The lure of pie
I don’t usually like to brag, but I have a special talent.
I can eat an entire pie in one sitting. I’ve done it more than once.
At Thanksgiving a couple years ago at my parents’ house, I felt a certain attraction to a blueberry pie. I made several return trips to the dessert table. The pie had no chance. I don’t think anyone missed it. There were plenty more.
At my sister’s wedding eight years ago, I nearly did cartwheels when I saw that instead of a wedding cake, the caterer had brought in wedding pies, about 20 or 30 of them — apple, cherry, blueberry, etc. I felt a duty to sample each kind.
A few years ago, my editor brought a pumpkin pie to work for the staff, and set it down on a filing cabinet near my desk. I politely waited until the end of the workday, and when I saw that only two people had taken a piece, I stepped up and did what needed to be done.
I can’t explain it. A box of donuts is perfectly safe in my presence. A plate of cupcakes will grow old and stale. But a pie? Its hours are numbered. I’m the Doctor Kevorkian of pies.
However, when I’m in training for a big race (as I am now), I try to avoid sweets and alcohol. I just don’t like running with an extra 10 or 15 pounds around my middle.
Yet I can only resist up to a point. I am a mere mortal. Which brings me to my little confession.
Yesterday, the food editor at my newspaper was judging a pie bake-off. In her corner of the newsroom, readers had dropped off pies that filled two tables. The judges had done their work. The word went out through the newsroom: Help us get rid of these pies.
A few times in life, if we’re lucky, we see a challenge worthy of our efforts. This was one of those times.
I dropped what I was doing and strode manfully over to the pie tables. There, I filled a plate with four kinds of pie: cherry, Boston cream pie, lemon meringue and blueberry. Then I happily returned to my desk, and did my duty. Oh, the sweet temptation.
But like most temptations, the day of reckoning hit hard.
This morning, when I woke up, I felt the cruel hangover. I was sluggish and logey. I ran 4.75 miles around my neighborhood in in a plodding 42:25.
Oh, the price for my indulgence was large, indeed. I should have called my sponsor from Pie-aholics Anonymous, and talked until the temptation passed.
As I plodded around the neighborhood, I was overwhelmed with shame and regret. I swore up and down I would remain strong for the next month, until the big race was behind me. This is no time for further weakness.
But the day the race is over, I have a date with the pie cart.
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