I’m having a time of it at trying to blog regularly. Between starting the fall semester (and having a billion books/stories to read), selling our house, remaining on the prowl for a new house—my creativity is suffering something awful.
So today in the spirit of forcing myself to blog, I’m going to tell you the tale of a tart. The tale of a tart I’ve kept to myself because I just couldn’t find a way to blog about it yet at the same time felt it a story to be shared with the world.
We get together with Lance’s uncle, Gordon, several times whenever he is on the east coast. He lives in San Jose and we’re all super jealous. He always says that if he lived here, he would be bothering his nephews and nieces by coming over all the time.
That’s exactly the kind of aunt I’m aspiring to be.
On one get together this past winter, I made dinner and Lance and I picked up a dessert from Whole Foods. Right now, I’m unable to remember why on earth I didn’t make dessert because I would much rather bake all day than ever cook, but for some reason, I didn’t.
Hubby and I started to become Whole Foods fiends several years ago. Not only do they always seem to have the random ingredient that I have been scouring the earth for, but they also have amazing desserts*.
*And, they sell Milk Bar ice cream. Another added bonus.
I’d had my eye on this chocolate gingerbread tart for the entire winter. It ticked all the boxes for me: chocolate and seasonally delicious? Yes.
We’d finished dinner and were in the middle of a serious game of The Godfather Board Game* when I brought out the tart. The sugar crystals decorating the edge sparkled in the glow of our dim dining room lights. The chocolate was so smooth, I could practically see my reflection in it. I cut three generous slices and served them.
*Yes, this exists and it is complicated and I always lose.
Ready for this deliciousness I’d waited on for far too long, I brought the first bite to my mouth before even sitting back down.
Was the taste of chocolate present? I couldn’t tell you. Because I was overwhelmed by the overpowering spice of crystalized ginger which was throughout my mouthful.
I couldn’t believe my tastebuds. This tart. This tart which should have been Christmas in a pan. This tart which should have been the answer to all my hopes and dreams of what a chocolate gingerbread tart could be, was literally burning the inside of my mouth.
I glanced up at Hubby and then to Gordon who hadn’t yet tried his.
Gordon isn’t too into spicy things. But he is into chocolate.
“So, this is a little spicier than I expected,” I said, going in for a second bite. The second bite was going to be better; I’d convinced myself. The first bite had just had too much ginger in it—a simple mixing mistake any baker could make.
But the next bite brought me to tears as I forced it down my throat.
“You don’t have to eat it if it’s too much,” I said placing a bowl of Lindt truffles next to the tart.
I stopped at two bites. Hubby ate half of his. Gordon pushed through the spicy pain all for the love of chocolate.
The more I thought about the incredible, inedible spiciness of the tart, the more I knew I needed to do something. Despite the lateness of the night, as soon as Gordon left, I called Whole Foods customer service to complain.
I spoke with a nice woman who told me I’d need to send a picture of my receipt to get my money back.
Not that the money was a big deal, we had, some of us, eaten it after all. But it was the principle. This tart had been awful. My beloved Whole Foods needed to know this—and pay for it—so that they could stop producing it!
After checking my purse, the car, Hubby’s pockets, I realized I’d done with the receipt what I do with most receipts I’m not expecting to need again: tossed it in the trash with the scraps from our dinner and other wet, smelly garbage.
And so, offended into insanity by this awful tart, I dug in the trash, barehanded, to find the receipt, wet and crumpled, and sent a picture of it to Whole Foods.
I received my refund within a day.
I suppose the moral of this story is don’t judge a book by its cover? Think before you leap? Use ginger sparingly?
I don’t know. But I do know I am burned* by this experience and my mood towards ginger has been unalterably shifted.
*Literally and figuratively.
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