I was talking to a friend about the holidays, and he commented that this time of year makes him think of two things: lots of food and an uncle who can’t resist telling painful puns at family gatherings. “I’ll bet you could write a column about food and bad puns,” he suggested. “In fact, I challenge you to include 100 foods and bad puns in one story.” I explained that there was no way I would compromise the integrity of this column by employing such a silly gimmick. My friend then said he would give me a homemade apple pie if I did it. Lettuce begin our tale.
Once there was a man named Herb, who worked in a bakery. Although the hours were crummy, his job was a piece of cake. In fact, he just sat on his buns all day while making good dough. One day, a girl named Ginger came into the shop, and Herb fell in love.
“Ginger,” he said to her after a couple of weeks, “I have no skillet saying romantic things so I won’t mince words. Icing whenever I think of you. Will you marry me? We would make quite a pear. I don’t know if olive if you say ‘no’.” After posing the question, Herb watched her, trying to figure out what was going on in cider head.
Finally, Ginger answered. “I would, but I’m in a jam. You see, my father puts lox on the doors because he doesn’t want me to date guys.”
“Then we cantaloupe.”
“Well, I suppose we could.”
“Soda bottom line is yes?”
Ginger and Herb ran off and got married. In the beginning, they were happy as clams. Every morning, Herb gave his wife a quiche on the cheek and said, “Goodbye, avocado go to the shop and make some bread, and he drove his caraway. However, after a while, their relationship became somewhat chili. With all of Herb’s loafing at the bakery, he began pudding on an excessive amount of wheat, which grated on Ginger’s nerves.
“You’re getting fat,” she chided him. “Soon you’ll have to wear a griddle.”
Herb quickly tried to change the subject. “Canape roll down a hill?” he floundered.
“Honey, I think a pecan, but orange you just attempting to use another silly pun to avoid the issue?”
At first, Ginger tried to help Herb with his wheat problem, butter approach was useless. “I nag, ice cream, but you’re not herring me. I’m bacon you to listen.” She egged him on. “You’re starting to catsup to the Michelin Man.”
“Simmer down,” Herb wined. “You’re always busting my chops. Why do you have a beef with me?”
“Look, almond my own business, but I think you eat too much. You saw Artichoke at the picnic last year. If you want inspiration, why don’t you popover and see what a shrimp our neighbor Al Dente is. Cupcake, a diet is what you knead.”
It a curd to Herb that Ginger was right. He used to think he looked good to his wife. Un-lecithin man is what she wants, he pondered.
Herb looked at Ginger with a glaze in his eyes. “dumpling,” he blanched. “Your badgering gives me a haddock. I will listen to raisin and go on a diet.”
“It’s a sherbet you can’t do it,” Ginger snapped.
“Doughnut think I am taking this lightly.”
Realizing he had a lot at steak, Herb went on a strict diet and displayed a rarebit of self-control.
Soon Ginger saw a difference in his eating habits. At one time, whatever amount she would cookie would eat, but now she couldn’t fillet thimble with the food he put on his plate for dinner. It got to the point where, whenever he would seafood, Herb would rice to the nearest exit.
The man started losing wheat rapidly, and getting leaner and leaner. Ginger was afraid that if she bumped into her husband, she might squash him.
One day, Herb saw that his spouse was stewing. “Where have you bean?” she grilled him.
“Right here next to you,” he said, relishing the thought that he was getting too petit four Ginger to even see him. Unfortunately, Herb continued to diet until he got pasta point of being skinny. One day, he just dish appeared, and was scone forever.
I apologize for all of the terrible puns in this column. It’s just that I really love apple pie.
Mark S. Albury lives in Northfield Falls.