When a local museum advertised a “Desserts of the World” festival, I eagerly signed up. The night before, I dreamed of platters of baklava, tiramisu, gelato, and dulce de leche, offered up on petite, frilly doilies or scooped into fluted crystal ramekins. I woke with a sodden pillow from all the drooling.

The day before the event, I’d fasted so that I’d be hungry enough to appreciate the abundance of mouth-watering delights.

I went to the festival wearing elastic-waist pants with plenty of room for expansion and with a big bib tied around my neck to catch any errant crumbs. You know, for later.

Then I found out that it wasn’t a dessert festival; it was a desert festival. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the Gobi, the Sahara, and the Mojave. I never was much of a speller. I wish I’d remembered the tip my fourth grade teacher once gave me for the often misspelled dessert/desert. She said, “Dessert is spelled with two esses because if it’s a sweet treat, you’ d want two of them, right?” Even then my love of sweets was legendary.

Recently, I decided to give up sweets entirely and try to lose some weight. What I discovered is that if you’re desperate enough, you can turn just about anything into a sweet treat with just a few basic ingredients. The brussel sprouts dusted with cocoa powder and sugar weren’t very good. They satisfied my craving for sweets, but the gagging reflex woke everybody in the house.

Desperate to conquer my sugar addiction, I drafted my friend and neighbor Marquita to serve as “diet police.”

“Here, Marquita,” I said, “take every one of these high-calorie treats and lock them in this little safe I bought. Set the combination, write it on a scrap of paper, but don’t tell me what it is no matter how much I beg and cry. Swear it, Marquita!”

“Well, if you’re really sure,” she said as she packed everything, locked it securely, and pulled it across the yard in a wagon.

I thought I could do it. I really did, until the pangs of withdrawal started late that night. I had to have a sweet. Anything! I tip-toed through the house, mumbling and silently weeping, shining my flashlight into the corners and crevices of every drawer and cabinet, desperately searching for a cookie crumb, a dusty chocolate chip, or a stale Twinkie. There was nothing! She’d taken it all. I had to get them back.

I peered through a curtain towards Marquita’s house. It was dark and quiet. She’s probably asleep, I thought. It’s well after midnight. She does have that barking dog, Brutus, but I have one doggie treat. I briefly debated soaking it in heavy cream and rolling it in peanut butter and eating it myself. It couldn’t be any worse than the brussel sprout fiasco. Maybe that would satisfy my craving. No, I ‘d better give it to Brutus to keep him quiet.

Creeping through her yard, darting from tree to tree, cursing the full moon, I found an open window. Tossing the doggie treat to Brutus, I climbed through the window and began searching for the safe full of sweets. After all, they were mine. I had a right to take them back. I just didn’t want to listen to her scolding, “I told you so.”

I’d done some research on safe-cracking, so I’d brought along a stethoscope and had sanded off my fingertips. I’m not sure what for. I guess the stethoscope was to check my heart in case the stress of an unaccustomed life of crime gave me a heart attack. I still don’t know what the point of the shredded fingertips was. They probably were going to leave traces of blood for the CSI team and I’d get busted and thrown in the slammer.

I found the safe. I wasn’t able to get it open, but I remembered that I’d made Marquita promise to write the combination on a slip of paper and keep it on her person at all times. Crawling into her bedroom, I eased down the comforter and very carefully slid my hand into the pocket of her pajamas. I nearly had it when she shrieked, bolted upright, and shouted, “What do you think you’re doing? Get out of here!”

“Please,” I begged, “I’ve gotta have that combination! I’m ‘Jonesing’ for some sugar!”

“No! You said not to give it to you under any circumstances!”

“But I’ve changed my mind! Please!”

“Oh, for crying out loud! The combination is 3-2-4-5, which, if you’ll look on a keypad, represents F-A-I-L, because I knew this would happen, although I thought you’d last more than one day. Take the safe and get out!”

She’s mad at me, but she’ll get over it. I’ve gained another five pounds, since I’m back on the junk food, which I’m going to blame on her for caving so easily.

This morning I saw that the next local school board meeting will feature a presentation by the Advanced Math class titled, “Pi R Squared.” I’ve got my elastic-waist pants on again. I hope tha pi is pecan because that’s my favorite.

Also, the phrase is misspelled and grammatically incorrect. The word “pi” should have an “es” at the end since it’s plural. Surely they’ll have more than one pie for the anticipated crowd. Also, everybody knows pies are round, not square. I still plan to go, though, and I’ll be bringing my own can of whipped cream in case they run out.

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