I believed in the Pillsbury Doughboy. Santa was barely plausible, but I could go along because there was a body of evidence to support his existence: Christmas trees, stories, songs, TV specials, decorations, and presents.

But I believed passionately that when my mother banged the container of Pillsbury Crescent dough, causing it to split along its helical seam -- as we'd seen them do on TV commercials -- that the Pillsbury Doughboy would spring out and chat with us as he did in those ads. All this faith founded on the tone of her voice alone.

Bang! Split. Moist dough bulged through the seam.

"Did you see him?" she asked.

"No!" I cried.

"I saw him!" she said, "But only for just a tiny fraction of a second." Her voice was firm and convinced. There was no slight smile, only earnestness, and a quality of I-almost-can't-believe-it-myself.

"Do it again, I didn't see!" I said.

"Next time. You have to watch very carefully, because he appears then disappears right away."

"I will!"

Next time, nothing, but my faith was solid.

Those days we ate a lot of pigs-in-blankets stuffed with barely a matchstick of cheddar. Made with the same dough that can make plain crescent rolls, which we also ate. I was told he'd also been seen springing to life from tubes of apple turnover dough, but those appearances were similarly brief, so I was advised to concentrate and never blink because I'd be sure to miss him.

"He looks just like he does on TV. Next time. You'll see."