Wednesday, November 27, 2002


Yesterday at work, we were given pies. Not my favorites like Boston Cream Pie or Strawberry Rhubarb or Coconut Custard. No, these were the seasonal pies – Pumpkin, Pecan and the pie of all seasons, Apple. And it was a nice thing to have a big white pie box to carry out instead of the usual stack of books, papers, manuscripts we drag home most evenings.

We had to wait in line to get these pies. In the queue which was fairly long, I was lucky to be instructed my someone wise in the ways of pies, who pointed out that all pies have a certain appropriate season. One must not be caught dead eating Cherry Pie at a random time, but it is best digested around President’s Day, when that president cut down the cherry tree and all. And of course, a peach pie just shouts late August. I could feel my skin slightly sunburned as he mentioned that obvious fact. I had to agree.

Driving home, with my pecan pie keeping me company in the passenger seat, I was thinking of a pie recipe I read once that seemed so totally depressing, I hope I never get to taste one. It was an Amish Funeral Pie, made of raisins and some spices. They had even bothered to print a photograph of it. It looked dreadful. A dark grey pie. Ugh.