Smashed Blueberry Lemon Loaf Cake and Part 21June 14, 2013 at 10:59 pm | Posted in Breakfast, Dessert, Fruit, Healthy | 92 Comments
Tags: blueberries, Blueberry Lemon Cake, Coconut Oil, Greek Yogurt, Lemon, Wallaby's Yogurt, Yogurt
I forgot to add the baking powder. This is why the loaf cake you see, which I made about a month ago, is flat on top. It was still delicious and moist, but not something I wanted to put up here. If you recall, I mentioned ‘so-so potential posts’ in my last post. This is one of them, but it’s such a delicious cake (or quick bread, since the method is similar), I didn’t want to hold it back based on aesthetics and making it again just for aesthetics (the last thing I need is more cake lying around – no willpower here.) would have been ridiculous. We all make mistakes in the kitchen, and this is one of mine.
I annihilated my left wrist last week. I’m okay outside of pain, a feeling of uselessness, and typing with one hand (poke typing). If I hadn’t annihilated my wrist, you would be looking at and drooling over (one can hope, right?) a gorgeous, multi-layered cake loaded with texture and cool flavors – and topped with a candle, to celebrate 5 years of blogging. Well, 5 years plus two or so weeks of blogging. I can’t even be on time for my blogiversary.
Apparently, it was not to be, and now it’s my 5 year and three or so week blogiversary, so just one yipee. Celebration over. I’m sorry, but I’m in pain and I’m pissed. I’m constantly injuring myself in such stupid ways and not being able to cook or bake is always a bummer.
That said, I want to apologize to all who are reading Bad Boy First Love and have waited so long in between parts. Some of you are ticked off and rightfully so. In fact, I’d be rip-roaring mad and frustrated as hell if I were the reader. There’s not many more annoying things in life than starting a story and not being able to finish it because the person writing it takes so damn long to write it. Injury, illness, life.. etc, keeps getting in the way, killing my ‘flow’. I also think that trying to end it with every part since part 11 has played a role, so I decided to end it when it ends. No pressure should enhance productivity/creativity (knock wood), or so they say.
I was initially going to end the story HERE, with a nice, little epilogue to tie it up in a neat bow, but after factoring in a the enjoyment I’ve gleaned from reliving it and a few people asking me to stretch it out, I decided to keep it going for a few more parts. Little did I know where I’d end up. I loved writing it up until about half-way through, but once my grief at the time ebbed, it became harder and harder to remember all the little details, so I refrained until I could give you a full, detailed (as best I could) story with each part.
I can’t tell you how many times I scrapped most of what I wrote because there just wasn’t enough in the detail department, so I’d lie down, put on some music from back in the day, and chill, remembering every tiny detail until I could finally put it into text. As you can already tell, I scrapped ‘the end’ from the part I split in half (part 20), and started over. It was too ‘cliff notey’- you would have hated it.
On another note..I want to thank Stacie for sending me a bunch of coupons for free Wallaby Nonfat Greek Yogurt a few months ago. I feel awful that it took me a while to get a post up using Wallaby, but all of the above applies here too. Trust me when I say I’ve fallen in love with Wallaby. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have used it in this cake and I wouldn’t be waxing poetic on how custardy, super creamy and all around amazing it is ( I will never shill a product I don’t like). But, the best part is, it’s nonfat and it tastes just as rich and feels just as creamy as any full fat Greek yogurt (yes, I compared), if not more so. In fact, I’m going to go as far as saying that this yogurt is similar to a rich pudding or custard dessert. I’m now completely addicted and crave it at least once a day.
Whether plain or with fruit in a separate pourable container attached, so you can control the amount of fruit you want in your yogurt, you cannot go wrong with whatever you choose. I’d give it 1000 thumbs up, if I had 1000 thumbs.
Finally, this cake is a combination of two recipes..This one and This one. I lightened it up with the Wallaby Nonfat Greek Yogurt and made it a little healthier with coconut oil. I also added lightly smashed blueberries because, well..I just felt like smashing them before adding them – hoping for the best. It’s moist, fluffy, and delicious, the lemon contrasting beautifully with the sweet, juicy blueberries, and that was minus the baking powder. Don’t forget to add it like I did.
Smashed Blueberry Lemon Loaf Cake
Yield : About 8 servings
Print - Highlight the recipe, then right click on it and choose print. in the drop down menu. Voila..only the recipe prints, nothing else.
nonstick neutral oil spray
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon grated lemon zest
3/4 cup Wallaby Organic Nonfat Greek yogurt
1/2 cup coconut or vegetable oil (Make this cake 100% fat-free using apple sauce in place of oil!)
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 cups whole blueberries, lightly smashed
1/4 cup flour for coating the smashed blueberries*
* If you’d prefer to leave the blueberries whole, only add 2 tablespoons flour to coat them, and add two tablespoons flour to the 1 1/4 cups flour in the batter.
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1/3 cup sugar
1 cup confectioners’ sugar
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
UPDATE: A reader who made this said it’s even fabulous without the lemon syrup and glaze. To quote her; ” Alone, it is one big, moist blueberry muffin. All the extra bells and whistles are not needed for taste or calories. The cake is delish!!”
1. Spray a 9 x 5 inch loaf pan with vegetable oil or any other neutral oil spray then coat with flour and tap out excess.
2. Whisk the 1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt together in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, rub the the tablespoon of lemon zest into the 1 cup of sugar until moist and kind of clumpy, then add to flour mixture..stirring until combined.
3. In a medium bowl or large measuring cup, whisk together 3/4 cup Wallaby Nonfat Greek yogurt, 1/2 cup coconut or vegetable oil, 2 large eggs, and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract until smooth.
4. Pour the wet ingredients on top of the dry ingredients and stir together until just combined.
5. Place all the blueberries in a large ziplock bag. Seal it and press down on the bag with a plate until the blueberries are slightly smashed Open the bag and dump in the 1/4 cup flour and seal it closed. Shake until all of the smashed blueberries are coated with flour..like Shake n’ Bake. Gently fold the flour coated, smashed blueberries into the batter – making sure they separate and don’t clump together.
6. Pour the batter into the greased loaf pan and top with extra blueberries if desired. Bake in a preheated 350 F oven, middle rack, until puffed and golden brown on top..about 50 – 55 minutes. A test skewer should come out clean.. a few moist crumbs sticking to it is fine. Let the cake cool in pan on a wire rack for 15 minutes..
7. While the cake is cooling, in a small saucepan stir together the lemon juice, zest and sugar. Cook over medium heat until the sugar is dissolved and the mixture is clear.
8, Invert the cake onto a cooling rack and place the rack over a baking sheet. Poke a few holes in the top of the cake with a skewer. Pour the lemon syrup over the cake. Let the cake soak and cool completely.
9. Stir together the lemon juice and confectioner’s sugar until smooth, then pour over the cooled cake. Let set before serving.
If you’re tuning in for the first time, here are the previous parts to this story. Part One is HERE, Part Two is HERE , Part Three is HERE, Part Four is HERE, Part Five is HERE, Part Six is HERE, Part Seven is HERE, Part 8 is HERE, Part 9 is HERE, Part Ten is HERE, Part 11 is HERE, Part 12 is HERE, Part 13A is HERE, Part 13B is HERE, Part 14A is HERE, Part 14B is HERE , Part 15 is HERE, Part 16 is HERE , Part 17 is HERE and Part 18 is HERE, and Part 19 is HERE., Part 20 is HERE.
“You ready?” Hockey Guy asked, his eyes searching mine for an affirmative.
I slid off the pillar. “Yep!”
We walked together out of the quad, but once we were half way down Huntington ave, towards one of the gazillion pizza places on campus (at a city school, the campus is the city), I stopped. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t grab and eat a slice of pizza with him because the pizza was no innocent, pre-dinner snack here, it was a pathway to a hook-up, a crusty, cheesy, saucy metaphor for ”I wanna be startin’ something’. If there had been no sparks between us, it would have been just pizza, but sparks were rampant, so pizza was a slice out of the pie of cheat, and there was a good chance we could finish the whole pie.
I didn’t like pizza that much, but I did enjoy writing that.
I stopped short. There was a test that day in the class I blew off, but I’d missed exams in other classes and was allowed to make them up in the professor’s office, which is what I had planned had I not had my pizza revelation.
“Damn, I think I’m going to have to take a rain check on the pizza” I said as I started to back up, “There’s an exam today in this class, and I want to take it while everything is fresh, instead of making it up and having to refresh, you know?” I said, almost pleading with him to hose us down.
He looked disappointed. I felt disappointed. BUT, I was doing the right thing. There was no way our pizza run was ending with just pizza. I was superstitious and convinced karma would take Dreamboat away from me again if I rekindled whatever it was we had together in the first place.
“Oh…” he said woefully, then looked right into my eyes and asked, his New England accent really popping. I’d never heard it that strong before.
“Are ya sure ya nawt backing out because ya feelin’ guilty over feelin’ something?”
Wow, I thought it really brazen of him to come right and say exactly what we were both thinking. But I lied anyway..”No, no, no, I really don’t want to have to make up this exam.” I lied.
He looked at the clock on the roof of a nearby bank. “It’s quarter aftah, you’ve missed 10 minutes of it already.”
I had already started walking backwards during this exchange, at first slow, then quickening with each step. Suddenly I was desperate to vamoose.
“Can we do it another time?” I asked urgently, stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk, but regaining my balance just in time to make the turn.
He pulled himself together quickly, shaking off the heat, then disappointment, of the past 20 minutes.
“Sure, I’d like that” he said with a smile, but I could still detect a slight glimmer of disappointment in his chocolate brown eyes. I felt it too, so the urgency to get away was even more fierce than it had been just seconds before. Damn, he’s so handsome, I thought, but quickly snapped out of it to avoid any pizza perfidy .
“Bye!” I shouted as I turned and started to jog, making sure I looked authentically rushed.
That was the last time I saw him.
For the rest of college, barring a few crushes and an almost kiss, I remained piously faithful to Dreamboat.
Once I moved back home, that summer and life couldn’t have been any better….for a lazy bum, that is.
I was offered (and took) a part-time job at a popular tanning salon in an upscale 2 level mini-mall in in Fort Lee. I worked 3 nights a week, 5 to 10 pm and every other Saturday, 10 am until 2 pm, the only day I had to wake up before 2 pm, unless I was spending any of my days off at my raven haired friend’s pool. The best sun was 10 am until 2 pm. Couldn’t miss that!! Ahhh, the days when youthful, naive immortality trumped all thoughts of disease or actually dying from disease.
Dreamboat had ceased with the baby talk, but was now slowly side stepping into the move in together talk. I was not ready, so it started getting to the point where whenever we were together, I would chant silently to my conscience ‘please don’t let him bring up moving in together’, repeatedly, sort of like Harry Potter wearing the sorting hat – ‘Not Slytherin, Not Slytherin’. I would actually tense up the minute the ‘talk’ started, trying to segue into something else, like,”How ’bout them Yankees?!’ or a kiss or ten, which always worked.
Outside of fun, sun, love, and trying to avoid move in together conversations, not necessarily in that order, my priorities were non-existent. I got a brand new car, my dream car. I was told we were just going to “look” – stressing just look, at cars, so I brought blondie and raven along (my two best friends you’ve read about throughout this story. I decided to give them some kind of moniker rather than ‘my friend’ or ‘my blonde friend’, et al). We walked into the dealership and there she was, smack dab in the middle of the showroom floor, gleaming with come hither rims and a twinkle in her headlights, begging me to open her door and plant my butt on her plush seats. I freaked, and I couldn’t stop freaking, loudly. Then I noticed, with reservations, that it was a manual transmission, a stick shift. Dreamboat once told me how ridiculous it would be to buy a car like this in automatic.
“You want to drive a car like that, take advantage of it’s performance, not just step on the gas.” he said one night when we passed my dream car on the road and I pointed it out, like I always did when we passed one.
Evidently, he could tell by the sound it made that that one in particular had a manual transmission.
With Dreamboat’s words looping in my head, I ran my hand over the stick shift. I would learn to drive stick for this baby. I basked in her luscious new car smell, inhaling over and over. She was my female Dreamboat, The ultimate chick car.
I didn’t want to get out when my father told me to. In fact, I was planning on sleeping in her if that’s what it took to convince him how much we belonged together. He was being incredibly mean, telling me to shut up several times in a harsh whisper. I got out of Dreamcar and walked out of the dealership in tears, not realizing at the time that he wanted to make a deal with the salesman and I was effing that up, big time.
Within a half an hour, we were driving home. My friends driving my father’s car and my father driving my brand new car while I sat in the passenger’s seat..wildly excited, but at the same time a little sullen since I didn’t know how to drive stick.
The minute we pulled into the driveway, I was out of the car in a flash, running upstairs to my room to call Dreamboat (circa the days when few people had cell phones and they were pretty pricey) and tell him the amazing news. He was extremely happy for me, but I could also sense a slight underlying feeling of she didn’t have to pay a cent or lift a finger to get an amazing car like that.
He worked his whole life for small luxuries. I felt like a spoiled brat, so I had to add in that part of what paid for the car was my money, well, money my paternal grandma had set aside for years and split up equally between me, my sister and two cousins, in her will. Then I realized I sounded even more spoiled because it wasn’t money I earned, unless you count a deep love for my grandmother as ‘earning’ it. Nope, I didn’t think so and neither did he because he didn’t respond.
Trying to learn to drive stick with my father culminated in too many fights, it was hopeless. My father admittedly has no patience. Dreamboat had volunteered, but he worked all day and Saturdays and learning to drive stick on the roads at night scared the crap out of me. Raven and Blondie, bless their hearts, took turns teaching me, stress free, with lots of laughs, like when I couldn’t get into gear and the car would start shaking..
“OH NO…POPCORN MACHINE!” Blondie would yell..her voice shaking with the car, sounding Munchkinesque (We represent the Lollipop Guild…..). Raven would always make some kind of dry wise crack from the back seat, like..”I’d like to keep my f@$%ing lunch down, thank you.”
In about a week, save for getting into first gear at a red light on a steep hill without the fear of rolling back and smashing into the car behind me, I felt confident enough to take the wheel alone.
I couldn’t wait to show Dreamboat that I could drive a car via clutch/stick. I’d watched him change gears probably hundreds of times, then take my hand in between, always thinking ‘How does he do that so effortlessly without thinking about which gear to put it in?” Well, now I knew. I drove cautiously to his house, dreading the steep hill he lived on, but I did it and after watching me drive stick as a passenger and giving me a few tips here and there, he was behind the wheel seeing “…what this baby could do”. Watching him expertly maneuver Dreamcar made me happy as a pig in poo. I wanted to share this car with him.
After about an hour, he drove to a park with a beautiful view. I sat on a swing while he pushed my legs back and forth, a beer in one hand and a serious look on his face. I knew that look and I knew what was coming.
“So, now that you’ve got your own transportation, are you ready to start looking for a place?” he asked, taking a swig of beer.
I forgot to mention that not having my own car was one easy way out. Wherever we lived, whether it be down the shore or North Jersey, how would I get around? He needed his car and there was no way my parents were officially handing over one of their cars to me, they stood firm at borrowed. Daily public transportation was not an option for me because I would literally miss the bus every.single.time. – this wasn’t Boston with ‘The T’ right at your doorstep,
Now that the ‘no car’ excuse was no longer in my pocket, I fessed up.
“Can we wait a few months? I just need to settle back into life here before making a big move.” I asked tentatively. The truth is, I couldn’t get a picture of me in a housecoat, rollers in my hair, and fuzzy slippers, like his Mom puttered around their house in, out of my head. Two little kids would be screaming and pulling at my hem, while I waddled along uncomfortably, another one on the way, by the time I was 25.
I braced myself for his response, which I was sure would be negative.
Sure, sweetheart” he replied in a low key tone, with a small smile, “A few months is no big deal.”
HUH? It shocked me..I was waiting for something to spin it the other way, but it never came. I jumped off the swing into his arms and bit his cheek playfully. Then I realized how it looked. I was celebrating him agreeing to my delaying us looking for a place together. What the hell was wrong with me? I immediately apologized, telling him the truth. I didn’t want to lose him because I wasn’t ready to take that step yet. He told me I wouldn’t. Hmmm.
Then fate intervened, a really shitty fate at that.
Just one week after learning to drive my new car, I was on my way to a DIY car wash when a car load of guys suddenly stopped in the middle of a quiet road in front of me. I beeped, but they didn’t budge. I assumed they were lost since it looked like they were reading maps, so I decided to back up and pass them on the left. Just as I started to pass , they took a quick, sharp left, right into the front right end of my brand new girl. It was smashed to smithereens, the headlight wasn’t even distinguishable.
I was beyond devastated. It was my fault and I knew it, since you don’t pass on the left no matter what the circumstance, unless you’re on a two or more lane highway. I sat on a rock and cried while the police took information from us, my face in my hands. I remember I was wearing an old, scrappy, tie dye t-shirt and cut off jean shorts since I was going to wash and wax my new baby. I guess you could say I looked pretty granola. One of the guys from the crash walked over and asked..”Hey, are you a Dead fan?” For some reason, that made me cry even harder. Not to mention, I was scared as hell to tell my father. Naturally, he wasn’t very happy, but I won’t get into those details.
It’s funny how tiny, insignificant details like “Hey, are you a Dead fan?” stick with you forever when remembering pretty significant moments in life. It’s the first thing that comes to mind whenever I think about that awful late afternoon.
So, my brand new dream car was off to the body shop for several weeks or more, since parts needed to be ordered before they even started the work. Well, I guess I had the ‘excuse’ back in my pocket for a while. Not even a small consolation, just a stupid thought, which I had loads of at that age.
That night Dreamboat brought me flowers and let me snot all over his shirt when I cried with my face buried in it. After I finally stopped blubbering, we went to a sports bar and grill for some amazing burgers. As I stuffed my face, that serious look came over his face. I braced myself….then;
“I know you want to postpone moving in together, but I was thinking..If you want to get married first, we could do that” he said in between sips of beer.
How romantic, I thought, but marriage now? At 21? I wiped the ketchup off of my mouth. “Are you proposing?” I asked in jest.
He flashed his dazzling smile and said “Maybe” with a wink. I laughed as I shoved some fries into my mouth. I was always told to never talk with my mouth full, but this little exchange merited it. “Wheresh my ring?” I sort of spoke/giggled. Thankfully, he enjoyed me not taking it seriously;
“I do want to marry you, Goofy..even though you’ve got ketchup all over your chin” he said, as he wiped it off, smiling. I wanted to marry him too, in the worst way, just not for a few years.
Marriage really scared me at 21 – not to mention, I was having so.much.fun. with my friends. Most of them were not in very serious relationships at the time, so they were free to go out whenever the mood hit. Living together or marriage would surely limit that, especially one of my favorite jaunts, ‘Tower Records Runs’.
About once a week, my raven haired friend aka Raven, would come to my house around 9 or 10 pm on a night I didn’t work. I was usually napping because of my crazy sleep schedule. She would pull on my hair or bounce on the bed to wake me up, then whisper “Come with me to Tower Records.”. “Tower Records” was code for a an all nighter (yes, NYC really doesn’t sleep) in the city. The reason she called it that was because she was amassing a monster collection of CD’s for the CD player in her new car, so we’d always head to Tower Records in Greenwich Village first, where she could peruse and purchase, usually racking up at least 10 new CD’s each time.
After that, it was wherever the night/early morning took us. We were legal now, so no place was left unvisited, from uptown to midtown to downtown – from the upper east side preppies to the downtown goth scene, we were everywhere. We would stay in the city until dawn..hitting tons of big and little nightclubs, rock bars, talking to people on the streets, visiting friends, crashing parties, drinking, and occasionally eating up a storm.
One night, out of the clear blue, which is commonplace in NYC, some guy handed us a huge bunch of giant helium balloons on thick rope because I guess he was done selling them at 1 am. We ran down Columbus avenue, beneath this mass of giant, colorful balloons, some of which we sucked the helium out of. We shouted hellos to anyone and everyone we passed, our temporary ‘chipmunk’ voices a perfect high G – handing some people balloons for their own helium recreation.
Those colorful helium balloons were so symbolic of who I was at that point in my life. Happy and free-spirited, grabbing life by it’s thick chord and letting it take me wherever the wind blew.
Every time we tore up the city, we basically did whatever we wanted when the mood struck, letting loose, no matter how kooky it was, and it was a big part of what made the ‘Tower Records Runs’ so special. These ‘runs’ will always hold a special place in my heart because it was when some of my craziest memories occurred.
Naturally, Dreamboat didn’t like our ‘Tower Records’ excursions, and admonished me several times about it;
“Two young girls shouldn’t be all over the city at all hours of the night. You could get attacked..even raped.” He said, conjuring up memories of my father giving me that very same lecture about him six years before.
I listened and nodded, but our TR runs continued. Fast forward to one night the following winter when we went to see the tree at Rockefeller Center and ended up hanging out with Emilio Estevez, Johnny Depp and a few of their friends. Okay, not the real Emilio Estevez and Johnny Depp, but they looked so much like them, we initially thought it was them and couldn’t help but hang out with them when they started following and talking to us.
They were seniors at St. John’s University and so.much.fun. After introductions and about an hour of small talk, we were taking swigs from a bottle or two of cheap wine in paper bags that were passed around. Within a half hour after that, we were singing Christmas songs off-key and laughing so damn hard, tears were drenching and freezing on our red-cheeked faces.
It was a magical night, the lights from the tree and streets sparkling around us..some blinking and twinkling into halos of red, green, blue and white, our noses and cheeks bright red from the cold as we sauntered up and down 5th avenue and the surrounding streets making up funny and sometimes naughty stories for each gorgeous Christmas window. We even danced to a reggae band on one corner for a good half hour.
Soon, we were all holding hands, running together. I guess I was pretty buzzed because for a good 20 minutes I didn’t notice that the our chain of hands had broken and it now was just me and Johnny Depp holding hands. There was an attraction developing and that was when I knew it was time to go, and that maybe these city nights needed to be curtailed a bit since oftentimes, the temptation and desire to get to know other cute boys was starting to border on intense.
He asked for my number, and I admit, it was hard to say no, but I did, pulling out my well-punched boyfriend card.
Once I was in Dreamboat’s arms again the next night, I was glad I said no, chalking up my occasional attractions to other men as being young, and on that particular night, the wine. I loved him so much, it hurt, and I wasn’t going to do anything to eff that up. The only problem was his desire and need to make a serious, lifelong commitment so soon. One night, snuggled on his couch watching TV, he told me he had always planned on having kids by the time he was 25. 25 was a year and a half away for him. I asked if there was any leeway in that statement.
“For you, of course, but not too long” he said nonchalantly while running his fingers through my hair. It was then I realized that we were at two totally different points in our lives. He was ready to start a family life. I was ready to start living life. I just loved being his girlfriend and the thought of marriage and living together was too heavy for my young brain. At the same time, the thought of losing him was also too heavy for my young brain,
Since his parents were slowly making a permanent move to their house down the shore, he was basically living with his brothers, becoming sort of the father figure and he wanted out of that situation, which only made his need to shack up increase. This led to him getting a little snappy and short-tempered over insignificant things. When we’d go out places, if a guy looked at me or just looked my way, he would react, and that had never happened before. He wouldn’t react instantly, but I could see his warning look, a sort of heavy-lidded glare, no discernible expression, and if the guy looked again, he’d say something. One time he almost punched a guy over it.
I told him he was being ridiculous, especially since 1) I had no interest in anyone but him, and 2) Did he see me reacting to all of the girls who batted their eyes at him? (well, not since the shore incident with the girl on the pier who earned me the nickname ‘killer’, the summer before my freshman year of college.). He never really answered me, so I knew he meant business and let it go. I also knew a lot of it stemmed from having to sort of ‘wait’ for me to grow up.
The following April, one chilly night after a movie, we ended up at a parking lot (where else?), the one where I first met his friends at the ‘engagement’ celebration. He pulled me up on a concrete ledge of a large, closed garage window. I remember I had my hair in a ponytail that night, an up ponytail, and I never wore my hair in an up ponytail, outside of when I was home, alone, cleansing my face or popping PMS zits. He’d been pulling on it all night, teasing me.
Yep, another one of those insignificant details that you never forget, as I mentioned above, but this one does tie in.
We stood on the ledge like two teenagers with nothing to do on a Saturday night, his car stereo blasting Over the Hills and Far Away. I hated Led Zeppelin back then. They were a bunch of old guys who screamed and hadn’t been together in like a million years, right?Now I like their music and occasionally use their songs as ring tones. which usually elicits a look of surprise from some. I don’t look ‘Zeppy’, I guess.
I looked at him staring out at the horizon to the right of the lot with his hands in his jean pockets..a light wind blowing his collar length, thick, silky hair in all different directions. He was actually wearing a jacket even though it wasn’t 10 below, a well-worn bomber jacket, and it looked good on him. I couldn’t help thinking what a great album cover photo he would make.
With my over-sized jean jacket and jeans with a rip in one knee, I felt like we were teenagers again.
It was like he was reading my mind.
He turned towards me, almost in slow motion, then walked over, pushing me up against the concrete wall, an arm on each side of me, locking me in.
“So, what time do you have to be home?” he teased, but I liked it. He used to ask me that on our first few nights out in North Jersey during my senior year of high school.
He didn’t wait for an answer, just started kissing me, holding me firm against the wall. We made out to Led Zeppelin for I don’t remember how long, like teenagers, but I do remember when he broke the moment. He pulled back, looked me right in the eyes, his baby blues shooting hot lasers through every pore on my body, and said;
“Are you ready to start looking for a place together? It’s going on a year now..I think it’s time.”
Suddenly a cop car pulled up and a police officer got out, shining an industrial size flashlight on us.
“What are you two kids doing here?” he asked in a loud, accusatory voice. The light made it impossible to see him. I squinted and put a hand above my eyes in salute fashion to try and see anything through this laser beam like, obnoxious light.
“We’re just hanging out, officer.” Dreamboat replied in a sarcastic tone. Dammit,he was going to challenge a cop. I started shushing him and whispering/begging him to “Stop“.
The cop moved closer, shining the flashlight on a 6-pack of beer on the ground.
“I need to see some ID.” the cop said, injecting a little sarcasm right back at Dreamboat.
“Dreamboat reached into his back pocket for his wallet, but not without sass. “You gotta be kidding me, this is f@$%ing bullshit, we’re just hanging out.” he growled.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing..what had gotten into him?
That was more than enough to rile up the cop.
“OK, turn around and put your hands up against the wall!” he shouted, reaching for the hand-cuffs in his belt.
Part 22 coming soon.
Disclaimer: I was not compensated monetarily for my review of Wallaby Yogurt, but I did receive the product for free. All opinions expressed are my own.