Possibilities of Pie

In some ways, I owe my life to pie.

Here’s the version my parents told us, anyway, understanding that one probably doesn’t really want the full story of one’s progenitors’ youthful first meeting. Perhaps because I’ve spent my life studying Victorian novels, I find, indeed, that one rarely needs the whole story.

In any event: my 19-year-old future mother was visiting an apartment building and knocked on a door. It is unclear if she knew the previous occupant or not (this was always a fuzzy bit of the story), but she did not know the man who answered the door: my future father. He told her that whomever she was looking for did not live there, but also asked her in. Now given my mother’s frequent exhortations about safety and strange men and the like, we children were naturally scandalized at every retelling of this story to hear of the extreme ease and incredible speed with which she entered his apartment. Apparently, according to my mother, he was too hot to pass up, so she risked it. Once inside, banter turned quickly to an invitation to go out for pie–and out they went.

Six months later, they were married.

So I feel like I come by my love of pie quite honestly. And I’d be hard pressed to think of a kind of pie, sweet or savory, cream or fruit, in whatever shape or form, for which I couldn’t make at least a little time. Oh sure, I have my favorites–unadulterated rhubarb (the combo with strawberry isn’t ever necessary) holds a special place, for example, and I do own a shirt that reads “Mince Pie Appreciation Society.” But the best versions of every pie are undoubtedly a delight. I mean, Jane Austen herself only mentioned two foods in all of her novels–and one of them was pie. So I clearly can’t be wrong in that company.

When I chanced upon the poem below recently, I loved the whimsy. I’ve needed whimsy as the season grows darker and everything else seems ever darker, too. He’s wrong about mincemeat, of course, but otherwise, I like the way he explores the metaphor. Maybe you will, too. After all, you can never know where a pie might lead.

Perfect for Any Occasion
By Alberto Ríos

1

Pies have a reputation.
And it’s immediate —no talk of potential

Regarding a pie. It’s good
Or it isn’t, but mostly it is—sweet, very sweet

Right then, right there, blue and red.
It can’t go to junior college,

Work hard for the grades,
Work two jobs on the side.

It can’t slowly build a reputation
And a growing client base.

A pie gets one chance
And knows it, wearing as makeup

Those sparkling granules of sugar,
As a collar those diamond cutouts

Bespeaking Fair Day, felicity, contentment.
I tell you everything is great, says a pie,

Great, and fun, and fine.
And you smell nice, too, someone says.

A full pound of round sound, all ahh, all good.
Pies live a life of applause.

2

But then there are the other pies.
The leftover pies. The ones

Nobody chooses at Thanksgiving.
Mincemeat? What the hell is that? people ask,

Pointing instead at a double helping of Mr.
“I-can-do-no-wrong” pecan pie.

But the unchosen pies have a long history, too.
They have plenty of good stories, places they’ve been—

They were once fun, too—
But nobody wants to listen to them anymore.

Oh sure, everybody used to love lard,
But things have changed, brother—things have changed.

That’s never the end of the story, of course.
Some pies make a break for it—

Live underground for a while,
Doing what they can, talking fast,

Trying to be sweet pizzas, if they’re lucky.
But no good comes of it. Nobody is fooled.

A pie is a pie for one great day. Last week,
It was Jell-O. Tomorrow, it’ll be cake.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash