Pistachio pudding

 

     Were someone to ask me about the surprising aspects of being a diabetic — and no one has, so I'll have to just jump right in — I'd say, "There's more pudding than I expected." The pancreatically-challenged can't always eat what we want, and yet life has to retain its savor, somehow. So I've been making a lot of sugar-free Jell-O brand instant pudding.

     The stuff isn't particularly low in calories, since I use 2 percent milk, for reasons too complicated to explain. But those are fat calories, which are our friends, as opposed to sugar calories — boo, hiss —  so I can use it for midday treats without having to shoot up insulin, which I try to avoid, as doing so tends to crash your blood sugar if you're not careful and, really, how careful can a person be? That's diabetics in a nutshell: being careful. All the time.

     So hurrah for pudding. Having sated myself on the chocolate and chocolate fudge varieties, I grew daring, and experimented with vanilla and banana cream, butterscotch (shunning only the cheesecake variety, out of loyalty to Eli's) and, as pictured above, pistachio. Which is one of those flavors, like almond, that doesn't actually taste like the nut itself, but some kind of confectioner's fantasy of what the nut must taste like in heaven. Though in an unexpected nod to the natural world, which doesn't have a whole lot of influence on a product like sugar free Jell-O brand instant pudding, there are actual bits of pistachio thrown in, for verisimilitude.

     At least I hope they're bits of pistachio. They're bits of something.
     There is also a lemon sugar-free flavor, which I'm keen to try, but haven't found it in the wild yet — not at Jewel, not at Sunset. I might have to break down and order it online, being a particular fan of all things lemon. I tried making the regular, full-sugar lemon Jell-O brand pudding version, cooked on the stovetop, just to see if I could eat it. 

      I really can't. You know you're reach some sub-hell of austerity when you take a cup of Jell-O from the fridge, eat a single teaspoon's worth, and put it back. I'm encouraging my wife to eat the stuff.

     Not to short-change pistachio. The nut itself is backed by no less authority than the Bible, Genesis 43:11, when Jacob tells his sons: "Put some of the best products of the land in your bags and take them down to the man as a gift — a little balm and a little honey, some spices and myrrh, some pistachio nuts and almonds."
     You're probably wondering about the maraschino cherry. I add them as a garnish, for festivity's sake, even though it's a more complicated process than you'd think. You can't just plop them in the setting pudding. They're wet, and the juice pools. So I dry them on paper towels while I'm whisking up today's batch. The things we do for aesthetics.

     Speaking of whisking. The box says to beat the pudding for two minutes, so I take out my phone's stopwatch app and whisk it for precisely two minutes. Not a second more, or a second less. Which my wife finds hysterical.  I suppose the daring man would just wing it. Beat the stuff until it's firm. But I am not that man. Have you ever heard the term "literal idiot"? That's me.

     The only thing left is to play my favorite game, "Name that Etymology." I guessed that "pistachio" had to be Italian, which it is, but that's just the start. The word sails off into the past. It's one of those words that cuts through time almost untouched. In Greek, it's pistakion, in old Persian pistah. There's something comforting to the thought that you could show up in ancient Babylon, ask for some pistachios, and reasonably expect to get what you've asked for. And at this point, I'll take all the comfort I can get.