If, after reading that headline, you’re gleefully rubbing your palms in hopes of engaging in another ferocious battle over the 2008 primaries or the resignation of Al Franken or whether we should send people to colonize Mars, you’ve come to the wrong place.
When I said pie fight, I meant pie. Real pie.
For me as a kid a zillion years ago, this time of year was always, always, always about pie.
My grandmother—Simmalikee (who I wrote about here)—brought in a bit of cash to help with our struggling household by baking pies for a diner called the Maid-Rite. It was a 12-sided building with a century-old oak tree growing right up through the floor of the porch. On the menu were mostly burgers, pork chops, scrambled eggs, malteds and fountain Cokes. And pies. Several women baked these, but of course my grandmother’s were best. The diner supplied her with all the ingredients and paid her 50 cents for every one she baked in a wood-burning stove converted to coal.
Her sister Hitochi or my grandfather Ward would deliver them to the Maid-Rite because my grandmother had been forced to go to a boarding school as a young girl and returned home with a vow never again to speak English. As far as I know, she never did. This made communicating with her difficult for all but the few of us who spoke Muscogee (Creek) in our little town. She did the work; other family members handled the commerce.
But her pies? They communicated.
Even though she baked 30 or 40 a week, she only made pies for the family once a month or so during most of the year. We were poor, surviving on surplus government food, garden produce, and my grandfather’s and his brothers’ hunting skills. At the end of the month, the portions could get pretty small for the 12-14 of us usually at meals. Pies were a luxury. And we cousins knew we were never to give in to the temptation to dip into one of those still-warm pies destined for the Maid-Rite.
For a couple of weeks around Christmas, however, there were pies to eat at our house practically every day. Heaven for me and my cousins.
Pecan pie. Apple pie. Blackberry pie. Cherry pie. Strawberry-rhubarb pie. Pumpkin pie. Chocolate pie.
The best of all was her banana-cream pie. Which brings us back to my title. Because I know from past conversations that some people will stubbornly stick with the idea that “Banana cream is certainly not the best pie.” In fact, it most certainly is and always will be. Enlightened progressives know this.
But even here at Daily Kos, I know there are probably a few who remain unconvinced. So … here’s your chance to get disputatious. A pie fight about pies. What do you deluded pie-fighters think the best pie is? And don’t say lemon meringue because, puhleeeeez.
While you’re struggling to form your best argument, here’s something to get you in the mood.