H. Hsu Word Salad

Pie!

I’ve a strange fondness for banana cream pies.  It’s really a rather crass dessert in the sense that it lacks depth, lacks aesthetic appeal.  Sort of a Wal-Mart dessert in a Nordstrom world, a giant paper box amidst the fine china…  But pies in general, Americana style, are sort of meant to be sloppy. Pie is a happily crusty, taste bud smothering endeavor unlike say, 89% cacao treats, fine tortes and sorbets, or even say, a fromage plate.
“That’s NOT dessert.” P proclaimed when my plate of fromage (cheese)  arrived after a Parisian dinner.

“It is around here,” I replied. Heck, I can eat cheese ’til the cows come home, so to speak.  Seems like a perfectly legitimate dessert to me.  I could learn to like Paris.

Weeks ago I found myself craving a banana cream pie. All buttery crust and sweet goopiness.  I battled away the urge, reminding myself how darned heavy each of those calories feel when I am running mile 3.

Then I took an old friend to dinner at A Cote in Oakland (whew, blogworthy in and of itself. YUM -o, and a beautiful fromage and wine selection might I say.)  She arrived flustered, apologizing profusely for her lack of punctuality. I happen to be be married into an entire family on non-punctual types so her concern was quite needless.  She confessed that she had bought me something, yet left it at home in her rush.

“Well”, I said, “Thank you. It’s the thought that counts, right?” 

She promised to bring one next time. And then she told me: it was a banana cream pie, from a rather esteemed baker of such pies in Napa.  Ooooooh.  I told her later that actually, I am really fond of cream pies, and banana ones at that. Which makes no sense as bananas themselves are amongst my least favorite fruits (fabulous to eat before a long run due to their easily digestible traits, but all mush and blah compared to nectarines, watermelons, fresh figs, golden kiwis…)

Alas today I left work early. Due to a scheduling snafu, my probation lads did not show up.  Seeing as how I happened to be in Hayward already, I drifted over the Marie Callender’s.  Ah, Marie Callender’s, where Wendy and I have scarfed down countless fresh fruit pies since we were teens back in Cupertino.  I’ve never had a memorable meal there in all these 20 or so years - but dessert is another matter altogether. 

Well.  Let’s buy one slice of pie to take home and share with P.  That was my game plan.  I pondered the glass case.

“That”, I said, pointing at a dark triple chocolate muffin the size of a bloated softball, “is a SERIOUS muffin. Holy cow.”

An older African American waiting for his pies starts to laugh.  We both gawk at all the pastries so heavy with frosting that they flop over to one side, the muffins fit to serve 4 people.  In my head I think this one muffin alone-likely enough caloric input for an entire day, available for under $2.00, explains the entire obesity epidemic.  Then the man turns around with two whole pie boxes and informs me of the special sale today.

Oh. I didn’t realize.  “I was driving by, and I saw the banner on the other side”, he says. He asks the smiley handsome Latino teen behind the counter how long the sale will go on.  Typically this sort of insane pastry-bomb occurs 2x per year at Marie Callender’s for about a week and half each go.  Frightening to me that I know this sale schedule oh-so-well.  My sweetheart and I e-mail one another about it so that the probation work schedule becomes a pie sale pick up as well.

“Until like almost Halloween” replies the young Luis Miguel. The man and I stare at him.  Seriously?  “Yes. Almost 2 months this pie sale, we’ve never done it like that before.”

Alas, I come home with an entire cream pie to fatten up P and I, hoping a friend or visitor will come by and save us from ourselves by having some.  So as you see my plodding banana cream pie butt struggling along at the upcoming half marathon - send regards to our frenemies at Marie Callender’s. And pick up a sale pie while you’re at it.

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