This is a love story, of sorts.  A love story in the way that a woman can love a man, and a man can love a fruit-based dessert.

When my father got married to my mother, his mother gave her 5 recipes, written in her own hand on 3×5 index cards.  These recipes were my father’s 5 most favorite recipes that my grandmother made, and she wanted to make sure that his wife had them.  One of those was my grandmother’s recipe for fruit cobbler.  My mom is a great cook, and she made it often when I was a young child, especially around my dad’s birthday.  Sadly, as I got older and my various activities began to take over the family, the cobbler went the way of the pot roast and the meatloaf, and they were replaced by the frozen pizza, the casserole, and the Schwan’s Golden Nugget ice cream bar.

Fast forward to my junior year of college.  Kyle and I had just started dating, and we were still in that awkward phase where we were trying to market ourselves as a date-able person.  He’d cooked dinner for me, something delicious and impressive.  (Neither one of us can remember what it was, but he’s always impressed me with his culinary skills.)  And he’d mentioned on numerous occasions that his ex made divine pecan pie.  (Asshole.)  So I busted out my trusty cobbler recipe and baked him a peach cobbler, topped  with vanilla bean ice cream.

He friggin’ loved it.  Went absolutely bonkers for it.  Peach cobbler is personally responsible for the establishment of “One Dessert Per Week” rule, because he was asking for it about once every 3 days.  To this day, it is his favorite of all my desserts.  Now, keep in mind, that I have a bit of a knack for desserts.  I make a lovely pumpkin pie, and my cheesecakes have been a source of joy and jealousy many times.  But if I ask Kyle what dessert he would like, if he can have anything in the world, he’ll say 1 of 2 things: chocolate chip cookies or cobbler.  It’s not a perfect recipe; 1 of the main ingredients is pie filling and the middle rarely sets up.  But even when I offered to try what is probably a better recipe, he was adamant; he wanted my cobbler.

What I love so much about this recipe is that it’s more than just a dessert recipe.  It’s a little piece of my past that I share in the present in order to bring happiness to someone I love.  There’s not a hell of a lot of my heritage that I carry with me.  My family has its roots in small-town Ohio, and other than a strong work-ethic there isn’t much that was passed down.  But with this recipe, I can make Kyle happy the same way my mom made my dad happy, and the same way my grandmother made my grandfather happy.  Peach cobbler has become the glue that binds my past with my family to my future with my husband.  Pretty impressive for a dessert, huh?

That it might bring your family as much happiness as it has mine…

Grandma Dietrich’s Fruit Cobbler

1 c sugar

1/2 c butter

1 c flour

1 c milk

1 t baking powder

2 cans pie filling

Cream butter and sugar.  Cut in flour.  Add milk and baking powder.  Pour mixture into 9×9 greased baking pan.  Add pie filling, but DO NOT stir.  Bake for 45 min to 1 hour at 350F.  Let cool and top with ice cream.

Today, I had what is by far THE weirdest retail-based experience EVER.

This beats outs the girl who tried on a prom dress over her pajama pants.  This beats out the guy in the trench coat who came into the book store to tell us that he was going to report to Jay Leno that we were selling Maxim.  This even beats out the couple who tried to have sex in an Aeropostale fitting room.

This was a late 50’s, early 60’s man with gray hair and a mustache who wandered into the store and was gingerly looking at the first rack.  Now, a dude in a women’s clothing store is not at all un-common.  We get a decent amount of sales from men coming in to pick out a gift for their lady.  So I walked up to this little man and gave my usual man-ice breaker: “Shopping for a gift or Saturday night?”  Usually they laugh and say a gift.  This man did not.

Instead, he uncomfortably tells me that he’s participating in a fund raiser for his wife’s charity in which all the men dress up in drag for a fashion show, and then they auction the clothing off for the charity.  With a red face, he shows me a smudged piece of paper with well-worn edges and a typed up list of all the things he needs to buy, including a mini skirt and blouse ensemble, a shorts and top outfit, and a formal gown.  He also mentions about 6 times that he is absolutely mortified to be doing this, and that he can’t believe he agreed to do this.  I smile, tell him that he’s a wonderful husband, and tell him that if he’ll have a seat I’ll take his list and pick him out some clothes.  He smiles nervously and sits on the edge of one of our chairs and jiggles his leg.

Now, here’s where I should probably mention that it has been pointed out, on many occasions and by many people, that I am incredibly naive.

Which is why I probably should have been suspicious when he began showing interest in our gold sequenced bustier.

I probably should have been suspicious when he tried on the clothing in full pantyhose, panties, corset, and strapless bra with breast inserts.

I probably should have been suspicious when he tried on the clothing in a brunette wig and a pink neutral mask painted to look like a woman’s face.

And I probably should have been suspicious when he asked me to take a picture of him with a Kodak disposable camera in 2 different outfits, “because his wife wanted him to prove that he’d actually tried everything on.”

But I wasn’t.

Instead, I told him that the bustier looked better than the red halter.

I went and got him a size 10 dress when the size 8 was too tight.

I complimented the flowers painted on his toenails.

I helped him into a complicated blouse.

And when he handed me 2 outfits, a dress, and a pair of shoes, I rang up his purchase while he changed back into his man-clothes.

He emerged from the fitting room, told me that he had to go to his car to get his wallet and take out some cash, and left the store.  15 minutes later, he returned.  He asked if I had his list still, and began inquiring where he might go to purchase other items: a one-piece bathing suit, a nightgown and robe, and the like.  I gave him some suggestions, and he thanked me, turned, and walked briskly out of the store, leaving his $600 sale wrapped up and in its shopping bag and me behind the counter, speechless.

He never came back.  His name was Paul.

The whole experience left me a little freaked out.  Not because it was a dude in women’s clothing; that doesn’t even begin to bother me.  Come on people, I went to a fine arts college; helping a male friend of both orientations shave their legs and navigate a new pair of hose was not unusual for a Friday night.  In my dance supply days I sold tights to drag queens and one of my best clients last month was a lovely blonde transvestite.  I know men that walk in heels like a pro, with bodies that put mine to shame.

No, what freaked me out was that he was deviant about it, that he lied to me about his purpose.  If he’d walked up to me and said, “Hi, I’d like to see what I look like in a dress,” I would have smiled and recommended a halter.  (Because with wide shoulders like that, a strapless gown would make him look like a linebacker.)

But instead, he fed me that story about doing it for his wife’s charity, which  preyed on my desire to nurture him and my romantic notions about what a man will do for love.  Kyle says that lying to me was probably a part of the thrill.  I wonder if maybe he wasn’t just ashamed of his desires.  Whatever the reason, I did everything in my power to make him as comfortable as possible.  I waited at his beck and call, ready to fetch anything he might need. I worked quickly, so as to help him make decisions faster.  I praised him over and over again for being such a selfless and devoted husband.  And I felt sorry for him.  I admired him.  And I thought how lucky his wife was to have such a wonderful husband.  I resent, more than anything, that I was emotionally manipulated so that this man could get his kick.  I certainly haven’t any right to judge how a person gets their tickles, but I don’t want my manipulation to be a part of the process.

So Paul, wherever you are, I hope that it was just your discomfort over what you were feeling that lead you to lie to me.  And I hope that you’re one day able to come to terms with yourself, whatever that may be.  And I hope that when you do, you’ll come back and do some proper, shame-free shopping.

Because you look damn good in a halter dress.

Well, not yours.  Unless you happen to be a high school student.  Then, yeah, I’d like to smash your head between 2 rocks.

You see, I’ve spent a fair amount of time this year helping Kyle work on shows for the performing arts high school at which he teaches technical theatre.  At this moment, I’m helping him with the spring dance concert.  I enjoy the work; it’s doing what I love plus it lets me spend time with Kyle that I wouldn’t otherwise have.  It’s also been very interesting spending time in a high school again.  On one hand,barely 5 years out of high school I can still see my old self in that puzzle.  But on the other hand, I’m seeing my old self with fresh eyes, from an outside perspective.  And I realized something about high school students.

High school students are the most selfish and emotionally unstable creatures on the planet.

They don’t mean to be, and it’s no reflection upon their character or rearing.  But simply by being alive and of that age, you are also by definition the most self-centered creature to exist.  If it isn’t visible without their world, it doesn’t exist.  This explains why of the 12 student-choreographed pieces in the dance concert, 10 are about the experience of growing up and entering the world, and the insanity of being in high school.  Every piece is about what’s happening in the choreographer’s world right now.  Moreover, if something differs in any way from what does exist in their world, it is wrong, it is evil, it’s not done that way anywhere else in the world, and it is a personal attack on them as a human being.  And most likely a reason for a meltdown.

Which is easy for them to do, considering how emotionally vulnerable they are.  Forget wearing their hearts on their sleeves, they’re wearing their goddamn insides on their outsides.  Everything that they are feeling in that moment is right out there, for all the world to hear.  (Usually very loudly.)  Which means that every experience that touches them is personal.  Hense the reason that all critiques, constructive criticism, or even helpful hints are a personal attack, and reason to get defensive.  Which makes teaching them something as abstract as art and design extremely difficult.

I’m not saying that high school kids are evil.  Looking back, I’m willing to admit that I was one of the worst of the bunch; I was the freakin’ picture of self-centered and emotionally unstable.  I wrote English papers about how I didn’t need anyone in my life because I was going to follow my dreams to Broadway and I became outraged when our choir director wanted to change the color of our dresses from cranberry to red.  I gave smart-ass speeches for speech class about how speech class was useless and I hid in the art studio and played Euchre during pep rallies.  It just comes with the age and the stress of being in a constant state of emotional panic.  In 5 short years, they’ll be able to look back and laugh about what little shit heads they were in high school.

And in the meantime, they can take joy in annoying the living piss out of me.