I Carry Butter Knives in Case There's a Food Fight

You cannot imagine my embarrassment when I realized I was the only person who brought a baseball bat to our cooking class.

The class was called "Mexican Sweets" so I naturally assumed there would be a piñata.  I knew the actual piñata ingredients would be supplied, but figured if I wanted my favorite slugger on my side....

My mouth watered all the way to class, anticipating delectable homemade fare hitting the floor instead of those American (Wal-Mart) Sweets that bounce - and taste - like plastic.

The instruction took place in a Mexican restaurant kitchen, and the diners up front were enjoying their meals until I burst in with a weapon - panting because I was five minutes late.  But I calmed the crowd by quickly turning the bat into a cane, and spent the rest of the evening remembering my right leg's new limp.  Or maybe it was my left.  It's been a few days since the class, but the 'cane' was short enough that my back still hurts.

Further showcasing poor judgment skills, I had eaten dinner on my way to the Mexican restaurant.  Other students were smart enough to arrive hungry and order from the menu, completely negating the possibility of fast food breath.

I must admit - I signed up because the class description had me at the word "Mexican."  I LOVE Mexican food, but could not think of one dessert I'd ever ordered at a Mexican restaurant.

Oh, wait.  There's flan.

Ironically, flan is the one thing you hope does not fly out of a piñata.

When the chef described the sweets we'd prepare, he talked about his grandmother, his mother, his childhood celebrations - and that's when it hit me:  Tradition can neither be purchased by, nor taught to, a bunch of salivating strangers.

My mother lived in Mexico for several years and when we visited one Thanksgiving, we had excellent Mexican Sweets.  Mom's pumpkin pies.

We were there in March for my daughter Abi's 12th birthday, and Mom made one of her legendary cobblers.  Mangoes took the place of peaches, and she used lard for the crust since the stores didn't carry Crisco - but it was so delicious, partly because it was Mom's.

(My sister Debby and I have a problem with cut edges not being totally EVEN on certain baked goods.  The night of Abi's rooftop party, Debby and I kept sneaking downstairs to 'trim' that mango cobbler.  We eventually evened up the entire thing, and as we swallowed the last bites - the birthday girl herself showed up for a slice.  Her total confusion prompted us to demonstrate how the burglar had shimmied up a large tree outside and squeezed in through the kitchen shutters.  It might have worked if bits of mango spit hadn't punctuated our performance.)

The night of our class I was distracted from a large chunk of instruction because a kitchen worker placed this thing of beauty near my right shoulder:

I had to keep repeating THAT is not a piñata.

Then a huge container of gargantuan cinnamon sticks appeared.  Holy cow!  They resembled freakishly large cigars.  They refused to sit for a photo and I was understandably afraid to insist.

I'm used to those teeny cinnamon sticks, all the same predicable size, each staying in their assigned space in the little glass jar.  So there would be nothing specifically comforting in this class.  Tasty?  Oh, yes.  Familiar?  Um, no.

This will not be a viable option for my post-retirement hobby, but may be a way to help fellow diners decipher a Mexican restaurant's dessert menu.

Man, it sure would have been a terrific way to WOW Abi's third-grade class on International Culture day - if I had dug that note out of the backpack earlier.  Instead, I drove around town at 6:00 a.m. looking for a gas station mini-mart that sold fortune cookies.

But here's a fun thought:  What if I break the mold when I have grandchildren, and prepare Mexican sweets every Columbus Day?  I'll make my own fortune cookies to serve at birthday parties - but they'll be shaped like pilgrim hats!

Every Valentine's Day we'll have German noodle kugel, and some terribly fussy French pastries on the Fourth of July....  The little ones can wear Halloween costumes in Easter parades -

Oh, wait.

Those kids probably won't bat an eye.

When Abi was five she had a Halloween party and the game I planned was "Decorating Halloween Eggs."  It's weird to have your child's five-year-old friends stare at you like you have two heads - even for two minutes - how had they become so opinionated in so few years?  But as soon as the eggs splashed into the dye, their confusion turned into unbridled "fun."

The Mexican Sweets turned into something not even the Mexicans recognized:

These are sweet tamales.

Maybe it's best to leave certain traditions alone.  After all, my grandchildren might need someone to show them which gas stations have the most international flair.

(Not sure where the word 'archangel' came from?  Here's a hint:  No St. Louis landmarks are involved.  Learn the rest of it right here next Friday!)