A Mouthwatering Mistake

When the Pampered Chef dreamed up cozy home shindigs with fantastic kitchen gadgets, food and famished women, you'd think he'd have considered the inherent dangers. Apparently not, since he didn't count on me.

We slumped onto Cheri's couch for the lively presentation of state-of-the-art garlic smashers and spoons made of space-aged polymers. "Ooooohs" and "ahhhhs" floated about the room, mingling with the aroma of an already-cooking sample of whatever goody we'd be taste-testing shortly. Now, my brain registers zero competition between eating and virtually any other activity, so it was no surprise I missed the merits of the products being showcased that evening. I wanted to consume something. Soon.

A little while later, as the women present gathered around our hostess' table and eyed the delectable Hawaiian pizza about to meet its demise, the consultant waved in my direction the most expensive pizza cutter in the universe.

"Here, Alisha. Why don't you slice that up while I demonstrate the Food Chopper."

"Okay." I could handle that, right? While she reduced a green pepper to atoms, I went to work piecing up the pie. My task was nearly complete when I noticed I'd slopped a tidbit of pineapple onto the table. Instinctively, I grabbed up the morsel and popped it into my mouth. As if the entire Colorado River had been resevoired into this one minuscule chunk of fruit, a deluge of Niagara Falls proportions gushed over my lips. Horrified, I stared at the section of pizza where my juice-laced saliva had splash landed.

Oh no...what have I done? I jerked my head up to scan the guests, begging heaven with a fervent plea that they'd all been too engrossed in our consultant's assault with a deadly utensil to witness my stomach-churning faux pas. No one was looking.

That is, no one but Cheri. Her wide gaze registered panic. "Ummm..."

"I saw where it landed!" I jabbed a finger at the offending area, then noticed her focus shift to the cutter I now brandished as if in defense of my very life. To my dismay, clumps of sauce and cheese and pineapple were dripping off and sinking into the fibers of her creamy white carpet. "Oh dear...okay, don't worry. I'll clean that up. And eat the piece I...that piece."

After I'd swallowed my last mouthful of shame--including the surrounding half inch of pizza that was mysteriously avoided by the rest of the party's attendees-- and had purchased more than I'd intended as penance for my indiscretion, I slipped out the door to the sanctuary of my car. A cleansing breath of relief tumbled back out in laughter. I suppose I got shortchanged on social grace, but I'm wealthy in memorable blunders with which to liven up any conversation. I knew I'd be relaying this one to my grandchildren.

And that it would be a chilly day in Hawaii before I went to another Pampered Chef party!