When the apocalypse happens I know where I will go if I need pie. A certain family I know hoards it. Unabashedly. Hoards it. Pie.
I will not name names.
Imagine my surprise when only one of the two pies I had brought to a certain pie lover’s birthday party was set out at dessert. I thought perhaps some horrible fate had befallen its twin. Dinner was delicious. A song was sung. Candles blown out. The usually gracious hostess cut generous slices of birthday cake (“Grandma’s Cake,” they called it) and an ample dollop of whipped or ice cream alongside a small sliver of pie for each of her guests. I’ve never see a pie go so far and feed so many people (and, may I point out, they were Texan people).
These Texan people have time and again feed at my pie trough. Nay, time and again I have told you of their pie lust: their interest in all things pie; their pie eating holidays; how on a certain family vacation, the uncle took everyone on a 200 mile detour for a slice of pie he had read about. They actively recruit and nurture young pastry talents, poaching them from less worthy pursuits like tennis or piano. Each year they mercilessly grill me for state secrets.
If this clan had been on a certain sinking ship, the family member who drew the short straw would have nobly stayed behind so there would be room enough on the lifeboats for pie.
“Where is the other pie?” I asked finally.
“Oh it’s in the kitchen,” the hostess replied. I must have cocked my head in response. “Yeah, I’m totally hoarding it,” she said.
Finally, when the other guests had left, the other pie came out and the Birthday Boy had another ample helping. And there were fireworks over Central Park — like signal flares.
The hostess gestured to the remaining three quarters of the hoarded pie. “The Twins will come over for pie tomorrow. Uncle will have pie for breakfast. So will I. I’m slicing this piece for K’s wife who is pregnant — perhaps he will give it to her.”