I once invited a man and his wife for dinner. Let's call him Dr. Angel. Dr. had been a good friend to me. I met him at a pig roast in an old barn that smelled like cleaning and mucking had taken place scant minutes prior to us pigroast patrons arriving on the scene.

Dr. Angel was sporting a vast array of camera accoutrement, straps, flashing gew-gaws and film canisters like magnum loads on his belt. He also wore clean shoes.

Clean shoes in farm country flag a man as foreign. That and the fact that Dr. Angel was Korean.

We stared a little bit with eyes cut sideways. and then we gave each other the look. The one that says;whois-he-what's-he-doing-atourpigroast-pretend-you-don't-notice-we'll-talk-after-chores.
He snapped shots of my children faking like they were eating pig sandwiches while they held their noses and gagged over the ripening barn smells.

Dr. Angel told me he was a writer. "Oh!" I giddily exclaimed. "I am a writer too!" We exchanged biz cards. Mine with crayon and grease stains and the lofty designation, "author" printed on it.

Dr. Angel signed his card with his new phone number. I'm certain I visibly blanched as I glaced at his card. Both sides, typed covered with his vast literary credits.

My only credit was, mother. I tucked the copy of my book, the one I was going to give him, a heady and deep diaper/mother book, behind my back.

He insisted and reached for the hidden book. I begged off... He insisted. I gave him the book and left thinking about the diarrhea story he would read and how he would take it to the room of his learned colleagues at the university and would say, "poor little thing, nothing important to say." or some other awful comment.

Two weeks later a most wonderful letter appeared in my box. Dr. crowed about my little diaper book, said he thought it could change the world. Maybe that's not exactly what he said. Whatever he said was lovely praise. He mentored and guided me for almost a year.

In gratitude, I invited Dr. Angel and family to my house for dinner. Mrs. Angel ate little. She was skinny. I long to feed skinny people. I never think they eat right. Under the giant old oak we sat with coffee and dessert. Mrs. Angel didn't have dessert. Mrs. Angel didn't speak a smidge of English. Suddenly she turned to the giant, old oak and picked up fallen acorns from the deck and began eating them.

I thought maybe she had pica. I tried not to gasp and gawk. I busied myself eating her piece of chocolate cake and pondered the feeding of foreigners.

Today, I have evolved in my thinking. We'd all be a lot better off if we'd lay off the chocolate cake and eat tree droppings, leaves or grass clippings.



Here is a recipe I think you'll like. You can make it with acorns if you are feeding foreigners who eat better than we do. Actually the story was just a good story I wanted to tell and the recipe has nothing to do with acorns except I thought they might be good toasted and processed in Cuisinart. Like almond paste. Acorn paste. I've never made this with crushed acorns...I've never eaten an acorn. I don't know if Mrs. Angel is still alive.

Pate a Choux Au Fromage (say: path-ah-shoo)
1 c. water
1c. flour
1/c butter
4 eggs
pinch of salt.
Grated cheese of your choice
lightly toasted acorns processed into a paste

Preheat oven 400F. In med sauce pan bring water and butter to a boil. Stir in flour and continue stirring vigorously over low heat for one minute or until mixture forms a ball. Remove from heat and beat in eggs immediately. Continue beating until mixture is smooth. Roll into two balls and top with cheese. Place on an ungreased baking sheet. Bake 35-40 minutes. until puffy and golden (like and acorn) Let cool and cut off tops fill with filling of choice (crushed pureed toasted acorns)