Some of my best friends eat salad. In fact, one of them came for pie and brought salad from her CSA. She goes there to the farm in Massachusetts with her daughter to pick vegetables. Her daughter teases her by singing a song. The song’s lyrics go something like “Nightmare hippie girl…”
She’s an excellent baker and pie maker but she and gluten don’t agree. I told you before, I think, about her deep, philosophical knowledge of fruit pies. She bakes goodies for her loved ones because she derives pleasure from their happiness. But she only eats a slice of pie once a year. And for the past three years, it’s been in my company–my pie.
This year, she took the train from the country to run errands and eat pie…and share salad…and amuse me. We had extremely healthy portions of pie still steaming from the oven. Perhaps a bit too hot to eat safely–dangerously tart and aromatic. She gets the specialness of this moment we share. She is my pie sister, my hippie pie sister. We pack a largish slice of pie for her husband. Pie is his thing too.
Then we go downtown a hundred or so blocks to see the Bee Man. He promised me beer for pie. But the beer failed to make it to the city. Hippie girl and the pie are escorted to the mezzanine office. Bea (Bee Man’s colleague) is there. She has her pie at her desk.
Bee Man joins us at the conference table. The pie is still kinda warm. He tells us all about his hives. And has another small slice. A slice goes down for the installation crew to share.
“Why don’t you take this last slice home to Elizabeth (the QueenBee)?” I offer.
“I think it’s better if it stays here in the fridge. I’ll have it for breakfast,” said Bee Man.