There’s been quite a trend in my facebook feed of folks listing the things they’re thankful for. A trend I heartily endorse and enthusiastically avoid. I have neither the time nor the patience to list off what I’m grateful for, and if I did they’d end up sounding trite and heavily weighted towards Star Wars and Batman. But given the fact that most of us in the U.S. of Merrica are somewhere between thanksgiving 2.5 and 3 I thought I’d write a love letter to one particular thing I’m appreciating at the moment.
What does pie have to do with fatherhood? If you have to ask that question, you’re not a father.
What’s up pie? How you doin?
Now, don’t be like that. I know, you saw me with cookies over there, you see me smiling, and you start thinking the worst.
Because I respect you, pie, I’m not going to lie to you. Yes, I care about cookies. We’ve shared a lot, and cookies are important to me. Cookies are great, and I want them in my life, but pie, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s important you understand that I can never love cookies the way I love you.
The love I have for you, pie, requires plates
My love for you, pie, is not a love you can find in any old coffee shop, or packaged in a vending machine. No, ours is a home- made love. Or at least some trendy hipster nouveau-diner love.
Ours is a love with the refinement and perspective of eating utensils, not the base, immediate urging of fingers that have been where? Doing what? Lets not dwell.
Filthy innuendo and the purest of nationalist imagery, cockney slang or children’s rhymes, a place for ice cream or a place for bourbon, to me, pie, you are all these things and butter.
And pie, you go great with coffee. And anything that goes great with coffee goes great with me.