The Proof is in the Pudding
"In the pudding?"
"Yes."
"You're telling me it's in the pudding."
"Yep."
"Like some sort of nut or chicken or something."
"Chicken?"
"Yeah, chicken pudding. We used to have that when we were kids."
"Chicken pudding?"
"Umm, yeah."
"I don't believe it."
"Well, okay, maybe we didn't. But I always thought chicken pudding would be good. I was little, see, and I'd prop my chin up in my hands at the dinner table, and I'd dream of chicken pudding. Because I loved chicken, and I really loved pudding. So why not put them together. My mom told me I'd make millions if I ever put my ideas into practice, but I think she was just being nice, to be honest with you."
"Sounds disgusting."
"True. Maybe." He shifted his feet a little, to get better leverage. "Look, man, are you going to tell me where in the pudding this damn thing is? My hands are going kind of numb from digging around in here."
He looked up from his book. "Oh, umm, not that pudding. The tapioca." He gestured with his book in the vague direction of the bowl of tapioca pudding sitting on the counter.
"Oh man. I hate tapioca." He sullenly licked chocolate pudding off his hands, feeling vaguely cat-like. Only, of course, he was just licking cold, goose-pimpled skin, not fur.
disclaimer:
And once again, a couple of plugs for Fenway Fiction because we're only #246,823 on the Amazon sales rankings. Which is a long, long way from being able to even think about shouting out from our balcony, "We're number 1! We're number 1!" Even with rounding errors and bad math skills and all that, well, we're stretched. And shouting out "we're number two thousand forty six, eight hundred twenty three!" is quite a mouthful. And we like shouting from the balcony, so we're going to do it, even if we come away with injured tongues for all the effort saying "two thousand forty six, eight hundred twenty three," or any number in the two thousand range takes. So please, please help us. Help us help you. Helping you read stories about the Boston Red Sox, because that's the only way you're going to relive the magic that is Red Sox baseball at this time of year now. Unless, of course, you've bought one of the eight billion DVDs, books, or audio cassettes and just keep listening to them over and over again. In which case you'll want to add to your collection by getting this anthology of fine fiction about the Sox.
A few of our preferred booksellers whose names don't start with Amazon:
* Booklovers' Gourmet, in Webster, Massachusetts
* Tatnuck Bookseller in Worcester, MA
* The Concord Bookshop in Concord, MA.
* The Odyssey Bookshop in Holyoke, MA, if you're stuck out by the colleges out that way.
Have fun, don't hurt anyone in the stampede to buy the book. And contact us (at fenwayfiction@sanemagazine.com) if your favorite book store doesn't carry the book and you think they should (hint: they should).
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