Word: crepe
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...detect envy and little hope for the future. The manager at a pizza shop I frequent bemoans his abundance of education (a masters degree) as worthless, considering he makes $500 per month and still can’t get a British, Canadian or American visa. The guy at the crepe place is saving up his money to try to bribe a poor American girl into marrying him for six months so he can get a green card. His friends ply the internet every night on the lookout for anyone who introduces herself in a chat room...
...chocolate pecan pie are but a few of the choices. As Chef Le Pet Omaine has predicted, we have indeed become couchons (pigs). The taste of sugar is starting to make me slightly sick, but my brain shuts down most thought processes and directs me toward a fruit crepe and other less chocolate-oriented choices. My temporary loss of language faculty doesn’t bode well for those looking to make the Chocolate Tour a date-event—although it certainly removes the onus of making good conversation...
...parents and I were eating dinner when the cheerleaders rang the doorbell. It was the night before Thanksgiving; the pair of cheerleaders carried posterboard, crepe paper and a three-foot-tall gold mylar balloon shaped like the number seven. When I showed them upstairs to my little brother’s room their platform sneakers thumped delicately, like rubber mallets wielded by diffident elves...
Generally we are not the sort of people who have our home crepe-papered by cheerleaders. However, late last summer my brother—despite having played only pick-up games of touch football, despite being built a lot like Stephen Crane, despite a congenital wussiness—decided to become the kicker for our high school’s varsity football team. As a senior gridder, he was assigned his very own cheerleader. Her name, according to the posters she scotch-taped to my brother’s mirror, is Shelli. According to age-old tradition, she was obliged...
...finished dinner to an intermittent clumping overhead. As soon as the cheerleaders left, my parents and I dashed upstairs to see their handiwork. Festoons of intertwined red, black and white crepe paper dangled from the ceiling; a football-shaped piñata nestled at the foot of my brother’s bed. A feather boa was twined around his pillows. The cheerleaders had scattered glittery confetti over his sheets; they had hung a red fringe from the door lintel. The poster taped to his mirror read, “#7 Can Kick That Ball 2 Heaven...Just...