What the heck is that supposed to mean? I have found nothing in my pudding ‘cept padding for my hips.
Perhaps the saying came about because of some mathematician, wild-haired and crazy-eyed, numbers spinning through his brain. Perhaps, one day he was sitting down to an afternoon snack, Banana pudding with ‘nilla wafers on the side. When suddenly, eureka! He knows the answer. The formula to solve his something or other theory, But for the life of him he cannot locate a pencil or something like it, nor any paper. Desperate to draw out the symbols coursing through his head, the cornflower blue wall begins to look like the perfect canvas and the pale yellow pudding the perfect paint. When his snack is gone he calls for more. Any pudding will do, ‘cept vanilla, that stuff is the worst, and makes him want to gag when he sucks it off his boney index. Weeks go by and he’s gone through tons of pudding, all smeared upon the wall in a myriad of symbols. His first equations fuzzy with mold who have grown enough to form their own system of math. And to him, this proof is beautiful: to his land lady, it means he ain’t going to get his deposit back, but to the young graduate student who has yet to get that glaze of crazy in his eye; it’s a bunch of work. And much later, after papers have been published and awards received, when people ask how he came up with it, he would say, “Well the proof was in the pudding”. And they will just shake their heads because mathematicians say the darnedest things.
Or maybe it came along in a more Sherlock Holmes’ way. I mean some real heavy CSI Shit. Perhaps in Alabama, where the air gets thick and heavy like lemon pudding made with whole milk instead of skim. The genteel southern stepfords have been going missing and the only clue left behind is the half-consumed snack pack melting in the heat on the stovetop sidewalks. A lone gelatinous thumbprint stuck to the side leading to the arrest of a down-home-good-ol’ boy with slightly squirrely eyes. And searching the premises they find a lone bowl of chocolate pudding setting upon the counter, a feminine finger lolling in the middle with cherry-red nail polish, a favorite of Mrs. Montgomery. Seems this boy has come up with a new type of pudding, he says everything tastes better with a dash of human. And when the news teams descend like a pack of flies every neighbor is waiting to give their two cents. Mostly saying things like, “I had no idea he…”, or “I would of never guessed it was him”, or “I’ll never look at pudding the same way again”, their thick southern accents rolling off their tongue, like caramely butterscotch slides off the back of a spoon. And when the detective gives his speech he will close with “Well, the proof was there in the pudding”, extracting a soft chuckle from the crowd.