Cross-posted on Huffington Post.
I am reading a book that is as delicious page-for-page as its mouth-watering subject matter: pie.
American pie, to be precise, and not of the Jason Biggs variety.
Pascale Le Draoulec's "American Pie: Slices of Life (and Pie) from America's Back Roads" is an adventure in crust, filling, and those pockets of America Sarah Palin would describe as "pro-American"... and some she wouldn't. The author, a noted food journalist, takes a drive in a car named "Betty" (license plate: IBRK4PIE) in search of the greatest pies in the country, and what she finds between slices of shoofly, huckleberry, and sour cherry pies is that warm, gooey feeling I get right around Thanksgiving... that sentimental Americanism we so easily forget between holiday seasons.
I like that Thanksgiving follows Election Day. Over the course of three weeks, I go from a rabid, wonkish beast to a corny vessel of patriotism and green bean casserole. I am reminded that even though--in the heat of political season--I contemplate permanently fleeing the U.S. for a coastal cottage in Punte del Este, Uruguay, nearly four centuries ago (under far more dire circumstances), the first American immigrants arrived here in pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. The notion that these same immigrants intentionally and accidentally killed off natives whom rightly had claim to this land sours the sentimentality quite a bit, but nonetheless, here you and I find ourselves. No matter what happens, on the fourth Thursday of November, the Nestle Nesquick bunny and Snoopy will soar over Broadway and 34th; daughter-in-laws will fight with mother-in-laws over stuffing; football will be played; and I will end the night with a swig of Pepto-Bismol, having swallowed one bite too many off my dinner plate.
I like that even though there are people I disagree with all over this nation--in the White House, Wasilla, on FOX News, in the next cubicle, and even occasionally across the Thanksgiving dinner table--we can agree, for the most part, on pie. I, for one, am for it. I'm for all kinds of it. And even though I hate sweet potatoes (I'm sorry, I do), I appreciate that there exists a sweet potato pie, because it's so charming and so authentically American (and here comes someone in the comment section below to lecture me that sweet potatoes, or yams, or a "dicotyledonous plant belonging to the family Convolvulaceae", or what have you are actually native to Africa). I love that possibly thousands of people will wake up next Thursday and begin making a sweet potato or pumpkin or apple pie along with the rest of the goodies to share with their loved ones.
How can we hold onto post-election resentment when we've got pie? Pascale Le Draoulec's book contains 25 original pie recipes from her travels, pies made with raisins and lard and berries I've never even heard of. There are stories of pie recipes passed down for generations, pies good enough to drag a trucker 25 miles out of his way for a late-night bite, pies served in a building shaped like a woman's be-aproned skirt. Pies served for breakfast, pies cooked in microwaves, pies coated in cloud-like meringue or topped off with lattice crusts.
When you conclude your Thanksgiving feast with a slice of pie next Thursday night, as you take that first bite, picture the rest of us--the liberals, the conservatives, the gay, the straight, the Wall Street exec, the UAW worker, the special needs teacher, the politician--doing the same exact thing. At that moment, without even trying, we are all the same.