Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Food Glorious Food - No Tax on Truffles

Episode Date: May 3, 2024

“It says it’s one of the most wonderful tastes in the world.” It’s a gastronomical episode of the podcast today. Stuart loved writing about his favourite foods – both in fiction and non-fiction – and Jess has gathered some great examples of both for today’s show. Plus a hilariously endearing story about Sam’s first passion.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. So a couple weeks ago, Louise Curtis and I got on the phone like we do every Thursday. She was at her desk and I was walking and we started brainstorming show ideas. We were talking about specific stories and what we liked about them. We were talking about themes that connect stories and we were talking about characters that we wanted to feature on this podcast. And every single story that Louise suggested, like every single story was about food. I laughed and I said, Louise, do you need a snack? There may have been the tiniest hint of hangry in her response,

but there was also a lot of truth. She pointed out that so many of Stuart's stories are food-related. And she's right. It's true. Stuart loved writing about food. He loved to think about food and make food and eat food. He loved restaurants. He loved writing about food. He loved to think about food and make food and eat food. He loved restaurants. He loved gardens. He loved farms. And he really, really loved grocery stores. He had places he'd stop all across the country to shop. La Bottega in Ottawa. Thrifty Foods in Courtney Comox. The Market in St. John and Vincenzo's in Waterloo. So now that I think about it, maybe it was Stuart who needed a snack, not Louise. By this time, I was feeling kind of hungry too. So after fixing myself a snack, I decided to take the idea and run with it.

I went deep into the archives to see just how many food stories are there. Answer? A lot. He talks about bread in Boy Wanted. And oh, my stars, the bread. Crusty baguettes that tasted of fire. Black on the bottom, brown on top. Soft and airy in the middle.

The crust so hard it cut your mouth. Tastes like burnt caramel, said Sam, except sour, because it's made from sour dough, said Mr. Harmon, reaching for the salt. He showed him how you could tell by the bottom if the bread had been made by fire or by factory. If it has tiny circles on the bottom, it means it rode a conveyor through a factory oven. He taught him how to dip the bread in olive oil instead of using butter, sprinkling some of the flaky salt on the oil first. He talks about honey in Rosemary Honey. As if she'd been waiting for a cue, Maria Conte came out the basement door carrying a large wooden tray. There was cheese on it, a bowl of coarse sea salt, a loaf of homemade bread, and a dark green bottle of olive oil.

Mangia, she said, mangia. Everyone watched Eugene. No one said a word. He chewed, and he chewed, and they waited. Everyone watched Eugene. No one said a word. He chewed and he chewed and they waited. And slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, he began to grin. A hive of bees is like a kitchen at harvest. They gather up the summer,

the heat of the sun, the warmth of the rain, the softness of the mornings and the long afternoons. Above all, they gather up the flavors of the flowers. They gather it all up and mix it together and cork it in wax. Bene, said Eugene. Ben-nay, ben-nay, ben-nay. He talks about coffee in Murphy Kruger, Philatelist. It's a Saturday, almost 11.

Sam has been at the little boutique grocery store since 7 a.m., stocking shelves and making coffees. He is on his break. Murphy, who knows Sam's schedule better than Sam knows it himself, has, as his habit of a Saturday morning, dropped in for a visit. The two boys are drinking coffees that Sam made, making the espresso the way Mr.

Harmon has taught him, but then, to the old man's horror, adding milk and caramel sauce, vanilla and salt, chocolate shavings and sugar, and then running it all through the blender with an equal amount of ice and topping the whole sorry mess with whipped cream and cinnamon. An abomination, said the green grocer, shaking his head. A befoulement. A frappuccino, Mr. Harmon. A frappatouille, said Mr. Harmon. If you can use a straw or a spoon, it is not coffee. If you can use a straw or a spoon, it is not coffee. It's delicious, Mr. Harmon. You should let me make you one. I would rather drink Kool-Aid, said Mr. Harmon. And there are so many more.

There are descriptions of Parmesan cheese, balsamic vinegar, arugula, and San Marzano tomatoes. And there's this. This is something completely different. This is something Stuart loved so much he was moved to poetry. This is an ode to, well, you'll see. From the King's Playhouse in Georgetown, Prince Edward Island, it's The Vinyl Cafe with Stuart McLean. Thank you very much. How nice to be back on Prince Edward Island. And how good to be here in Georgetown. It may have escaped your attention, but of course that's what I'm for. I'm on constant patrol for

things that may have escaped your attention. My bright eyes wide open as I paw around the margins of this world, noting down the marginalia so that I can bring to your attention the things that may have escaped it. And I'm thinking here on Prince Edward Island, of all places where there is more farmland and more farmers per capita than anywhere else in the nation, here on Prince Edward Island, the agricultural cradle of the country where the number one crop is the humble potato, that it may have escaped your attention that the General Assembly of the United Nations of the world has declared this the International Year of the Potato.

Thank you. Now, you may wonder why they do that. Well, they did it because they want to raise the profile of this humble little tuber. And I stand before you today, humbly, in this old clabbered theater. Some might add, curiously, though I would say appropriately, somewhat barn-like in nature. I stand here, your humble servant, and theirs too, ready to serve the United Nations of this world whenever they summon me. Clay in their hands, and in the service of humanity, ladies and gentlemen of Georgetown, Prince Edward Island, my ode to the potato. That humble little tuber who looks like a hippopotamus or something rather ruder if you leave it in a bag, that is, instead of in the pot.

And it goes all soft and wrinkly and smells like stuff I'd rather not talk about while standing on the stage. For the purpose of this little ode is really to engage your imagination and your taste buds. I am not here to nag. I've come to praise potatoes. I'm not here to make you gag. You can mash them, bash them, put them in a pot. You can freeze them or fry them. You can eat them cold or hot. They're not mentioned in the Bible, yes. And that makes some folks wary.

And they're high in glycoalkaloids, and that can make them scary, causing headaches, cramps, comas, and in rare cases, death. But there's something else they cause, I should mention in this breath, sheer delight. If you slice them long and thin and fry them up in oil, oh, let the sin begin. I'm talking of the French fry, sprinkled liberally with salt. I would die for French fries. Is there anyone who'd not? The humble pomme de terre, the apple of my eye, drenched in dill and butter or a sour creamy sigh, a generous bowl of gnocchi, a steaming bowl of soup, a loaf of bread, potato head, a most congenial root. I knew a woman once who grew one in the shape of a duck.

She was living with a certain man at the time who planted her potatoes for her that spring. But she had a new man living with her in the fall when it was time to dig them up. As she watched him working the garden through the kitchen window, the clothes snapping on her clothesline in the wind, she thought to herself, Love can come and go, but a potato is forever. Oh yes, they endure. Endure indeed they do.

On the plates of kings the potato sings. A creamy song of cheese. A saucy song of succulents. A crispy tune of cheer. Of butter lakes, potato cakes, pepper grinders, parsley flakes. Or in a pot, a peasant stew, a fire of flickering meals. The darkening night, potato blight, an Irish sigh, a teary eye. An Irish sigh, a teary eye.

One potato, two potato, three potato, four, five potato, six potato, seven potato, more, and out you must go as fast as your flipper flapper floppers can carry you. Potato feast, potato famine, boiled alone, scalloped with salmon, my bud, my spud, my sweet potato pie, my Yukon gold. I'm growing old. Stay with me till I die. That was Stuart McLean with an ode to the potato. We recorded that in Georgetown, Prince Edward Island. Am I the only one who's hungry?

I doubt it. I am sure that about 50% of you are going to go right now and put fries in the air fryer. Do it. You do that and we'll meet put fries in the air fryer. Do it. You do that, and we'll meet back here in a couple of minutes with salty fingers. Welcome back. All right, Fessa, how many of you slipped into the kitchen during that break? We're talking about food today on the podcast because as it turns out, Stuart wrote a lot about food over the years. We didn't have to look much further to find some other examples. Here's Stuart from back in 2010. He's talking about his friend Jason. Jason had just flown home from Halifax, and on the way home, he'd stopped in at Clearwater Seafood in the

Halifax airport, and he'd picked up a couple of lobsters to bring home with him. He told Stuart all about how they pack the lobster up to keep it frozen so you can bring it home and eat it that night for dinner. But it wasn't the lobster Stuart was interested in. It was something else. Have a listen. The lady at the counter packed it up in a cardboard box designed to carry on specifications, and as she did, she explained to Jason that his lobster would be good in the box for 24 hours. When Jason got home and unpacked it,

he was delighted to find that what was keeping it good was a one-pound bag of frozen peas. A complete dinner-in-a-box. When Jason told me this last week, I phoned the store and spoke to the manager, a woman named Michelle Porter. Michelle told me Clearwater's been using frozen vegetables in their seafood boxes ever since airport security prohibited the use of gel packs and carry-on luggage. Michel said they've tried carrots and corn, but peas are what they've settled on. Peas are not only the most economical, beating out the corn, but they're also the most efficient. Something about their outer shell and soft middle means that peas stay colder longer. I've long held that frozen peas are the unsung heroes of the vegetable world,

and I was delighted to learn of yet another handy use. They are, in my opinion, the most versatile, pleasing, and convenient food around. Let's start with aesthetics. Frozen peas are truly beautiful to look at. Is there a more perfect shade of green in the world? I don't think so. A cup of sweet peas in a white china bowl is an undeniable thing of beauty. And why stop at a cup? Peas, virtually alone among the food choices available on the spur of any moment,

encourage guilt-free gluttony. They're full of fiber, are filling, and when served with a bit of butter and pepper, truly delicious. The more you eat, the better you feel. I know someone who eats them as a late-night snack. When everyone else is reaching for potato chips and cookies, my friend reaches for her bag of frozen peas. Mm-mm, good.

And talk about convenience. You can go from freezer to a steaming bowl in under 90 seconds. They are the ultimate fast food. Even Usain Bolt can't move that fast. They're cheap, but not seamy. And at the bottom of it all, democratic. The expensive ones don't taste any better than the common brands. And not only that, they endure. They last forever in my freezer and without complaint. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen a pea with freezer burn. Even the ones

I keep in there to use on my back, the ones that have been thawed and refrozen a hundred times, seem strangely content. And if you think they make your back feel better, just ask a nursing mother what a blessing a couple of bags of frozen peas can bring. And on top of all that, of frozen peas can bring. And on top of all that, they're entertaining. Watching adults try to eat peas with a fork can be hilarious. Good tasting and entertaining, convenient and nutritious, long-lasting and soothing. What more can you ask of your food? Flexible? Well, they're that too. You can use them as the main event, as my late night pal does, or as an accessory. What plate doesn't look better with a pile of frozen peas on the side? Fry them with little white onions, and you're a fancy pants.

Cook them with tomatoes, and you have a stew. Blend them with mint, and call it soup. Or best of all, put gravy on top and stick them next to a hot turkey sandwich. Wait a minute, that's not best of all. Best of all, they remind me of being a kid. Kids might turn up their noses at broccoli and brussels sprouts, but put a pile of frozen peas in front of them and you have a fighting chance. Or my mom did. When I was a kid, it was frozen peas all the way home. And often, that's how they were served. Frozen from the bag. Today, at the Halifax Stanfield International Airport, security guards who have to confiscate

ice packs from people who are using them to keep their medicine chilled, like say their insulin, send them back to Clearwater Seafood down the hall to get a bag of frozen peas. They are the food of my past and the food of the future. Let me say it loud and clear. Let me be unequivocal. Here's to the frozen pea. A miracle in a bag. That was Stuart McLean from back in 2010 talking about my go-to snack, frozen peas. Stuart didn't limit his enthusiasm to vegetables. Once I started poking around, I found scripts about clementines, about lobster rolls, croissants, sushi. How had I never noticed this before? Here now is one of my favorite Stewart stories about food.

This is No Tax on Truffles. Morley took Sam to the dentist for a checkup at the end of the first week of school. A busy Thursday afternoon, they blew into the dentist's office five minutes late. Morley had been running late all day. She looked quizzically at Vicki, the receptionist, and pointed towards the doctor's office, lifting her eyebrows as she pointed. Vicki, who was, as usual, on the telephone, shook her head, tucked the receiver under her shoulder, and held up ten, and then five more fingers. Then she shrugged. What do you expect? Morley nodded and headed for the pile of magazines on the table by the door. She flipped past two

issues of dental surgery, a Chatelaine, and a dog-eared copy of People. She stopped with a smile of perverted pleasure when she came to the August edition of Healthy Guns. perverted pleasure when she came to the August edition of Healthy Guns. She didn't realize her mistake until she was halfway across the room. Gums, not guns. And she returned sheepishly to the pile and traded the healthy gums for the people and then dropped into a regular chair beside the chest of children's toys. She always sat in this chair so she'd be close to Sam. She flipped open the magazine and settled into a profile of an author who had interviewed people about the dreams that they had had about members of the royal family. Morley was halfway through a dream involving the queen mother and a pack of feral corgis. The dream belonged to a British soccer player. It happened in a Spanish sort of town,

explained the soccer player. Sort of like the running of the bulls. Except instead of bulls, there were these giant feral corgis. And the only one running was the queen mom. She was running like hell. And all these Spaniards lining the street were cheering her on. I think they were cheering her. I guess they could have been cheering the dogs. Morley was considering the implications of this dream when she looked up and realized Sam was not beside her, or by the aquarium either. Sam had settled into a chair on the other side of the waiting room. He was glumly swinging his legs back and forth as he rummaged through the magazines. He looked bored and peeved. He finally chose one magazine and dropped the rest back onto the table,

Morley squinted at the cover across the waiting room. Epicure. Could be worse, she thought. Could have chosen healthy gums. The following Monday, the Monday after the dentist, Morley stayed home. The theater where she works is closed on Mondays. Monday's wash day. Everybody happy? Well, I should say. Morley has a cleaning lady these days, a woman from El Salvador who comes on Mondays. On Monday, Morley does laundry and changes beds and pays bills, and Monday afternoon she goes to yoga. On the Monday morning after the first week of school, Morley was in Sam's bedroom changing Sam's bed, and when she put her hand down between the mattress and the bed frame to tuck in his blanket, she brushed against something that she wasn't expecting,

something that should not have been down there, something smooth and slippery, something that felt like a thick, glossy magazine. Morley pulled her hand out of there so fast she scraped her knuckles. She stepped back from the bed in horror and she closed her eyes. She looked up toward the ceiling. Oh Lord, she sighed, haven't I already done enough? Did you have to send this to me? Couldn't you have sent it to Ben's mom? And then she sighed and she opened her eyes and ran her hand through her hair. I don't know where I stand on this, Lord. Maybe it was time for Dave to have the man-to-man talk with his son. Or maybe, please, Lord, maybe this was one of those things that parents were supposed to ignore.

Maybe if she ignored this shiny thing, it would go away. But she wasn't going to ignore it. She knew that. She couldn't ignore it. And before she knew it, she was back beside the bed and she was reaching down into that dark, tight, secret place between the bed frame and the mattress. And she was pulling the magazine out. It was a magazine. She held it up and she looked at the cover in trepidation. It was the July edition of Epicure. It was the gourmet magazine Sam had been reading at the dentist. Because she didn't mention this to anyone, not to Sam and not to Dave, because she decided to let nature take its own course, because she put the magazine

back where she found it and didn't mention it to anyone. Dave found himself flying solo two days later, Wednesday, when Sam unexpectedly arrived at the Vinyl Cafe after school. This is not something Sam ever does, hardly ever. He hardly ever shows up at his dad's record store, especially after school. So Dave suspected something was up, but Sam didn't say what it was. He walked self-consciously up and down the aisles. He looked half-heartedly at some records. He stared at the customers for a while, and then after 20 minutes, he said, I'll see you later, and he left as abruptly as he had arrived. 20 minutes, he said, I'll see you later. And he left as abruptly as he had arrived. The purpose of the visit didn't become clear until after dinner, when Sam came downstairs and found Dave lying on the couch reading, I need to talk to you, he said. And then he

looked around and added, alone. Dave struggled up onto an elbow, looked around the room and nodded. Sam said, I'm a little embarrassed about this. Dave rested his book on his lap, Unknown Legends of Rock and Roll. He was reading about Sid Barrett, one of rock's most fascinating cult figures. Okay, said Dave, moving his finger, which had been marking his place on the page of the book, and turning his book over on the arm of his chair, giving his son his full attention. I think we're alone. I saw a magazine, said Sam. He was fidgeting. He wouldn't look his father in the eye. I noticed a few things I'm interested in. Uh-huh. That's what Dave said. It seemed like the safest reply.

What is a musky aroma of motherly bosom, blurted Sam. Uh-oh, said Dave under his breath. Sid Barrett driven completely from his mind. What, asked Sam? Just which magazines have you been reading, asked Dave. It's a magazine about, it's about, well, that's one of the things I'm embarrassed about, said Sam. Now, Lord, said Dave, take me now. It's about eating, said Sam. It's a food magazine.

Huh, said Dave. And I read this article about truffles, and it said that a truffle tastes like, it says it's one of the most wonderful tastes in the world. Thank you, Lord, said Dave. And I don't know what a truffle is, said Sam. Yes, said Dave. What's a truffle, said Sam. Well, said Dave, I'm not sure I understand everything there's to know about truffles. When I was a boy, we didn't, it's not the sort of thing a boy would talk about with his dad. Sam was frowning.

Not that there's anything wrong with truffles, added Dave quickly. A truffle is a beautiful thing. A truffle is a very special thing. You usually share truffles with someone who's very special to you. When I met your mom, for instance. Not right away, but after I'd known her for a while, I got her a truffle. Actually, to tell the truth, I gave her a box of them. Truffles. And I'd never done that with any other girl before in my life, which shows you how special your mom was. And I knew that, and so did she. But what are they, said Sam. I'm getting to that, said Dave. A truffle is like a chocolate. But what is it, said Sam.

I'm telling you what it is, said Dave. It's a little chocolate, like the kind we get at Christmas, except they're very expensive and very delicious. What does that have to do with the fragrance of a mother's bosom, asked Sam. I'm not sure, said Dave. Because I was thinking, said Sam, after I read about them, I saw a sign at Harmon's that says they're coming. They're coming, said Dave. Truffles, said Sam, from France. They're putting them on a plane on Friday.

They'll be here on Saturday, and I wanted to get one. It says they're the most delicious taste in the world. Well, there's nothing wrong with that, said Dave. Good, said Sam, because I already did it. You have to order in advance. I just wasn't sure if it was like if I was allowed. I thought maybe you had to be older or something. Well, usually you do, said Dave, but I don't see a problem.

How are you going to pay for your truffle? With my allowance, said Sam. Good, said Dave. Good, said Sam. And then Sam smiled and he stood up. He was halfway out of the room when he stopped and he turned. I'm glad we had this talk, Dad. I feel a lot better. I feel sort of older. Me too, said Dave. Sam gets $5 a week allowance, and he has never spent a cent of it. He has a bank account, and every time he gets money, he puts the money in the bank.

He puts his allowance in the bank and his Christmas money and the money his grandmother sends him on his birthday. It all goes in the bank. So when Dave told Morley that Sam had gone to the bank and withdrawn $25 to pay for truffles from Harmon's, they were both delighted. Delighted that he was finally spending some of his money. That was the point, wasn't it? You learn to save, and when you'd saved for a while, you bought something you wanted. Didn't matter what it was, it mattered that you learned the process of delayed pleasure. Truffles were a little odd, perhaps, but it didn't matter. It was the process.

Both Dave and Morley had felt uncomfortable that Sam had all this money. He had over $300 in the bank, so they were delighted. And as they lay in bed that night, Dave said, I wonder how many truffles you get for $25 these days. Thursday at supper, Sam said, two more days. Friday at breakfast, he said, my truffles come tomorrow. Saturday morning, he was up and out the door at nine, I'm going to get my truffles. Harmon's is one of those specialty food stores that you visit on special Saturday mornings and buy maybe a baguette or some sharp cheddar cheese or maybe a small container of black olive paste. Harman's is compact, elegant, friendly, and ridiculously expensive. And each time you go, you wish you had enough money so you could do all your shopping

there. Everything at Harman's looks better than the stuff you have in your house. The carrots at Harman's look like they were manufactured in a sterile hydroponic factory in Sweden and have never come in contact with, well, Earth for one. Human hands for another. The potatoes are round and clean and polite, and they have things on the shelves at Harman's that you've never seen before in your life. Tiny red berries that look like they'd be you've never seen before in your life. Tiny red berries that look like they'd be extra sour and really good for your digestion. Miniature squash and zucchinis that look like they were grown especially for dollhouses. Giant cherries the size of

tangerines. Green beans the length of your arms and coffee that smells so good it would be a shame to drink it. And, of course, truffles. The sign by the cash register said, truffles from France. One of the most ecstatic, enchanting, and edible experiences you'll ever have in your life. Order now for Saturday delivery. And there's Sam, coming through the door in his sneakers and jeans and t-shirt. And there's Sam, coming through the door in his sneakers and jeans and t-shirt. He's locked his bike to the no parking sign out front. Sam, standing in front of the deli counter where Mr. Harmon is fiddling with a ceramic bowl of grilled mixed peppers. Mr. Harmon in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his green apron. Yellow and green and red peppers grilled gently and mixed with garlic and onions and olives and salt and pepper floating in the ceramic bowl in the finest virgin Italian olive oil.

Sam standing quietly in front of the counter waiting to be noticed. When Mr. Harmon sees them, he smiles. And Sam says, did they come? And Mr. Harmon nods, they came this morning, direct from Orly, a box of jewels. Jewels, said Sam. His mouth was beginning to water. Better than jewels, said Mr. Harmon, leaning forward over the counter and lowering his voice. Magical powers have been attributed to these things. And then he says,

come, you can see for yourself. And he points at the large walk-in cooler at the back of the store. Sam licked his lips. And he followed Mr. Harmon through the store, past the mysterious fruits and the fresh sticks of bread and the jars of jam and the bottles of caviar. He followed Mr. Harmon to the back of the store to the big cooler, and he waited while Mr. Harmon pulled the big silver door open and stepped back like a hotel doorman, and he motioned him in. It was like walking into one of the great pyramids of Egypt. As Sam walked past Mr. Harmon and through the door of the freezer, he thought to himself, I will never forget this moment as long as I live.

He had a momentary twinge of anxiety when Mr. Harmon stepped into the cooler and pulled the door closed behind him. It took a moment for Sam's eyes to adjust to the cool, dim light. He shivered and he wondered what would happen if they couldn't get the door open again. Then he heard Mr. Harmon calling to him. They're over here, said Mr. Harmon. As Sam stepped around a huge crock of olives and ducked under a large ham hanging from the ceiling, he forgot all about the closed door. He was walking in a refrigerator. It was like he had been made miniature, like he was walking around the fridge at home. He felt lightheaded as he watched Mr. Harmon remove a wooden box from the shelf in the far corner. The box was the size of the television set in his parents' bedroom. It was covered with a

piece of cloth. It was full of rice. Mr. Harmon picked up a wooden spoon off the shelf and he began to dig in the rice. After a moment, he lifted the spoon out of the box and held out a dirty, roundish, brown lump. He was beaming. The black diamond of Provence, he said. He bent over and he smelled the dirty lump and then he pushed the spoon towards Sam and he nodded. Sam looked puzzled. Go ahead, said Mr. Harmon. Smell.

It's like a distant field of pineapples. Sam leaned forward and breathed in. He wrinkled his nose. He wasn't sure what to say. He looked up at Mr. Harmon. Mr. Harmon was still smiling at him. What is it, said Sam. It's your truffle, said Mr. Harmon, taking a step back.

But it looks like a fungus, said Sam. It is a fungus, said Mr. Harmon. But I thought it was made out of chocolate, said Sam. Chocolate, said Mr. Harmon? Where have you been getting your information? The schoolyard? The street corner? My dad, said Sam.

My dad, said Sam. Another man, a more sensitive man, a man less obsessed with food, might have offered to refund Sam his money. The idea never occurred to Mr. Harmon. Not because of avarice. He could have easily sold the truffle two or three times over. And not out of a meanness of spirit either. Quite the contrary, Mr. Harmon believed that in Sam he had met his kindred spirit. He believed he was doing

the boy a favor. Mr. Harmon was completely out of touch with what children like to eat. In his heart of hearts, Mr. Harmon believed that Sam would love the truffle, needed the truffle. Pasta, he whispered. As they stepped out of the freezer, slice it as thin as you can. Slice it as thin as paper. Arrange the slices on a dish of pasta and the flavor. His hands flew up to his mouth as he searched for the words. It's something that can't be explained.

It has to be experienced. Ambrosia, he said. Sam followed Mr. Harmon to the cash register. He reached into his pocket and carefully counted out the money he had withdrawn from the bank, $28.75. He handed it to Mr. Harmon. This is too much, said Mr. Harmon. It's only $25. The tax, said Sam, who'd worked everything out to the penny. No tax, said Mr. Harmon, handing the $3.75 back to Sam. No tax on truffles.

Sam stood on the sidewalk beside his bike, clutching the brown paper bag Mr. Harmon had handed to him. He was confused. This was not anything like he had imagined. He had imagined he was going to pedal home with a large box of chocolate, $25 worth of chocolate. He had imagined it would be better than Halloween. He had imagined there would be so much chocolate he might have a hard time carrying it on his bike, which is why he had brought his backpack. He stood on the sidewalk unsure of what he should do next.

He had imagined taking the chocolate home and setting it out on the kitchen table, letting everyone, each person in his family, his mother and his father, even his sister, one chocolate each. He felt alone and small and miserable. He didn't want to cry on the sidewalk in front of Harmon's. He took off his backpack and he dropped the paper bag inside and he got on his bike and he pedaled off down the sidewalk, weaving around a man with a dog and past a woman pushing a stroller. Most of all, he didn't want to look stupid, especially in front of his parents. Three blocks later, instead of turning right on the street that would have taken him home,

Sam stood up on his pedals and he wheeled left. Five minutes later, he was at the IGA standing in front of the pasta display, frowning at the dizzying packages of different-shaped noodles. He had 47 cents left when he left the store. Before he went home, he went to the bank and returned it to his account. And he cooked supper that night for the first time in his life. I don't need any help, he said. I'll call you when it's ready. He set the table by himself.

Everyone got a paper towel as a napkin and a serving of Coca-Cola poured from a glass bottle. It tastes better out of glass bottles, said Sam proudly. Dinner's ready, said Sam. And they all came into the kitchen. And when they were sitting at their places, Sam carried one covered dish carefully across the kitchen to the table. his bottom lip sucked tightly into his mouth, and he set the dish in front of his mother and morally shook her head. The chef serves, she said. So he moved it and put it down in front of his place, and then Dave said, what have you cooked us? And Sam took the cover off the dish, and Stephanie said, craft dinner.

And Sam said, craft dinner with truffles. And Morley sucked in her breath, and she looked at Dave, her hand over her mouth, and then she looked quickly over at Stephanie, who remarkably hadn't said another thing. And now it was Morley who wanted to cry, thinking as she watched her son earnestly spooning the sticky orange noodles onto the plate his sister was holding patiently in the air in front of him of how they had grown and how they were becoming, no mistake about it, remarkable people. These are the truffles, Sam was saying. They bring out the flavor of the cheese, but you have to try it.

It's hard to describe. Thank you very much. That was Stuart McLean with no tax on truffles. no tax on truffles. Alright, that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories, including this. Why are you still in your pajamas, said Morley? Because I can't get dressed, said Sam. He said this with a look of great suffering.

Sam said, Morley, what's the problem? I don't have any underwear, he said. And that's when Morley rolled her eyes. Morley exasperated, rolled her eyes at her son and said with less patience than she would have liked, Sam, you have a whole drawer stuffed full of underwear. And then Sam rolled his eyes and he picked up his comic and he said, they're all too small. Morley put down her coffee and she stared at her son. She sensed that this was one of those

moments when her parental ship, the ship that had been sailing along pleasantly, sailing smoothly and with enough speed to make her think that it was on course. She suspected that this was one of those moments when her parental ship, because of its inattentive and likely incompetent captain, was about to bear down hard on the shoals. was about to bear down hard on the shoals. All of it, she asked incredulously. All of your underwear is too small? Except for the gray ones, said Sam. And they're in the wash. It took a moment for this to sink in.

Morley was trying to remember if she had seen any of Sam's underwear go through the laundry lately. She was trying to remember if she had folded any of Sam's underwear in the last few weeks. If she had carried any upstairs and put it away. She was trying to remember and she was drawing a blank. And it was scaring her. One pair, she said again. How have you been managing with one pair? Sam didn't look up. Sam just mumbled.

I've been improvising. That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is Salty Fingers Greg DeCloot. Theme music is by Danny Michelle. And the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloot, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week.

Until then, so long for now.