Tag Archives: pie

Tongue glasses

If you don’t have perfect vision, that’s not such a big deal, you just get a pair of glasses, and then you can see things perfectly. What’s that? No, what did you say? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Maybe my hearing isn’t as good as everyone else’s. That’s not really a problem either. If you’re hard of hearing, you just go and get a hearing aid or a cochlear implant and, there you go, much better, now everything’s coming through loud and clear.

tglasses

But what about the other senses? Are you telling me that touch, taste, and smell don’t ever suffer like hearing and sight do? And say your taste buds aren’t fully operational, what are your options? Are you supposed to just go through life acting like everything’s OK? No, unless you’re a naturally gifted actor, which I’m sure you’re not, you might pretend like you can taste just fine. And so your mom surprises you one day, she made you your favorite pie, “And have a piece right now! I want to see the look on your face when you take that first bite!”

And you’re like, “All right mom,” because, yeah, you don’t dislike pie. Maybe you even tell yourself that you really like pie, that you love it. And so you cut yourself a huge slice, like a fifth of the pie. Your mom’s watching expectantly, you cut in and take your first taste. That smile, you close your eyes and you go, “Mmm, that’s delicious mom, thank you so much.”

Your mom’s still smiling, I mean, you’re smiling, to the rest of the world, you look like you might be enjoying yourself. But this isn’t the rest of the world you’re eating pie in front of, this is your mom. She knows you better than anybody. She knows what it looks like when you’re experiencing pure joy, that same look you had on your face when you were in the second grade, when there was a Super Nintendo wrapped underneath the Christmas tree that year.

All you talked about was asking Santa for a Super Nintendo, you wouldn’t shut up about Super Mario World and all of the different items and tools available in The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” your mom would tell you as you cut out a full-page advertisement for the SNES from a Nintendo Power magazine and taped it up like a poster above your bed. “There might not be enough Super Nintendos for Santa to give out. That’s a really popular toy this year.”

But of course she got you that Super Nintendo. And even though you tried not to let it show, the doubt, that maybe Santa wouldn’t be able to make it happen right there, you went right for that box on Christmas morning, the only one that could have been a Super Nintendo. The wrapping paper went flying, but it was just a clothing box, just a couple of sweaters.

And after all of the presents were opened up, your mom couldn’t prolong her own need for that Christmas morning feeling any longer. She did the whole, “Wait a second, did you forget a present? What’s that over there?” routine, the cleverly hidden box, of course it was the Super Nintendo. That was the look, pure joy, of unadulterated bliss, and it would have been difficult for an outside observer to make a distinction between just who was happier that day, you or your mom.

But this? “Wow, great pie mom.” This was a joke. You’re not an actor, and even if you were, do you know how hard it is to fake that type of a reaction? Was your mom really expecting a repeat of December, 1992? Of course she wasn’t. But maybe if your reaction was just a little more genuine, if you could only fully appreciate the time and care that went in to making that pie crust, the delicate flavor profile of the strawberries balanced with the tartness of the rhubarb. Maybe you wouldn’t be wolfing it down as fast, like, OK, this pie is great and all, but I’m a little tired of having dessert.

And the worst part is, it’s not even your fault. How can your mom know that your sense of taste isn’t up to snuff? You don’t even know. It’s not like you started losing your flavor profile over night. It was gradual. You started ordering chicken and pasta when you went out to eat because, well, everyone else keeps raving about that smoked paprika dry rub or the artisanal veal bouillabaisse, but when you really take a bite, can you tell the difference? Besides the basics, the savory, the hot, the cold, are you picking out any separate tastes?

Of course you can’t. When it comes to the sense of taste, you’re like Mr. Magoo. You know, except that he couldn’t see. But whatever, he got some glasses and went about his life. Why don’t they make glasses for you? For your tongue? How many people are out there, disappointing their mothers and grandmothers on a daily basis, by pretending to enjoy food that they’re really not even capable of truly appreciating?

We need tongue glasses. Obviously we won’t call them glasses. Except if whatever technological advances that make it work happen to be made out of glass. Then we probably still won’t call them glasses, because it would be confusing with eyeglasses. Well, I guess it wouldn’t be that difficult to just say eyeglasses and tongue … no, you know what? Someone will think of a different name. But we’ve got to invent them first. Scientists, whoever invents what I’m talking about first, don’t forget to give me some credit.

You leave a pie on the windowsill, someone’s going to take it

A couple of weeks ago I was walking down this street by my house when I caught a really great smell. I looked around and pinpointed where the aroma was coming from. About two houses down, this lady was setting a pie out on her windowsill. I couldn’t believe it. This was like something out of a movie. People actually do this in real life? They actually leave pies out to cool?

I had to have it. I thought, I’ve seen this go down in old-time movies, the lady leaves the pie out, they cut to a guy walking down the street, me, I start licking my lips, my mouth watering, salivating with animal desire, and then I’m carefully sneaking up to the window, making sure nobody’s looking, I snatch the pie and make a run for it. Then they’ll cut back to the empty window, that lady will kind of look around and scratch her head in confusion, now where could I have left that pie?

Why not? You know what’s more American than homemade apple pie? Taking a freshly baked apple pie from some lady’s window. I walked right up and grabbed it, which, I found out immediately, it was a huge mistake. No wonder she had put it out to cool. This thing was red hot. Every once in a while I’ll be working at the restaurant, and I’ll watch the cooks, maybe from like years of handling hot dishes, they’re able to pick up anything with their bare leather hands.

And I’ll be like, well, if they can do it, I can do it too. And so I’ll grab a plate and it’s really hot and I’ll drop it immediately. You think you can will your body to ignore the pain, to just muscle through it, but there’s always a point where your hand just lets go immediately. So I had this pie and it was really hot and I though, OK, I better put this down right away.

I didn’t have much time, so I kind of just dropped it down at my feet. I didn’t know what to do, so I took off my shirt and used it as a potholder and picked it up. But this was like not part of my plan at all. I wanted a quick getaway. Instead, here I was still standing at this lady’s window, shirtless. “Hey!” I heard her scream at me, “What are you doing? Give me that pie!”

And so I freaked out and ran. I ran like three blocks, still no shirt on, holding this pie in my hands. I had no idea where to go. This never happened in the old movies. There was a really small park like three blocks away, and so I found some bench sort of out of the way and sat down to figure out my next move. I finally got a good look at the pie. It was definitely blueberry or cherry, some sort of small, jammy fruit. The filling was bubbling out of the sides still, and maybe because I aggravated it by too suddenly dropping it to the ground, it was kind of oozing out of one side, getting all over my shirt.

How would I even go about trying to eat this thing? I didn’t have any utensils, nothing. And like I’ve said already, it was really, really hot. And then I started to feel bad, like really bad, overwhelmingly guilty. What had I just done, really? In my insane impulse to replicate a snippet of Americana that I’m not even sure if I was remembering correctly, I’d gone ahead and probably ruined this lady’s day.

I’m no novice. I know what it takes to make a fresh pie, from scratch. Just getting the crust right is a pretty significant challenge, chilling the butter, working with it fast enough so that you can form a decent crust without the whole thing melting apart. It’s doable, you know, like anything you get better with practice, but I looked at this pie, it definitely had that rustic appeal. Maybe this lady was like seriously depressed, and so she picked up pie baking as a new hobby, something to keep her mind of the debilitating numbness crippling her everyday life. And maybe all of her pies had thus far been unsuccessful, maybe this was her first real triumph.

And as she set that first really good pie on the windowsill she thought, maybe life isn’t so bad after all, maybe things will get better. And then just as she turned around I came up and took it. I fumbled it. I ran. I started to feel even worse. I looked at the pie tray. It wasn’t one of those disposable foil trays. This was nice. It looked like it had a history. Maybe it was her mother’s. Maybe she found it while she was mourning her loss and thought, hey, pie baking, I’ll pick that up in honor of mom’s life. This’ll help me get through it. And so not only did I rob this lady of her pie, of her time spent baking the pie, but now her pie tray is gone too, how would I get it back to her?

I was feeling bad for a while, sitting there in the park, the breeze against my bare chest, sad. But then I thought, wait a second, why was she leaving this pie unattended? Why didn’t she have any screens for her window? Who leaves food right in an open entryway to their house? That’s an invitation for bugs, for rodents, cat and raccoons even. No, I did her an indirect favor. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. And there’d be much less likely of a chance at any infestation now that …

“Hey! You!” someone yelled at me, interrupted my thought.

“That’s him officer! And that’s my pie!”

I turned around. It was the lady. Somehow she found a cop, and somehow they found me here. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. I went to pick up the pie to hand it back to her, to say that I’m sorry, that that was a crazy thing that I did, that I was just about to bring it back. But I forgot how hot the pie was, so when I picked it up I got that slow burn, until finally I couldn’t hold it in. I screamed, “Yow!” and I threw the pie to the ground, and this time it was totally destroyed. I looked back up at the cop and the lady, I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I just ran. And I’m a really good runner, very fast, a lot of endurance, and just took off, zigzagging through random streets, careful not to lead them back to my house, and I did it, I lost them.