Via angela n./Flickr
Hello again, readers! It’s been so long. You look fantastic. Sorry we haven’t spoken in a while. I live in Portland now, where I sometimes write about the Blazers.
Listen, though, I’ve been thinking about a major offseason issue, and I thought this was the place to share my thoughts. What I’m saying is: pie is the greatest dessert there is, and I’d like to impart some new philosophical findings toward that point.
Let me back up. Since I have moved to Portland, I have had to find a job. Like a grown-up office job. And it’s not that my current job is bad — quite the opposite, in fact — it’s just that it’s a job. I have to be somewhere for a given number of hours to devote my negligibly marketable talents toward the engine of commerce.
Gone are my years of idly whiling away my time, pursuing pleasure at my leisure in a healthy way. Why, even just one year ago, I could scarce hide my disdain for the beautiful dilletantes of my youth, those brunettes and bearded fellows with their shabby living rooms and their red wine in chipped mugs. Now, that shabby-mugged wine — so recently laughable — belongs to a different milieu. How my lips long for the poorly glazed ceramics of youth!
When I took my job, I was filled with notions of my new youthful maturity. I would deposit my paycheck and skip to Banana Republic, where I would find myself suddenly able to wear tailored pants with those short-cut stupid ankles. I would purchase a dozen pairs to keep in the locker at the CrossFit gym, where I would sculpt a maturely toned but not overly muscular physique. I’d jauntily bike home, pour some artisanal rye, and reflect on my balance and young success. This is what it would mean to take a job.
I had flown too close the sun. As everybody who has ever worked even a little bit had tried to tell me, I am an idiot. Work turns out to be, well, work.
We shan’t go too far into this, lest we wade into the loathsome mire of Thought Catalog, but I am so tired always! That energy to pursue the staid pleasures of a stable young adult? Bump that noise. Where I once could envision myself living a life of well-heeled moderation, I have instead learned to wield gluttony in the way that oppressed groups repurpose hate speech: recklessly, and with great profligacy, I will fit a forty-hour work week’s worth of consumption into single evenings. It is the only way to survive.
And this is where we come to pie. Dessert is crucial in my new balance. Alcohol leads to hangovers. Real goods cost actual money. Dessert, though? Sweet rapture. I can fit days’ worth of enjoyment between the two supple crusts of a strawberry rhubarb pie. And this is why pie stands alone at the top of the dessert mountain.
Cookies, for instance, are cigarettes — each indulgence represents the small act of habit maintenance, a brief reprieve from the hassle of knowing better.
Pie, though, is on some prescription-only, DEA controlled ish. It is a far more immersive eating experience, with a range of textures no cookie can match. The experience is customizable — a la mode, cold, for breakfast.
Further, the whole of a pie represents a totality of experience no sleeve or jar of cookies can match. As you whittle away the pastry, degree by degree, you are forced to confront the choices that have led you to that moment, standing at your counter wielding a triangular spatula. You must reaffirm your life every time you set heat-proof silicon serrated edge to crust. You make your peace.
This has nothing to do with Dwight Howard, by the way.