The Taste Buds of a Ten-Year-Old

Keith walks through the door gruffly and slaps a plastic bag on the kitchen counter.

Him: “You wanna hear something awful?”

Me, bracing myself because I really didn’t want to hear something awful but my man was clearly disturbed: “What is it, Baby? What happened?”

Him: “You can’t even get a Moon Pie at Kroger anymore. You can’t get the danged thing at Randall’s. You can’t even get one at Amanda’s fancy HEB. Not a Moon Pie on a single shelf. Good grief.”

Me: Silent. Staring. Baffled.

Him: “Do you know the only place in this town you can find a Moon Pie anymore is Bass Pro Shop?”

Me: “I had no idea.”

But, thought to myself that it might explain some things. However, I didn’t say that. He was too raw. Been through too much. This was no time to speak the truth in love. This was the time for lies.

Me again: “That’s awful, Honey. I’m so sorry.”

There was only one thing that was going to make my man feel better. Our spirits intertwined, we both seemed to know. I nodded toward the bag and he opened it. He pulled out a chocolate Moon Pie. I pulled out a banana Moon Pie. And we ate them in total silence.

But in my heart I felt that inner glee bloggers feel when you know that you’ve just had an encounter that is destined to become a spectacular blog post. It’s a rush of sparkling, clean adrenalin. Keith was just about to head to the ranch so I said, plotting, of course, “Honey, do you want me to just send you with a couple of these and save the rest?” (He’d gotten a large bag full. After all, they’re hard to find.) So, he said, just as I knew he would, “Yep, that’s what we better do.”

So he headed out the door and down I-10 with a ration of one-a-day and I headed to work with a bag of Moon Pies. On my way, I called AJ and said, “Bring your camera to lunch. I have some pictures I need you to take for a blog post. It’s going to be great.” Only, when she came to lunch, between the baby and all the commotion of the restaurant, she didn’t have time to take the shots.

Her: “Can I take them home with me and do it there?”

Me: “Yep, and then be sure to give them to Curtis.” And that was the exact moment the plan went totally awry. MY MEANING WAS: GIVE THEM TO CURTIS SO HE CAN BRING THEM BACK TO WORK AND I CAN RETURN THEM UNSCATHED TO THE KITCHEN OF KEITH MOORE, MY MOON PIE MAN.

Thinking we clearly understood one another, I promptly forgot.

Until last night after Keith got home from the ranch and I heard the biggest ruckus in the kitchen followed by colorful choices of words.

Me: “What on earth is the matter?”

Him: “I can’t find my Moon Pies!”

Me, but only to self: “Oh my gosh. Please, no.”

So I text AJ: “Your father is tearing the kitchen apart looking for his Moon Pies. Where are they?”

Oh, the painful finality of her response. At times of crisis, all you can do is turn to Scripture.

“She took of the [Moon Pie] thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat.”

And swore I’d told her to.

It was a rough night at the Moore house. Sometimes a man doesn’t need his woman. He just needs his Moon Pie. The man has the taste buds of a ten year-old.

Thank goodness, the sun came up again this morning even after a moonless night. But there will be a reckoning at Bass Pro today.

Here are the moon pies before things went wrong - very, very wrong.




And the bag from Bass Pro.


So, OK, Siestas. So it made me think about you. What treat from your childhood do you still long to have?