Only Room for Pie
I only ever eat pie. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Pie, pie, pie.
Sometimes I will tell someone this and they will say, “That’s a lot of sugar.”
To those people I say, “Have you ever heard of a savory pie?”
I never eat a sweet pie for breakfast.
Never say never.
It’s the summer, and berries are in season. I’ve eaten a fruit pie every day this week for breakfast.
I only eat sweet pies for breakfast in the summer.
What is it about pie that I like?
What if I told you that if you cut a straight line, directly in the middle of the pie, to the center, multiply that measurement by two, and then by pi, you get the circumference of the pie?
Would you then tell me that I put kitsch before depth?
Style over substance?
Indeed, I am not some math nerd who obsesses over formulas.
I merely like pie.
The only formula I do care about is the recipe that goes into making pie.
The crust-to-filling ratio is crucial for optimal pie enjoyment.
Too thick of a crust and the pie is too dry.
Too thin of a crust and you may as well not be eating a pie.
What if I told you that I’ve never made a pie?
It’s too stressful.
What if I’m not good at making the one thing that I truly love?
It would be a disappointment. I couldn’t live with myself, and I’d perhaps lose the ability to enjoy a slice of pie.
There is a bakery I go to every day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Pie, pie, pie.
The woman who makes the pies is named Claire.
Claire, Claire, Claire.
She doesn’t say much to me.
In fact, I thought she was a mute at first.
When I first discovered her shop, I’d ask, “Is this one good?”
And she would nod and smile.
All of Claire’s pies are good.
I don’t ask anymore if any of them are good.
I eat the pie alone at home.
I used to eat them in the shop, at one of the two small tables that sit against the wall.
They are round and teal-colored, with a grooved metal wrapped around the edges. They are scuffed and scratched. Worn and torn.
I would eat my pie and smile, and relish every bite.
Then the shop started to get busier and busier.
Someone wrote about Claire’s pies in the local paper, and the lines were out the door.
I couldn’t sit at one of those teal tables if I tried.
Now I go early in the morning. I’m the first one in line.
I watch every morning, as Claire turns on the lights, and sets out her pies, and places the labels in front of them.
Sometimes Claire isn’t there. She hired someone else to help.
On those days, I like the pies less. They’re still good, they’re just not right.
I don’t know what I’ll do if Claire ever leaves.
It actually hurts my heart to think about it.
It’s almost lunch time.
Time for more pie.
There is only ever room for pie.