Praline quest is over

So many of you have been kind enough to stop me on the street, at stores and in restaurants to tell me that you read this column -- and enjoy it. Some of you send thoughtful, pretty cards expressing your appreciation.

For a column writer, there is no higher praise.

Many of you probably think that's what I do all week: sit around and contemplate interesting topics so this column can make its regular appearance in the newspaper.

I hope I'm not bursting any bubbles, but this isn't all I do all week.

Really. Honest. Truly.

There are even some folks in this very building who wonder what I do to earn my keep.

They have thoughts that go something like this: One lousy column a week? What a cushy job.

Undoubtedly, their concern is influenced a great deal by the efforts of columnists like Bill McClellan at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, who turns out three good columns a week. Or Bill Tammeus at the Kansas City Star, who writes incisive columns and editorials almost every day.

But what else do they do? I mean, is that it?

They apparently don't have to deal with the ebb and flow of an editor's life, which is filled with tough problems that demand sure-fire solutions. Nor are they charged with worrying about Important Things that affect all of us -- including you, kind readers.

For example, some of you may recall the columns I wrote a few years back about my quest for the perfect pecan praline. That took a lot of time, I'll have you know.

And thanks to the help of food columnist Tom Harte, who took it upon himself to make an investigatory foray to the great state of Texas where I last ate a decent pecan praline in 1969, I was able to inform all of you -- thanks to this column -- that one of the dozen or so pralines Harte brought back -- and which I was forced to eat in the interst of fair and thorough reporting -- came close to what I remembered from my days in Dallas.

But I was just being nice. The truth is that none of those pralines matched the sugary perfection that those Texas beauties that have remained in my tastebud memory bank all these years.

I am happy to inform you, fellow seekers of praline perfection, that the quest is over. The task is complete. The battle is won. While the searches for the holy grail and the golden fleece go on, the only combination of sugar, pecans, milk, butter, vanilla and corn syrup worthy of the name Praline has been found.

Let me hastily tell you that I do other things beside search for pralines all day. In fact, I wasn't even looking when my momentus discovery occurred.

It happened when I walked through the newsroom Thursday morning and saw an open box on the table that customarily holds edible treats being shared by my colleagues. Naturally, I looked inside, where I found individual serving-size boxes of Aunt Sally's Original Creole Pralines -- "A Little Box of Heaven" fresh from New Orleans, thanks to features editor Laura Johnston, who vacationed there earlier this week.

As I examined a praline through its protective cellophane wrapper, my heart fluttered. Were my eyes deceiving me, or did this not look amazingly like those Dallas pralines?

Eagerly, I opened the package and broke off a small bite. On my tongue, it melted.

Laura brought back a whole box of pralines. My apologies to anyone who didn't get to try one. I may have -- I'm not confessing anything, of course -- taken more than one sample.

Just to be sure, you understand.

So there you have it.

Until I saw that box of pralines and tasted one and visited with Laura about her generous and noble purchase and her decision to share with the rest of us, I had no idea what I was going to write in this week's column.

Truth be known, Thursday morning is early for me to settle on a topic.

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.