The Tapioca Pudding Recipe That Caused Her Infidelity

My lady, or should I say “ex lady,” was a sucker for a good bowl of tapioca pudding. That fact alone should have been enough of a warning sign right off the bat.

Early into seeing one another she said to me, casually over a dish of tapioca, “I’m obsessed with good tapioca pudding.” Wiping a creamy beige splotch from her mouth she followed, “I’ll do anything for it.”

Throughout the course of our steamy, three-month relationship, she took down a cup or bowl several nights a week. Packs of it from the grocery store, dishes from diners, however she might have acquired a heaping glob of TP, she did so.

It never occurred to me that whipping up a homemade tapioca pudding recipe from scratch might be a nice, even necessary gesture. I never even took a stab at minute-tapioca. Picking up tapioca pearls and just having a go could have saved some heartache, maybe, but who the hell wants to make tapioca pudding?

Daryl did. Oh boy, did Daryl ever. He must have prepared the most delectable tapioca pudding in the world. That or my ex was a flat out freak for the ‘yoca.

She returned home from a work potluck one evening, absolutely raving about the TP a co-worker named Daryl brought.

“You have to try this maintenance guy Daryl’s ‘Pud, it’s splendid,” she remarked just moments after entering the house.

I wasn’t interested in Daryl’s ‘Pud, or any for that matter. It’s a disturbing dessert. Creamy but also chunky. Soupy, gloopy, and poopy. Taste might be fine but the texture makes me feel violated, quite honestly. And the color, ugh, lifeless. I’d never told her this. I still wasn’t going to tell her about my tapioca distaste.

I merely said, “No thanks, sweetie bear,” and moved on. Though I was now operating with a brow raised and suspicious eye watching. I didn’t like the sound of this Daryl guy one bit.

As weeks passed she would return from work, three to four nights a week, with a big bowl of tapioca Daryl made for her. Sizable bowls, like the size of Daryl’s giant head, probably. I venture to guess the man’s dome piece is gargantuan. She’d come in, untalkative, and take down these dishes like a starved Dobermann, or a Koala bear — one of those two animals. In just a sitting or two she’d clear these Daryl’s head-sized bowls.

Endlessly, and as if to be under some spell, she praised his tapioca preparation, claiming he the mastered the 3 concepts:

Patience, Attentiveness, and Top-notch ingredients.

I heard about this guy and his skills and his “bangin’ tapioca” constantly, and couldn’t take it any longer. Thoughts of inadequacy will haunt a man; even more so when his untrustworthy lass is always engulfing heaping bowls of tapioca pudding her coworker Daryl has been gifting her.

One particularly gloomy evening upon her arriving home, she didn’t burst in quite as enthusiastically as usual. She wasn’t wielding a large bowl. She did, however, still have a bit of leftover tapioca splotched on her face by the sides of her mouth from a recent snack.

“Hi honey bunches,” I greeted her.

Nothing from her. Quiet scuffling around putting away her belongings.

“You have tapioca on your face,” I told her.

She didn’t respond.

“Sweetie, you have tapioca on your fac-” and before I could even get the sentence off she slapped her hands on the kitchen table cinematically and shouted, “It isn’t tapioca, it’s Daryl’s cum!”

I put my foot down and stopped the slight swaying of the rocking chair I was sitting in, which I usually only sat in during intense periods when I felt dramatic change approaching. There was a standing lamp pointed downwards towards my face, illuminating just my defeated scowl in the dim room, very dramatically as I remember. I said nothing, because I couldn’t.

“Cum, like semen,” she clarified. “Jizz. Daryl’s.” She rattled on. I knew what the heck cum was.

“I know what cum is,” I assured her.

“Okay because you weren’t saying anything.”

And what could I have possibly said? “What could I possibly say?” I asked her.

She stormed upstairs and began packing clothes in a rage. Lloyd Banks’ “Beamer, Benz, or Bentley” was blaring from the bedroom, I’m pretty sure. That was a damn hit. I said little; mostly stared at the ground and struggled to feel a grip on my place. In my own little fit of rage I picked up a sneaker and slightly scuffed a chest she painted. Also bare-ass farted on a decorative pillow of hers. Not my finest hour, I’ll say.

There wasn’t any apology before she left for good that night, and there hasn’t been since. I’m not one for lack of closure but given messy circumstances I’ve moved strangely quickly. Some days I wish her well. Most days I hope she chokes on a tapioca pearl surrounded by diner-goers who are too elderly and physically weak to perform the Heimlich.

I never did find out what was in Sneaky Dick Daryl’s infamous tapioca pudding, and can’t say there’s much interest in finding out. I hate the stuff more than ever before. When I see it on a menu I start crying. When I pass by it in a grocery store I stop, make an angry face, and give it the middle finger. I shout “I hate you tapioca pudding!” Then I let go of tension and more quietly mutter “Fuck you,” before I slowly drop my hand, stare at the pudding for a few more seconds, and then walk away. Tapioca pudding is for perverts and liars.