Pies, great flaky vessels of fruity confection lining the countertop of the General Store deli case, and we couldn’t touch them. Joe D didn’t like them. We had a different opinion. The uberblond consumed upwards of a five digit calorie count, whole pizzas, the slices dipped in yogurt, cottage cheese, blocks of cheese, half gallons of orange juice. No meat, since he was vegetarian, on a bet, but if he could find a piece of meat from an animal he knew personally, he was down for it.
But the General Store chef denied the uberblond a piece of pie. He didn’t like it. We thought it was unjust, un-American even. Amee Farm, room and board for work, with the exception of apple pie. Maybe that sort of thing plays in Cuba, but I have my doubts.
The Italian bruiser, Queens born and raised, not one to miss a dessert himself, never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. He bought out the shelf of pies, divvied them up and we all got a slice of pie that night, Joe D and his ascetic, no frills, nutritional Phillistinism be damned. We’ve been eating dessert ever since.
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