Monday’s Pie came out of the oven at the usual time and waited on the counter while I went to work.
The pie rested because it had a big night planned. It was going to a double birthday party that evening for Alex and Wade.
By the time it arrived, the backyard grilling portion of the evening had been rained out thrice. The crowded kitchen floor of Harlem brownstone had the conviviality of a Russian bath and the humidity to match. Everyone was having a jolly good time. The only thing to do was grab a beer and toast the cats and dogs that were falling from the sky by the bucketfuls.
When the crowd began to dissipate between thunder claps to about half its number, Kate and I cleared the cheese, chips and guacamole and put out the desserts.
There was a toast to the birthday boys—a rather long and glorious toast — given by the wives recounting their first meeting at the seaside. The men folk stood on the shore (safely) discussing all manner of esoterica while their women went for a swim on the ocean. They swam quite by accident into a huge, shimmering school of spawning herring (or something) and having barely survived the experience became sisters for life. When they left the water to return to their men, they were both covered (head to toe) with fish semen. I swear this is true on the camel skull on the fireplace mantel and the giant moth on the wall. We raised our glasses.
When the Apocalypse comes, I will find these women and with them fight all the zombie vampires and herring hordes. When the Rapture happens we will find our own wheat and mill our own flour for pie dough. And we will pick cherries. Oh yes, oh yes, we will bake pies.