Start/2005-08-24/1

On the effortless cultivation of humility

Humility is something I don’t need to work for because my daily life seems to generate it in depressing abundance. Just when I think I have reason to be prideful, reality demonstrates otherwise.

Take last night, for example. I had made a simple custard, and it had set up perfectly. Custard aficionados know that a perfectly set custard – delicate but not watery, silky from center to edge – is something to be celebrated even when prepared in the most favorable of circumstances. But my circumstances had not been favorable. Bowing to economy, I had been forced to cook the custard in a toaster oven. The treacherous temperature gradients of toaster ovens being widely feared, the perfect toaster-oven custard was thought to be unattainable. But now it had been made a reality.

By me.

And it was time to celebrate.

This is where my joyful tale turns to woe, for it is here that my justifiable custardy pride inched toward hubris. Not satisfied that the usual happy dance (or three) had fully expressed the glory of my accomplishment, I sought to prove to the universe that my custard, being so pure and perfect, could do what other custards could not: convert my wife.

My wife does not like custard. At all. Its texture creeps her out.

I know this. I have always known this. Nevertheless, I thought I could convert her into a custard lover with a single taste of my toaster-oven masterpiece. In my mind’s eye, I could see her tasting a spoonful. Then, delight sweeping across her face, she would exclaim, “I never knew that custard could be like this! I can’t believe how good this is. This is really custard?” Oh yes, I would say, it is. And then the Fates would pen my name into the Register of Custard and Egg-Foam Heroes. It would be an event celebrated for ages: the 180-degree conversion of a certified custard hater.

It didn’t quite work out as expected. I called my wife into the kitchen, handed her a spoon, and presented her with a generous helping of custard. “Try it,” I said, expectantly.

“This?” she asked, “This jiggly pile of” – she searched for the right word – “yuk?”

And that’s pretty much when reality came crashing down upon my world of make believe. I realized then and there that this “conversion” had been a Very Bad Idea. What on earth was I thinking? She hates custard, and here I was, giving her custard, practically forcing it upon her. I also realized that for me there would be no escape. The solid-fuel engines had already flared to screaming life, launching my self-made rocket sled toward the inevitable concrete bridge abutment.

“Yes, just … try it,” I said, forcing a smile.

She tried it. And her face contorted into a mask of disgust. She actually became “Mr. Yuk” from those poison-control stickers before she regained her composure. Then she returned the spoon and rendered her judgment gently: “Yeah, I don’t like it. Sorry, honey, I really tried.”

An experience like that will keep a guy humble for a long time.