“Sorry. I wasn’t reacting to what she said,” he said. He pointed to his plate. “In this cranberry sauce there was one cranberry that hadn’t burst.” He winced. “It was the sourest thing I ever ate in my life,” he said with masochistic glee.
“You love anything painful,” I said.
“So do you. You invent magic tricks that drive people crazy and scare them to death. You frustrate the hell out of them. But they buy tickets, don’t they? That’s just as nuts as doing puzzles.”
“Pain,” our historian said softly, “when it comes by choice — whether in a jigsaw, a workout, a crossword, a magic trick or a too-tart fruit — can be pleasure.”
I took that as my cue to serve the pie. At Halloween the pumpkin had been cut, stewed, mashed and frozen. Earlier today, the pale squash had been thawed and sweetened and beaten into the eggs, then cradled in flaky dough, baked to the most delicate of custards and cooled. Then at table, each slice was topped with fresh, unsweetened whipped cream.
The guests went silent at the first bite. There were deep, slow sighs such as I imagine would be heard in an opium den.
It was the perfect balm to the pain of the cranberry.
Teller is the smaller, quieter half of Penn & Teller, and the co-author and director of “Play Dead,” now Off Broadway.
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