fallout – PIEFOLK

I was visited by a Mysterious Stranger. A few weeks ago. It was surreal.

He had a secret agenda that he revealed to me.

He wanted to bake a pie.

What? You look disappointed. Did you expect the sort of ominous, post-apocalyptic cloak and dagger that I was hinting around at?

C’mon… Don’t be naive. I bake pies, give advice, and talk about my cringe-worthy dating life.

So as I was saying, the Mysterious Stranger wanted to make a Lemon Custard Pie.

(Ominous Film Noir Sound Cue)

That’s right. He held me hostage. I was his prisoner, and he wouldn’t leave until his hunger for Lemon Custard Pie had been sated.

What? What’s your problem? Why are you rolling your eyes?

Well, knock it off. I’m just writing in a genre. In this case the genre is new-future post apocalypse film-noir. Get into it. Everyone is doing it these days.

Sometimes people want to come bake with me, but they don’t want to show their face on my blog. For whatever reason. In this case the guy who wanted to bake with me is a prominent politician who affects real change in the State Government of New York. Also, I’m lying.

Anyhow. What makes you think I’m going to drop a dime on my baking partner? We got a good thing going on here, see? I ain’t about to jeopardize that for some skinny pipsqueak who’s rolling his eyes at me. So wipe that look off your mug and listen up…

I never tried this custard type before, capiche? It was a squirrely kind of recipe – kind that bakes in the oven, instead of the stove top. You follow my gist? Good. It’s more difficult this way, because the custard tends to separate. I’m not sure lemon was great choice either, owing to the high acidity rate of lemons. Then again, I ain’t no science egghead, so maybe the acidity and the custard separating ain’t got much to do with one another. I can’t say.

Man. Writing in this genre is difficult. I should have watched His Girl Friday a few more times.

What am I talking about? I got a whole life to live. I’m supposed to watch iconic old movies more than ONCE?

Oh stop it. Stop with the silent treatment.

I’m not going to tell you who it was who came over. He’s famous.

He’s a wealthy Persian. His family pretty much own half of Iran. It’s ridiculous.

Also. Again – lying.

Anyway. I decided to try piping the whipped cream onto the pie with a pastry bag I improvised out of a Ziplock.

I need practice. After a couple of ugly whipped cream towers I decided to just smash them all together and do my normal, rustic whipped cream look.

Rugged.

We had a good time, even though the custard separated, and I really need practice piping on whipped cream.

What? No. I’m not going to tell you.

Because.

It spoils the fun.

Okay fine. He’s a high powered lawyer. Isn’t.

He’s a professional assassin. No.

Retired Yakuza, now runs a bingo hall in Canarsie. Nope.

He’s a middle school teacher with a heart of gold that isn’t yet embittered by the New York public school system. He really wants to help those kids. Not at all.

He’s a cowboy. He’s a hunter. He’s a sailor. He owns a cannery. He provides home health care to the elderly. He’s a boatswain. A tailor. He is Cheryl Crow. He’s left handed. He’s right handed. He doesn’t have any hands due to a freak accident that occurred on an Artic expedition. He’s a wedding photographer. He’s a jerk. I’m a Jerk. He wanted me to tell you that we all are Jerks. He wants you to love him, but he’s a total Jerk and he wants you to eat all the pie. He wants us all to be Jerks together. He thinks the iPad should run Flash. He’s a cruise director for Carnival Cruise lines. He’s a big ol’ softie.

This has devolved into madness.