Yesterday I received an email from a friend containing the sad news that the Pillsbury Doughboy, that beloved little chef hat wearing lump of flour, yeast and warm water, had passed away. While I appreciated the email, it would appear that my friend is not exactly in the fast lane of the information highway, as the Doughboy's demise in fact occurred more than a few years ago.
The email read, in part: "The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was buried in a lightly greased coffin and his grave piled high with flours. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes." The article mentioned that his life was full of turnovers, and that he died never knowing how much he was kneaded, but I would beg to differ. While his life was not always golden, or golden-brown to be more specific, he was loved and enjoyed by many. I would like to add a few more ingredients to the recipe that is the life of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Below is a tribute piece a wrote in 2008, on the day I first heard the news...
I realize many of you found the sad news about the Pillsbury Doughboy hard to digest. It was very sad; however, there is reason to rejoice- for when Doughboy was just a baba, still fresh and pliable, his mother, Madeleine, rose early each morning to pray for her lumpy little boy. She knew it would be butter for him to know the Lard, or he would surely crumble under the pressures of life.
As he grew, she pointed out to him what happened to a former friend, a good egg named Julienne. The youngest of a dozen, and last to leave the nest, she was coddled by her parents. Although soft as a child, she later became hard boiled. She grew so spicy as a teenager that she gained a reputation as a “deviled egg.” No longer satisfied to be taken to church picnics and pot luck suppers, she was often seen at bars, where men chased her with beer. As she got older she began to look drained, blanched and beaten. Then one day she simply cracked. After that, she was a mere shell of her former self.
Madeleine never wanted to see her little Doughboy looking similarly pinched and battered, and was determined to mold him while she could. She did not mince her words, constantly warning him to avoid the hard sauce, to stay away from fresh tarts, to remain unadulterated and puree, and not to entrée into sin. She pointed out the dangers of mixing with fruits, flakes, nuts and crumbs, and told him he’d be shortening his life if he did so. Doughboy soaked in his mother’s words. One day, incorporating all he’d been taught, he accepted Crust as his Lard and Savor.
He became a staple at church, where he was part of both the food pantry and Wednesday night supper. He later served as the chairman of the deacon body, which doubled in size as a result of his input. Truly Doughboy was made of all the right stuff, evidenced by his ability to rise to any occasion. Doughboy was, indeed, a wonderful roll model. As his wife said of him, “He was firm yet tender, and always there in any jam.”
Alas, the roll was called up yonder. The date of expiration was MAR 25 2008.
He was greatly loved by his wife and children, his two older sisters, Charlotte and Betty, and his baby butter, Herb. He will especially be missed during the hollandaise, where his absence from the table will undoubtedly leave a great hunger. However, we can all take heart knowing we will see him again when we, too, stand in the presence of divinity.
