Tuesday, June 3, 2008

When Pie Doesn't Mean Pizza

In New York, the cool kids refer to a pizza as a pie. When you want to go get some pizza, you say "Ay! I'm gwonna go get a slice." (Try to imagine the thick New York accent.) Anyway, in my house, a pie is not pizza. A pie is a pie. A flaky pastry crust full of delicious fruit, cooked to a crisp with granulated sugar on top and eaten with whipped cream.

I've been making pies all night, to the tunes of Patty Griffin. I always get "Making Pies" stuck in my head when I'm at the grocery store and see the Table Talk pies next to the checkout. The pies I'm making are blueberry and they are for my coworker Jesse, whose birthday is tomorrow. I don't know why I volunteered to make him pies, but he always buys me pizza, so I guess a pie for a pie.

While I was making the pies my sister came home and started bemoaning the state of her bananas, so I decided to make some banana bread too. And I even convinced E to let me put raisins in it! Soooo good. It's all up there cooking right now: two pies for work, and the banana bread, and an extra pie for good measure. Now I just have to figure out how to get two pies to work tomorrow morning on the crowded subway. The other day I saw a girl get her dress snagged on some guys backpack because the train was so packed. The poor guy had to get off at her stop while she attempted to free herself. Hopefully I won't meet with any similar accidents. I have been known to leave pies on car roofs, and drop them face down in driveways... I'll have to plan carefully.

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