Nov 242007
 

When faced with the daunting decision of after dinner pie-choosing, I would always be swayed by the sweet familiarity of the apple persuasion (although I could be bribed by any coconut or banana creams on the menu). My eyes would dance right over the cherry pie, with its deep red filling making it look like the harlot at the desserterie.

I will admit that the few times I’ve had it, the glaze of the cherries serviced my tongue in more ways than any lover has ever accomplished, but it was always the tartness of the cherries themselves that sent me back into apple’s arms.

My aunt Sharon offered three pies for consumption on Thanksgiving: pumpkin, sweet potato, and a proud-looking cherry with a regal latticework crown. The tartness of the cherries pleased my buds this time.

Call it growing up, call it acquiring a new taste, but I call it being struck by cherry’s arrow. Fuck you apple, you boring slop of caramel-colored crap in a pan. I’m sticking with cherry and all it’s menstrual-hued beauty.

And you know who else can suck a dick? Pumpkin pie. I’m so fucking sick of pumpkin pie now that so many restaurants have unlocked it from its seasonal confines. When you can get pumpkin pie on a sweltering July evening, it kind of takes away its holiday magic. I’m riding the sweet potato jitney now. I still hate meringue.

Speaking of pies, today I’m going to be making my own special one for practice (Henry said I can!) because there’s a really fabulous-sounding one that I want to make for my guests at the upcoming Game Night. Quaking yet?

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