The Traveling Lemon Sorbet Poem by Donal Mahoney

Women go through stages when it comes to losing weight. They often begin with diet. When I was young I remember Ry-Krisp, a cracker of sorts, was the last resort for mothers in my old blue-collar neighborhood who were in despair over excess tonnage, a common plight when times were good after World War II and rationing had stopped.

Cream puffs and chocolate éclairs were gold after World War II. But I would know how serious my mother was about losing weight when the Ry-Krisp box appeared in the pantry. I tried Ry-Krisp once in grammar school and I found only buttermilk to be worse. I gagged on both.

However, I read the other day that America is preparing for a renaissance in Ry-Krisp, which went on hiatus not long ago due to poor demand. It will soon be available again from the same company that had the good sense to stop making it in the first place. But no matter how much the company gussies up the package- or what its marketing people suggest you put on it or between it- I doubt the contemporary woman will eat it.

I’d be surprised if Hillary Clinton or Carly Fiorina would eat it, not that I’m so bold as to suggest that either would need to, of course.

When my wife wants to lose weight, it’s not Ry-Krisp she turns to. It’s a container of lemon sorbet that appears in the freezer where it sits undisturbed for months before I give thought to its destiny. I eat almost anything but not sherbet or sorbet although I would eat both before trying Ry-Krisp or buttermilk again.

The problem with the lemon sorbet in our freezer is the container. It is an awkward shape and size and someone—not I- keeps moving it around. Eventually, it takes up important space when my wife falls off the scale and makes new purchases like Spumoni or Rocky Road ice cream.

After months of monitoring the traveling sorbet in our fridge, I finally decided to do something about it when I could find no other place to station it. Sadly, I know of no food pantry that takes frozen items from private parties although I imagine they’re out there. Our local pantries take only canned goods and boxed items.

And lemon sorbet is not the kind of thing a man hands over the fence to another man during football season. And if you were to hand a container to his wife, she might think you were different, not that there’s anything wrong with that according to the Supreme Court.

So when the feral cats I feed at dawn lowered their tails and walked away from the lemon sorbet I had set out for them, I threw the whole mess in the recycling can, and bid it a quiet bon voyage.

I felt guilty as Hades about throwing out food in days of poverty and hunger but I felt even worse the next day when I heard my wife in the kitchen asking 'what happened to the lemon sorbet.”

Now I will have to be on guard for the arrival of more lemon sorbet and, quite possibly, a pantry invasion by the new—and doubtless improved—Ry-Krisp.