
AB
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